Chapter 19
Jess
The sunrise over the New York skyline was different when you weren’t alone.
It wasn’t a harsh reminder of another day to survive; it was a promise.
The light filtered through the dirty window of the dance studio, painting stripes of gold across the scuffed floor where Nick and I were tangled together in a makeshift bed of yoga mats and coats.
I woke up first. I always did.
I lay still, listening to the steady rhythm of Nick’s breathing. His arm was heavy across my waist, a permanent anchor. His face was pressed into the crook of my neck, the scratch of his beard against my skin a sensation I wanted to bottle and keep forever.
He looked younger when he slept. The lines of tension that usually bracketed his mouth were gone. The furrow in his brow had smoothed out.
He had given up five million dollars for this nap.
The thought made my chest ache with a terrifying mixture of guilt and adoration.
"Stop thinking so loud," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. He tightened his arm around me, pulling me closer.
"I'm not thinking," I whispered. "I'm calculating net worth."
One grey eye cracked open. "And?"
"And we're currently worth about seventy-four dollars and a rental car."
"Seventy-four dollars?" He yawned, burying his face in my hair again. "We're rich. We can buy breakfast."
"Nick," I said, shifting so I could look at him. "We have to talk about the reality. You walked out on the Blackhawks. You walked out on your dad. There are going to be phone calls. Lawyers. Angry men in suits."
He opened both eyes. They were clear. Calm.
"Let them call," he said. "I'm not answering."
"You can't just ghost the NHL, Nick."
"Watch me." He sat up, wincing as his hip adjusted to the hard floor. He ran a hand through his messy hair. "Look, Jess. I have a plan. Sort of."
"Sort of?"
"I have leverage. The Blackhawks drafted me. They hold my rights for two years. If I don't sign, they wasted the number one pick. That's a PR disaster for them. Kovich needs me to sign more than I need his money."
"So?"
"So, we negotiate. On my terms. No more 'machine.' No more silence about the injury. I tell them I need rehab. I tell them I need my team."
"Your team?"
He reached out and took my hand. He brought it to his lips, kissing my knuckles.
"You," he said. "You're the team. I tell them that if they want Nick Vance, they get Jessica Monroe. No hiding. No secrets. If they have a problem with that... I go play in Sweden."
"Sweden?" I blinked. "Do you speak Swedish?"
"No. But I like meatballs. We'll figure it out."
I laughed. It felt light, bubbling up from a place that had been frozen for weeks.
"Okay," I said. "Sweden or Chicago. As long as we get the dog."
"Dog is non-negotiable."
He leaned in and kissed me. It was slow, tasting of morning breath and hope.
"First," he said, pulling back, "we need coffee. Then, we need to find a phone charger. And then... we face the music."
Facing the music involved driving back to Maine.
It was a long drive. Twelve hours of bad radio, gas station snacks, and Nick’s hand resting on my thigh.
We talked about everything. We talked about his mother (she was in Vermont, painting landscapes, and he was going to call her).
We talked about my solo (I had missed the showcase, but Madame LeClair had sent me a cryptic email saying 'talent waits for chaos').
When we pulled up to the Meridian, it was dark.
The doorman, Frank, did a double-take when he saw us. Nick in his ruined suit, me in my leggings.
"Mr. Vance?" Frank stammered. "We... we thought you were in Chicago."
"Change of plans, Frank," Nick said, tossing him the keys to the rental car. "Keep this out front. Hertz might want it back eventually."
We took the elevator up.
The penthouse was exactly as I had left it. Cold. Sterile. My note was gone from the nightstand, but the ghost of my departure still hung in the air.
"It feels different," I said, hugging myself.
"It's just a box," Nick said, walking to the window and looking out at the campus. "We'll fill it. Or we'll leave it."
His new phone—the one he had bought at a Best Buy in Connecticut—rang.
He looked at the screen.
"It's Kovich," he said. "The GM."
"Answer it," I said. I walked over to him, lacing my fingers through his. "Tell him the terms."
Nick took a deep breath. He squeezed my hand. He answered.
"Mr. Kovich," he said. His voice was calm. The Captain was back, but he wasn't a robot this time. He was a leader.
I could hear the shouting on the other end. Irresponsible! Career suicide! Your father says—
"My father doesn't speak for me," Nick cut in sharply. "I speak for me. And here is the situation. I am currently in Maine. I am rehabbing an injury that was mishandled. I am taking a month to recover."
More shouting. Draft! Media! Contract!
"I will sign," Nick said. "On one condition.
The PR narrative changes. No more 'distraction.
' No more 'scandal.' My partner, Jessica Monroe, is part of my life.
If the organization attacks her, or allows the media to attack her, I walk.
I go to Europe. I hear the Swiss league is beautiful this time of year. "
Silence on the other end.
I held my breath.
"Yes," Nick said. "Those are the terms. Send the contract to my agent. I'll see you at training camp in September. Healthy. Happy. And accompanied."
He hung up.
He looked at me. A slow grin spread across his face.
"He folded."
"He folded?" I squeaked.
"He said they need a franchise center more than they need a morality clause. He said... and I quote... 'Just bring the girl, Vance. Just bring the damn girl and score goals.'"
I let out a scream of joy and jumped into his arms. He caught me, spinning me around.
"We did it!" I laughed, burying my face in his neck. "We actually won."
"We won," he agreed.
The elevator chimed.
We both froze. Nick set me down.
The doors slid open.
Nick's father stepped out.
He looked impeccable, as always. But his face was tight. His eyes were cold fury. He was flanked by Mr. Sterling, the lawyer.
"So," his father said, stepping into the penthouse like he owned it—which, technically, he did. "The prodigal son returns. With the liability."
I felt Nick tense beside me. The old instinct—to shield me, to hide me—flared up.
But he didn't step in front of me. He stepped beside me. He took my hand, interlacing our fingers for his father to see.
"Her name is Jess," Nick said. "And she's not a liability. She's the reason I'm not currently suing you for medical negligence regarding my leg."
His father’s eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
"You forced a minor to play on an injured leg," Nick said calmly. "There are records. Hospital logs. Witnesses. If you try to hurt her... if you try to touch her scholarship or her career... I will go public. I will tell the world exactly what the 'Vance Legacy' is built on."
The silence in the room was deafening. Mr. Sterling looked nervous. He adjusted his glasses.
"Mr. Vance," Sterling murmured. "The PR implications..."
Nick's father looked at Nick. He looked at the joined hands. He looked at the defiance in his son's eyes—a defiance he had never seen before.
He realized, in that moment, that he had lost. The leverage was gone. The fear was gone.
"You are throwing away your potential," his father spat. "For a girl."
"I'm securing my future," Nick countered. "For myself."
"Get out of my house."
"Gladly," Nick said. "We're moving anyway. Chicago has better pizza."
Nick squeezed my hand. "Let's go, Jess. Grab your stuff."
"I don't have stuff," I reminded him. "Just the backpack."
"Right. Then let's just go."
We walked past his father. We walked past the lawyer. We walked into the elevator.
Nick pressed the button for the lobby.
As the doors closed, blotting out the image of his father’s angry, defeated face, Nick let out a long exhale.
"That," he said, leaning his head back against the wall, "was terrifying."
"You were amazing," I said, looking at him with awe. "You threatened him with medical malpractice?"
"I improvised. But it worked."
He pulled me into his side.
"We're free, Jess. Really free."
We checked into a hotel down the street. It wasn't the Meridian. It was a Holiday Inn. The carpet was ugly and the air conditioner rattled.
It was the most beautiful room I had ever seen.
Nick locked the door. He threw the deadbolt.
He turned to me.
The adrenaline of the confrontation was fading, replaced by something warmer. Something softer.
"Come here," he said.
I walked to him. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
"We did it," he whispered against my forehead. "We survived the third act."
" Barely," I murmured. "I think I aged five years in the last two weeks."
"I'll make it up to you," he promised. "Starting now."
He kissed me.
It wasn't like the kiss in the car or the studio. Those were desperate. Those were about survival.
This kiss was a celebration. It was slow, deep, and confident. It was a claim of ownership that went both ways.
He walked me backward toward the bed. My legs hit the mattress. He lowered me down, following me, his weight heavy and familiar.
"I missed you," he groaned, his hands roaming over my body, relearning the map of me. "God, I missed you. Sleeping without you is... inefficient."
"Inefficient?" I laughed, unbuttoning his shirt. "You romantic."
"I'm practical." He pulled the shirt off, tossing it onto the floor. "And practically speaking... I need to be inside you for the next twelve hours to recalibrate my baseline."
"Is that a medical opinion?"
"It's a prescription."
He stripped off his pants. I kicked off my leggings.
There was no rush. No hiding. No fear of the door opening.
He moved over me, his skin warm against mine. He braced himself on his elbows, framing my face with his hands. He looked at me with such intense, naked love that it stole the breath from my lungs.
"You saved me," he whispered. "You know that, right? You saved my life."
"You saved mine," I said, reaching up to trace his lips. "We saved each other."
He lowered his head and kissed my throat, my collarbone, the curve of my breast. His touch was reverent. Every caress was a thank you. Every kiss was a vow.
"Beautiful," he murmured. "Perfect."
When he entered me, it felt like coming home. It felt like the final piece of the puzzle clicking into place.
We moved together in a slow, steady rhythm. The bed creaked. The AC rattled. But in that room, there was only us.
"I love you," he said, looking into my eyes as he thrust deep. "I love you, Jess."
"I love you, Nick."
It was the first time we had said it during the act. It changed everything. It made the pleasure sharper, deeper. It turned the sex into something holy.
We chased the release together, climbing higher and higher, urged on by whispered praises and tangled fingers.
When the climax came, it was a tidal wave. It washed away the fear, the doubt, the pain of the last month. It left us clean.
We lay there afterward, limbs intertwined, hearts beating in sync.
Nick kissed the top of my head.
"So," he said drowsily. "Chicago."
"Chicago," I agreed.
"We need to find a place."
"With a yard."
"And a studio."
"And the dog."
"I was thinking..." he paused. "Maybe two dogs."
I lifted my head to look at him. "Two dogs? Mr. 'I Hate Chaos' wants two dogs?"
"If we're going to do chaos," he smirked, "we might as well commit."
I laughed. I kissed his chest, right over his heart.
"Deal," I said. "Two dogs. One empire."
"Deal."
He pulled the blanket up over us.
"Sleep now," he commanded softly. "Tomorrow, we start building."
I closed my eyes. For the first time in weeks, the darkness wasn't scary. It was just the prelude to a new day.
And I knew, with absolute certainty, that no matter what happened next—the NHL, the critics, the world—we would handle it.
Because we were allies. We were a team.
And we were winning.