Chapter 12
Elijah
The office of Head Coach Miller smelled of stale coffee, icy-hot, and the specific, crushing weight of expectations.
I sat in the hard plastic chair across from Miller’s desk, my posture rigid. I was wearing my team track jacket, zipped to the chin, hiding the fact that I hadn't slept in twenty-four hours.
Miller didn't look up. He was staring at a tablet, his finger scrolling slowly. Swipe. Pause. Swipe.
"Do you know what the Chicago scouts look for, Vance?" Miller asked, his voice gravelly.
"Two-way play," I recited automatically. "High hockey IQ. Face-off dominance. Character."
"Character," Miller repeated. He finally looked up. His eyes were bloodshot. "That’s a funny word. It usually means 'don't be a liability.' It means 'keep your head down and do the job.'"
He turned the tablet around and slid it across the desk.
It wasn't game tape. It wasn't a stat sheet.
It was a collection of photos. Paparazzi style.
Me and Angela leaving the grocery store. Me and Angela in the car. Me and Angela entering the penthouse at 2:00 AM. And worse—a close-up of my hand, zoomed in on the swollen knuckles I had tried to hide behind my back during a press scrum.
"This was sent to the athletic director this morning," Miller said quietly. "Anonymous source."
My stomach turned to lead. Father. It had to be. This was his warning shot.
"It’s gossip, Coach," I said, keeping my voice steady. "I have a girlfriend. It’s not a crime."
"It’s a distraction," Miller slammed his hand on the desk. "Your face-off percentage dropped six points in the last three games. Your time on ice is down because you’re favoring that hand. And instead of living in the training room, you’re playing house with a sophomore dance major whose father stole from this program. "
"She had nothing to do with that," I snapped, the defense automatic.
"I don't care about her!" Miller stood up, walking to the window. "I care about you, Elijah. I care about the fact that the Chicago GM called me yesterday. He asked if you were 'mentally check-out.' He asked if the 'Vance Curse' was kicking in."
The air left the room.
The Vance Curse.
The polite way the league referred to my family’s history of brilliant starts and catastrophic, chaotic endings. My mother’s overdose. My uncle’s bankruptcy. My father’s ruthless, bridge-burning business tactics.
"I am focused," I said, standing up. My knees popped. "I am on the ice every day. I watch tape every night."
"You’re split," Miller corrected, turning back to face me. "You’re trying to be two people. The Captain and the Boyfriend. You can't be both. Not now. Not three weeks before the playoffs. Not when your hand is a ticking time bomb."
He pointed a finger at my chest.
"Fix it, Vance. Get your head out of the clouds—and out of her bed—and get it back in the game. If I see you slip up one more time—one bad practice, one missed assignment—I’m scratching you. I don't care if your last name is on the arena. I will sit you."
The threat hung in the air, heavy and absolute.
To be scratched. To be benched. It was death. It would signal to every scout in the NHL that I was broken. It would give my father the ammunition to liquidate the team stake. It would end everything I had worked for since I was four years old.
"Understood," I rasped.
"Get out," Miller said, sitting back down. "And go see the trainer. If that hand isn't wrapped tight enough to punch a wall, don't bother getting dressed for practice."
I walked out of the office. The hallway was long, concrete, and cold.
I looked at my phone.
Angela (7:05 AM): Good morning! I made coffee. It’s in a thermos on the counter. Also, good luck today. You’re going to crush it. <3
I stared at the heart emoji. It looked like a target.
Miller was right. I was split. I was trying to hold onto the softness Angela gave me while living in a world that demanded I be made of steel.
And steel, when it gets too cold, becomes brittle. It shatters.
I turned off my phone. I shoved it deep into my bag.
I couldn't afford to be soft today. I couldn't afford to be Elijah.
I had to be the Iceman. Even if it burned.
Practice was a slaughter.
Miller was in a foul mood, and he took it out on us. Bag skates. Suicides. Board battles.
"Again!" Miller blew the whistle. "Faster, Vance! My grandmother skates faster than that, and she’s been dead for ten years!"
My lungs were burning. The cold air of the rink tore at my throat with every gasp. My legs felt like they were filled with concrete. But the worst was the hand.
Every time I gripped the stick, lightning shot up my forearm. Every time I leaned into a turn, the vibration rattled the bone bruise.
I gritted my teeth so hard I thought a molar might crack. Pain is information, I told myself. Just information.
"Line up! Battle drills!"
I lined up at the circle. Opposite me was Kronsky—our own defenseman, the biggest guy on the team. He was fresh. I was exhausted.
"Puck drop!"
I dug in. I snapped my wrists to win the draw. The torque on my right hand was blinding. I flinched.
Kronsky won the draw easily. He shoved me back.
"Soft, Cap," Kronsky sneered. "Does your girlfriend need you to save your hands for a massage?"
The red mist descended.
I didn't think. I reacted.
I dropped my gloves.
The team gasped. You don't fight in practice. Not really. Not the Captain.
I lunged at Kronsky. I grabbed his jersey with my left hand and drove my right shoulder into his chest, tackling him to the ice. We hit the hard surface with a bone-jarring thud.
I cocked my right fist back. I was going to hit him. I was going to smash his face in. I wanted to hurt something the way I was hurting.
"Vance! NO!"
Jax was there, grabbing my arm. Two other guys pulled me off.
I scrambled to my feet, chest heaving, sliding on the ice.
"You want to talk about soft?" I roared at Kronsky, who was laughing as he got up. "I’ll show you soft when you’re watching the playoffs from the press box!"
"Enough!" Miller skated over. He looked at me with pure disgust. "Get off the ice, Vance. Hit the showers. You’re done."
"Coach, I—"
"I said get off!"
I stared at him. Then at the team. They were looking at me like I was a stranger. Like I was dangerous.
I turned and skated toward the gate. I didn't look back. I slammed the gate shut, the sound echoing through the silent arena.
I stormed down the tunnel, tearing off my gear as I went. I threw my helmet against the wall. It cracked.
I sat in my stall, half-naked, shivering, cradling my hand. It was throbbing so hard I could see my pulse in the swollen skin.
I had lost control.
The one thing I promised myself I would never do. The one thing that separated me from my mother.
And why? Because Kronsky mentioned Angela.
She was the trigger. She was the weakness.
I put my head in my hands.
I have to stop this, I thought. I have to cut it off. Before I lose everything.
But even as I thought it, the craving for her—for her voice, her touch, her sanity—washed over me.
I was an addict trying to kick the habit while living in the opium den.
The penthouse was quiet when I got home at 6:00 PM.
I had spent four hours in the training room, enduring ice baths, ultrasound therapy, and a lecture from the team doctor about "career longevity." My hand was wrapped so heavily it looked like a boxing glove.
I unlocked the door.
The smell hit me first. Roast chicken. Rosemary. Lemon.
It smelled like a home.
Angela was in the kitchen. She was wearing leggings and one of my old t-shirts. She was humming along to a playlist—something indie and soft. She looked up when I walked in, her face lighting up.
"Hey!" she beamed. "You’re home early. How was—"
She stopped. She saw my face. She saw the heavy wrap on my hand. She saw the dark cloud hanging over me.
"Elijah?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "What happened?"
"Nothing," I grunted, walking past her toward the whiskey decanter.
"Don't give me that," she said, following me. "You’re limping. Your hand is wrapped to your elbow. And you have that look in your eyes."
"What look?" I poured three fingers of scotch. I didn't offer her any.
"The 'I hate the world' look. The 'Iceman' look."
I took a drink. The burn was welcome.
"I had a bad practice," I said curtly. "Coach kicked me out."
"He... he kicked you out?" Angela’s eyes widened. "Why?"
"Because I tried to fight a teammate."
"Elijah..." She reached out to touch my arm.
I pulled away.
"Don't," I snapped.
She froze. Hurt flashed across her face, quick and sharp. "I’m just trying to comfort you."
"I don't need comfort," I said, my voice rising. "I need focus, Angela. I need silence. Do you know what Miller told me this morning? He told me I’m slipping. He told me the scouts think I’m 'mentally checked out.' Because of this."
I gestured vaguely between us.
"Because of me?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"Yes. Because of you. Because of the gossip. Because I’m spending my nights making lasagna instead of studying game tape. Because I’m worrying about your tuition instead of my face-off percentage."
It was cruel. I knew it was cruel. I was lashing out because I was terrified, and she was the safest target.
"That’s not fair," she said, her spine straightening. The steel I loved was back. "I didn't ask you to worry about my tuition. I didn't ask to be a distraction. You brought me here, remember? This was your contract."
"And maybe the contract was a mistake," I said cold, brutally.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Angela went pale. She looked as if I had slapped her.
"You don't mean that," she whispered.
"Don't I?" I turned on her, looming over her. "Look at me, Angela. I’m falling apart. My hand is ruined. My coach hates me. My father is sending spies to take photos of us. I am risking a ten-million-dollar contract for... what? For a college romance?"
"Is that all this is?" she challenged, stepping closer, defying my anger. "A college romance? Last night, you said I was your anchor. You said I was the only thing that made the noise stop."
"Last night I was high on painkillers and sex," I lied. "Today is reality. And the reality is, I can't afford you."
Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She nodded slowly.
"Okay," she said. "Okay. If I’m just a line item in your budget that’s become too expensive... then cut me."
She gestured to the door.
"Fire me, Elijah. Kick me out. Send me back to the dorms. Let my mom’s bills go unpaid. Do it."
She stared at me. Waiting. Calling my bluff.
I looked at her. I looked at the woman who had held me while I shook. The woman who made me feel human.
I opened my mouth to say Get out. It was the logical move. It was the move Cyrus Vance would make.
But the words wouldn't come.
My throat closed up. The panic I had been holding back all day—the terror of the meeting, the shame of the fight, the physical pain—crested like a wave.
I couldn't breathe.
My chest tightened. My vision blurred at the edges.
I stumbled back, gripping the edge of the granite counter with my left hand.
"Elijah?" Angela’s anger vanished instantly. "Elijah, what’s wrong?"
"Can't..." I gasped. "Can't breathe."
Panic attack. I hadn't had one in years. Not since the funeral.
My legs gave out. I slid down the front of the cabinets, hitting the floor hard. I clawed at my chest, trying to rip the anxiety out. The room was spinning.
Failure. Liability. Chaos.
"Elijah, look at me!"
Angela was there. She was on the floor with me. She didn't hesitate. She grabbed my face with both hands, forcing me to look at her.
"Breathe," she commanded. "In for four. Hold for four. Out for four."
"Can't," I choked.
"Yes, you can. Watch me." She inhaled exaggeratedly. "In."
I tried to follow her. It was a jagged, broken breath.
"Good. Again. Look at my eyes, Elijah. Just look at me. You’re not in the office. You’re not on the ice. You’re in the kitchen. The chicken is cooling. You’re safe."
"I’m failing," I rasped, tears leaking from my eyes. "I’m going to lose it all."
"You aren't failing," she said fiercely. "You’re overwhelmed. You’re human. It’s allowed."
She pulled my head down to her shoulder. She wrapped her arms around me, rocking me back and forth.
"I’ve got you," she whispered into my hair. "I’m not leaving. You can yell at me, you can try to fire me, but I am not leaving you on this floor."
I crumbled.
I buried my face in her neck and sobbed. It wasn't a pretty cry. It was ugly, guttural, the sound of ten years of pressure finally finding a vent.
She held me through it. She didn't flinch. She stroked my hair, murmuring soft nonsense words, acting as the container for my chaos.
Slowly, the spinning stopped. The vice around my chest loosened.
I sat there, slumped against the cabinets, exhausted. My head was heavy on her shoulder.
"I’m sorry," I whispered, my voice raw. "I didn't mean it. About the contract. About you being a mistake."
"I know," she said softly. She kissed my forehead. "You were scared. Fear makes us say stupid things."
I lifted my head to look at her. She was crying too, silent tears tracking down her cheeks.
"I can't do this without you," I admitted. The truth was terrifying, but denying it was impossible now. "Miller is right. I am split. But... the part of me that is with you? It’s the only part that feels real. If I cut that off... I turn into him. I turn into my father."
"Then don't cut it off," she said. "Integrate it."
"How?"
"Stop hiding," she said. "Stop pretending we’re fake. Stop trying to keep your life in neat little boxes. Bleed the lines, Elijah. Let the team know. Let the scouts know. Tell them, 'Yeah, I have a girlfriend, and she supports me, so deal with it.'"
"That’s risky."
"Life is risky," she countered. "Hockey is risky. Loving someone is the biggest risk of all."
She reached for my injured hand—the one wrapped in bandages. She placed her hand over it gently.
"You can’t grip the stick tight enough to control the game anymore," she said. "So stop gripping. Trust your team. Trust your talent. And trust me."
I looked at her. Really looked at her.
She wasn't a distraction. She was the fuel. She was the reason I wanted to be better, not just successful.
"Okay," I whispered. "Okay."
"Okay," she smiled, wiping her eyes. "Now. Are you hungry? Because the chicken is getting cold, and I refuse to let a perfectly roasted bird go to waste."
I let out a weak laugh. "I could eat."
"Good. Get up, Captain."
She stood up and offered me her hand.
I looked at it. It was small, delicate, covered in calluses from the ballet barre.
I took it.
She pulled me up.
I was still hurt. I was still in trouble with the coach. My father was still a threat.
But as I stood there in the kitchen, holding Angela’s hand, the weight on my shoulders felt a little lighter.
I wasn't the Iceman anymore. I was just Elijah. And for tonight, that had to be enough.