Chapter 3
Greg
Pain is the only thing that is honest.
The iron bar of the bench press felt cold and rough against my calloused palms. Four hundred pounds. A weight that would crush the ribs of a normal man. For me, it was just enough to quiet the noise.
Down. The metal descended, the strain tearing at the fibers of my pectorals.
Up. The explosion of power, the lock-out, the momentary relief.
I wasn’t supposed to be lifting heavy today. It was a rest day. But the house was… compromised.
For the last forty-eight hours, the "Ice Box" had ceased to be a sanctuary. It had become a minefield. Every time I walked down the hallway, I could smell her. Vanilla. Something floral that cost too much. It seeped under my door. It clung to the bathroom tiles even after she’d left.
I racked the weight with a clang that echoed through the empty university gym.
I sat up, sweat dripping from my nose onto the rubber matting. My chest heaved.
I checked my watch. 5:30 PM.
I had two hours to shower, shave, and encase myself in a tuxedo for the annual "Ice we churned out leaders.
I grabbed my towel and wiped my face.
The truth was, I hated it. I hated the small talk. I hated the way the donors looked at us like prize horses they could bet on. I hated the champagne that tasted like vinegar and the hors d'oeuvres that were too small to feed a bird, let alone a roster of starving defensemen.
But mostly, I hated that she was going to be there.
Michelle Vane. The donor's daughter.
Since the library incident yesterday, we had been engaged in a silent war.
She left her lights on at all hours. I turned off the main breaker to her room for five minutes to make a point.
She bought a coffee maker that sounded like a jet engine and used it at 6:00 AM.
I "accidentally" used all the hot water before her shower.
It was petty. It was childish. It was the only way I knew how to interact with her without grabbing her.
Because that was the problem. The anger wasn't just anger. It was fuel. Every time she rolled those big, defiant blue eyes at me, I felt a jolt of adrenaline that had no place in a roommate dynamic.
I needed to get it together. Tonight was about business. It was about securing my future.
I walked to the locker room, the sound of my footsteps heavy and rhythmic.
Control, I told myself. You are the Gavel. You set the tone. You do not let a five-foot-three chaos demon rattle your cage.
The Gala was held in the Great Hall of the Blackwood Museum of Antiquities. It was a space designed to make you feel small. Vaulted stone ceilings, massive chandeliers dripping with crystal, and marble statues of dead Romans judging you from the corners.
The air was thick with the scent of lilies and old money.
I adjusted my tie for the tenth time. It was a black silk bow tie, hand-tied. I didn't do clip-ons. Shortcuts were for people who didn't care about the details, and the details were what kept the world from falling apart.
"Stop touching it, Cap," Beef whispered.
I looked down at him. Beef was wearing a tuxedo that looked like it was about to burst at the seams. He looked like a penguin on steroids.
"You look nervous," I said, my voice low.
"I am nervous," Beef hissed. "I’m terrified I’m going to knock over a vase from the Ming Dynasty and owe the school three million dollars. Why do they put fragile things around us? We hit people for a living."
"Just keep your hands in your pockets," I advised, scanning the room.
The space was filling up. Men in bespoke suits, women in gowns that shimmered under the lights. I recognized a few NHL scouts, a senator, and the Dean.
And then, the atmosphere shifted.
It wasn't a sound. It was a collective intake of breath. The energy in the room pulled toward the massive double doors at the entrance.
Victor Vane had arrived.
He walked in like he owned the building—which, technically, he probably did. He was a shark in a charcoal suit. Silver hair, cold eyes, a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
But no one was looking at Victor.
They were looking at the girl on his arm.
Michelle.
My breath caught in my throat, a physical hitch that I couldn't suppress.
I had seen her in oversized sweaters. I had seen her in towels. I had seen her in leather leggings.
I had never seen her like this.
She was wearing gold. Liquid, metallic gold that clung to every curve of her body like it had been poured on.
It was backless, dipping dangerously low.
The slit up the leg went high enough to be scandalous but stopped just short of improper.
Her platinum hair was pulled back into a severe, sleek bun, exposing the long, elegant line of her neck.
She didn't look like a brat. She didn't look like a student.
She looked like a trophy. She looked like the most expensive thing in the room.
And she looked miserable.
Her smile was plastered on, bright and brittle. She held her father’s arm with a grip that looked white-knuckled.
"Whoa," Beef breathed. "Is that… is that the Roommate?"
"Shut up, Beef," I snapped, though I couldn't look away.
Victor whispered something to her. Her smile faltered for a micro-second, then brightened. She nodded. A good soldier. A compliant asset.
I felt a surge of irrational anger. Not at her. For her.
They began to move through the crowd, shaking hands. Victor was parading her. Look at my daughter. Look at my wealth. Look at what I made.
I should turn around. I should go talk to the Dean about the new locker room renovations.
But my feet were moving before my brain could issue the stop command. I cut a path through the crowd. I told myself it was because I was the Captain, and it was my duty to greet the primary donor.
That was the lie.
The truth was, seeing other men look at her—the hungry, appraising glances of the donors' sons, the leering looks of the old money creeps—made my hands curl into fists.
I intercepted them near the ice sculpture of the mascot.
"Mr. Vane," I said, my voice smooth, practicing the deception I had perfected over four years. "Welcome back to Blackwood."
Victor stopped. His eyes slid over me, assessing, cold. "Sterling. Good to see you. You look… prepared."
"Always, sir."
I turned my gaze to Michelle.
Up close, the armor was even more impressive. The makeup was flawless, highlighting her cheekbones. But her eyes were frantic. They darted around the room like a trapped animal looking for an exit.
When her eyes landed on me, the panic receded, replaced by a spark of recognition. And then, her signature defiance.
"Hello, Greg," she purred. She stepped out from her father’s shadow. "You clean up nice. I didn't know they made tuxedos in 'Hulk' size."
"Michelle," Victor warned, his tone sharp. "Be polite."
"I am being polite," she said, flashing that razor-sharp smile at me. "Greg and I are roommates, Daddy. We’re practically family. We share a bathroom."
Victor’s eye twitched. "Yes. Well. Sterling, I trust everything at the house is… orderly?"
This was the test. The transaction.
I looked at Michelle. She was holding her breath. She knew about the arrangement—or she suspected it. She was waiting for me to rat her out. To tell him about the music, the attitude, the general disruption of my peace.
"It's perfect, sir," I said, holding her gaze. "Michelle has been… adjusting well. Very studious. Quiet."
Michelle’s eyebrows shot up.
Victor relaxed. "Good. Glad to hear it. I’m going to speak with the Dean. Michelle, stay here. Don't wander off."
He walked away without looking back at her.
The moment he was gone, Michelle let out a breath that deflated her posture. She slumped slightly, the perfect statue cracking.
"Liar," she whispered.
"Would you prefer I told him you were grinding on my furniture to Doja Cat?" I asked, taking a sip of my sparkling water.
"I wasn't grinding," she snapped, but there was no heat in it. She looked around the room. "God, I hate these people. Look at them. They look like vampires."
"They pay for the ice you skate on," I said. "Or, well, the ice I skate on."
"Don't remind me." She reached for a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
I intercepted her hand. My fingers wrapped around her wrist. Her skin was soft, hot against the cool air of the museum. A shockwave went up my arm.
"No alcohol," I said quietly.
She glared at me. "Excuse me? I'm twenty-one."
"You're unsupervised," I countered. "And your father is watching. If you get tipsy and make a scene, he’ll cut you off. And then you’ll be stuck in the house with me forever."
She tried to yank her wrist back, but I held firm. Not hurting her. Just anchoring her.
"Maybe I want to make a scene," she challenged, leaning in. "Maybe I want to scream."
"Don't," I said. "Not here."
"Why do you care?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Are you worried about your precious reputation? Or are you worried I’ll embarrass you?"
"I'm worried," I said, leaning down so my mouth was close to her ear, "that if you drink that, you'll say something you can't take back. And I don't want to carry you out of here over my shoulder. Again."
She shivered. I saw it. The goosebumps rose on her bare arms.
"You wouldn't dare," she breathed.
"Try me."
For a moment, we just stood there. My hand on her wrist. Her body angled toward mine. The tension was palpable, a physical weight between us. The air smelled of her perfume and my restraint.
"Well, well," a voice interrupted. "If it isn't the Princess and the Pauper."
The spell broke. I released her wrist, stepping back to create a respectable distance.
Standing there was Carter Thorne.