Chapter 17
Greg
They say winning cures everything. They say that when you lift the trophy, the pain, the fatigue, the sacrifices—it all fades away into a golden haze of glory.
They are liars.
It had been three weeks since Michelle left. Three weeks since the NCAA investigation evaporated like mist. Three weeks since I became a ghost haunting my own life.
I sat in the locker room of TD Garden in Boston. The noise outside was deafening. The "Blackwood Pack" had traveled well. Twenty thousand people were screaming for the Bruisers.
We were in the National Championship Final.
It was the game I had dreamed of since I was four years old skating on a frozen pond in my backyard. It was the pinnacle. The scouts were here. The cameras were here. My parents were here.
Everyone was here.
Except her.
I taped my stick. Heel to toe. Black tape. Precise overlaps. No wrinkles.
My hands were steady. My heart rate was 55 beats per minute. I was calm.
But it was a dead calm. It was the calm of a man who had nothing left to lose because he had already lost the only thing that mattered.
"Cap?"
Beef sat down next to me. He looked worried. Everyone looked worried around me lately. I hadn't smiled in twenty-one days. I hadn't cracked a joke. I hadn't even yelled.
I had just... functioned.
"Yeah?" I didn't look up from my stick.
"Big night," Beef said, trying to force cheer into his voice. "Denver is fast, but their goalie is shaky. We put shots on net, we win."
"I know the scouting report, Beef."
"Right. Just... checking in. You good?"
I finally looked at him. Beef flinched.
"I'm fine," I said. "Let's go win a trophy."
I stood up. I put on my helmet. I snapped the chin strap.
I walked out of the locker room. I led the team down the tunnel.
The lights hit me. The noise hit me.
I felt nothing.
The game was a blur of violence and efficiency.
I played perfectly. I knew I was playing perfectly because I could hear the announcers praising me through the glass when play stopped near the box.
Sterling is a machine tonight.
Look at that positioning. He's seeing the game two steps ahead.
That's an NHL defenseman right there.
I shut down Denver's top line. I cleared the crease. I moved the puck.
But every time there was a stoppage, every time the whistle blew and the adrenaline dipped for a fraction of a second, she was there.
I saw a flash of platinum blonde in the crowd and my heart stopped—only to restart painfully when the girl turned around and it wasn't her.
I smelled vanilla when a fan banged on the glass, even though it was impossible through the plexiglass and sweat.
I was haunted.
The game went to overtime. Of course it did. 2-2.
The locker room during the intermission was tense. Coach Miller was drawing plays on the whiteboard, shouting about grit and destiny.
I sat in my stall, staring at the floor.
I reached into my glove. My fingers brushed against something hard and cold taped to the inside of my wrist.
The silver shield cufflink.
I had dug it out of the carpet. I had taped it to my skin. It dug into my flesh every time I flexed my wrist, a sharp, biting pain.
I needed the pain. It was the only thing that felt real.
"Sterling!" Miller barked. "You with us?"
I looked up. "I'm with you."
"Good. Get out there. End this."
We went back out.
Five minutes into overtime.
The puck came to me at the point. I had a lane. I could shoot.
But I saw Johnson cutting back door.
I faked the shot. The defender dropped to block it.
I slid a pass through the slot. Tape to tape.
Johnson tapped it in.
The red light flashed. The horn blasted. The arena exploded.
We had won. National Champions.
The team poured off the bench. Gloves flew into the air. Helmets were tossed. I was engulfed in a pile of screaming, sweating bodies.
"WE DID IT! WE DID IT!"
I felt the weight of them on top of me. I felt the vibration of their joy.
And I felt... empty.
I lay on the ice, staring up at the jumbotron. It showed the replay. The pass. The goal. The celebration.
It showed my face. Blank. Stoic.
Eventually, they let me up. We lined up for the handshake. We gathered at center ice.
The commissioner walked out onto a red carpet. He held the trophy. It was huge, silver, gleaming.
"Captain Sterling," he announced into the microphone. "Come get your hardware."
I skated forward. I took the trophy. It was heavy.
I lifted it over my head.
The crowd roared. Flashbulbs popped like lightning. My teammates were screaming.
I looked out into the sea of faces. Thousands of people cheering for me.
I looked for row four.
It was full of strangers.
I lowered the trophy. I handed it to Beef.
"Your turn," I said.
I skated away from the celebration. I skated toward the boards.
I leaned my head against the glass.
I had done it. I had been the Wall. I had won the championship. I had secured the draft spot.
And I would trade every ounce of silver in that trophy just to see her sitting there, rolling her eyes at me, wearing my stolen jersey.
The locker room after a championship is chaos. Champagne spraying. Music blasting. Alumni crying.
I sat in my stall, still in my gear. I hadn't taken my skates off.
My phone was buzzing in my bag. Text after text. Congratulations. Agents. Family.
I ignored it.
Coach Miller walked over. He looked ten years younger. He was soaked in Gatorade and grinning.
"You did it, son," he said, putting a hand on my shoulder pad. "You led them. I'm proud of you."
"Thanks, Coach."
"The scouts are raving. Top ten pick, guaranteed. Maybe top five."
"That's great."
Miller's smile faded slightly. He looked at me closely.
"Greg," he said, lowering his voice. "You won. You can smile now."
"I'm tired, Coach."
"I know. It's been a long season. But you... you made the right choice. With the girl. Look at where you are. If you had stayed with her... if that scandal had blown up..."
I stiffened.
"Don't," I said.
"I'm just saying. Distractions are dangerous. You cut the dead weight, and you flew. It's proof."
Dead weight.
The anger flared in my chest. Hot. Sudden.
"She wasn't dead weight," I said, standing up. I towered over him in my skates. "She was the reason I played that game. She was the reason I didn't quit three weeks ago."
Miller stepped back, surprised. "Greg, calm down."
"I am calm," I lied. "But don't talk about her. You don't know her. You don't know what she did for me."
I grabbed my bag. I didn't shower. I didn't change.
I walked out of the locker room in my gear, guards looking at me like I was insane.
I walked out of the arena.
I walked to my truck.
I threw my bag in the back. I sat in the driver's seat, still wearing my jersey.
I ripped the tape off my wrist. The silver shield fell into my palm.
I stared at it.
You made the right choice.
Everyone kept saying that. My dad. The Coach. Even Beef had tried to tell me I was better off.
But they were looking at the trophy. They weren't looking at me.
I wasn't better. I was broken.
I started the truck.
I didn't go to the after-party. I didn't go to the bar.
I drove to the bluff.
I sat there in the dark, watching the ocean.
I pulled out my phone.
I opened Instagram. I had unblocked her three days ago, in a moment of weakness.
She hadn't posted anything. No stories. No photos. Her account was silent.
I searched for "Vane."
I found a gossip site article from yesterday.
Heiress Michelle Vane Spotted in Los Angeles: Looking Thin and 'Over It'.
There was a photo. Paparazzi shot. She was walking out of a Starbucks in West Hollywood. She was wearing big sunglasses and a baggy sweatshirt. She looked pale. She wasn't smiling.
She looked exactly like I felt.
A zombie.
I zoomed in on the photo.
On her wrist, half-hidden by the sleeve of her sweatshirt, was a silver chain.
She was wearing the other cufflink.
My breath hitched.
She hadn't thrown it away. She hadn't moved on.
I loved the idea of you. But the reality? It's embarrassing.
She had lied.
She had lied to save me.
I slammed my hand against the steering wheel.
"Idiot," I screamed. "You stupid, blind idiot."
I had let her go. I had let her sacrifice herself because part of me—the scared, disciplined part—had been relieved. The part of me that was terrified of losing hockey had accepted her lie because it was easier than fighting the world.
But looking at that photo, looking at the silver chain on her wrist, I realized the truth.
I didn't want the NHL if I had to be alone.
I didn't want the trophy if I couldn't share it with her.
I didn't want to be the Wall anymore.
I wanted to be the man who loved Michelle Vane.
I looked at the clock. 1:00 AM.
The draft was in two weeks. In Montreal.
Before that, there was the Combine. In Buffalo. Next week.
I had obligations. I had a schedule.
I looked at the silver shield in my hand.
Screw the schedule.
I started the truck.
I wasn't going back to the house.
I was going to the airport.
Michelle
Los Angeles is a city of ghosts, but they are very well-dressed ghosts.
I sat by the pool in my father's house in Bel Air. The water was turquoise. The sky was painfully blue. The palm trees swayed in a warm breeze.
I was freezing.
I was wearing a hoodie—not Greg's, I had left that behind, like an idiot—and sweatpants. I hadn't put on makeup in three weeks. I hadn't sketched a single design.
My mother was sitting on the lounger next to me, nursing a vodka tonic. It was 11:00 AM.
"You look terrible, darling," she said, adjusting her oversized Dior sunglasses. "Have you tried the juice cleanse I sent you? It flushes the toxins."
"The toxins are in my head, Mother," I said, staring at the water.
"Well, flush those too. You're bringing down the property value with that face."
She took a sip of her drink.
"Your father says the hockey player won," she mentioned casually.
My head snapped up.
"What?"
"Last night. The championship. Apparently, he was 'machine-like'. Victor was very pleased. He says his investment is safe."
I felt a sharp stab in my chest. Relief. And agony.
He won.
He did it.
I had saved him.
"Good," I whispered. "That's good."
"Yes, well. Now that that's over, we can focus on you. Matteo is flying in next week. He wants to take you to Cabo. Victor thinks it would be a good photo op. 'The Reunion'."
"I'm not going to Cabo with Matteo," I said dullly.
"Michelle, don't be difficult. You made a deal. You came back. That means you play the game."
"I'm tired of the game," I said. "I'm tired of all of it."
I stood up.
"Where are you going?"
"To my room. To sleep."
"It's 11 AM!"
"I don't care."
I walked into the massive, sterile house. It felt like a museum. Nothing was out of place. No burnt cookies. No hockey gear. No life.
I went to my room. I lay down on the bed.
I pulled up the news on my phone.
Blackwood Bruisers Win National Title.
Greg Sterling Named MVP.
There was a video of the trophy presentation.
I watched it.
I saw him lift the cup.
He didn't smile.
He looked... haunted.
I paused the video on his face. I zoomed in.
His eyes were dead.
"Oh, Greg," I whispered, touching the screen.
Had I broken him?
I thought I was saving his career. But looking at that face, I realized I might have saved the player and killed the man.
My door opened.
My father walked in. He looked triumphant.
"Did you see?" he asked, beaming. "He won. Stock is up. Bruins are calling me to thank me for 'clearing the path'."
"Get out," I said.
"Excuse me?"
I sat up.
"I said get out. You got what you wanted. He won. He's safe. Now leave me alone."
Victor frowned. "You should be thanking me, Michelle. I saved you from a mistake. Look at him." He gestured to the phone. "He's on top of the world. He's not thinking about you. He's thinking about his bonus."
"He looks miserable!" I shouted. "Look at his eyes, Dad! He looks like he wants to die!"
"He's focused," Victor corrected. "That's what winners look like. They sacrifice sentiment for success. You could learn a thing or two."
"I learned everything I need to know from you," I spat. "I learned how to be cold. I learned how to lie. I learned how to treat people like assets."
"And look how well it worked," Victor spread his hands. "We won."
"You won," I said. "I lost everything."
"You have your trust fund. You have your label funding. You have Matteo."
"I don't want Matteo! I don't want the money!"
I ripped the silver chain off my wrist. I threw it at him.
"Take it!" I screamed. "Take all of it! I hate it! I hate this house! I hate you!"
Victor caught the chain. He looked at it.
"Is this the jewelry you were making?" He sneered. "Cheap silver. Tacky."
Something snapped inside me.
The zombie died. The Brat woke up.
But this wasn't the Brat who acted out for attention. This was the woman who had walked through a snowstorm in Portland to buy blue silk.
"Get out," I said again. My voice was low. Dangerous.
Victor looked at me. He saw something in my eyes he hadn't seen before.
He dropped the chain on the floor.
"Pull yourself together, Michelle. Matteo arrives on Tuesday. Wear something nice."
He walked out.
I stared at the closed door.
I looked at the chain on the floor.
I picked it up. I clasped it back onto my wrist.
I looked at the phone again. At Greg's haunted face.
Win, I had told him. Prove them wrong.
He had won.
But he hadn't proven them wrong. He had proven them right. That he was a machine. That he didn't need me.
Or...
Or he was waiting.
Waiting for me to stop being a coward. Waiting for me to realize that "saving" him was just another way of letting my father control us.
I stood up.
I walked to the closet.
I started packing.
Not the designer clothes. Not the "acceptable" wardrobe.
Jeans. Boots. The blue silk blazer.
I grabbed my sketchbook.
I didn't have a plan. I didn't have money—my accounts were monitored.
But I had a G-Wagon in the garage. And I had a full tank of gas.
I was going to drive.
I didn't know where. Maybe back to Maine. Maybe to Montreal for the draft.
But I wasn't staying here.
I wasn't going to be a ghost in my father's house.
I was going to be the storm.
I grabbed my keys.
I walked out the back door, bypassing the security cameras I knew by heart.
I got into the G-Wagon.
I peeled out of the driveway.
I was coming for him.
And this time, I wasn't going to let him go.