Chapter 18
Michelle
My G-Wagon, usually a pristine symbol of wealth, looked like it had been through a war zone. It was covered in road salt, mud, and the smeared remains of a thousand bugs.
I didn't care.
I had a destination.
Montreal.
The NHL Entry Draft was tonight.
I had crossed the Canadian border an hour ago. The guard had looked at my passport—Michelle Vane—and then at my disheveled appearance.
"Business or pleasure, Ms. Vane?"
"Redemption," I had rasped.
He stamped it. "Good luck."
I checked the time on the dashboard. 6:30 PM. The draft started at 7:00 PM.
I was cutting it close.
I wasn't sure what my plan was. Storm the stage? Tackle Greg before he put on the jersey? Hold up a boombox like John Cusack?
All I knew was that I couldn't let him do this alone. I couldn't let him think, even for a second, that the lie I told him in his bedroom was the truth.
I pulled off the highway, navigating the confusing streets of Montreal. The Bell Centre loomed ahead, a massive glass structure surrounded by fans.
Traffic was gridlocked.
I slammed my hand on the steering wheel. "Move!" I screamed at a Honda Civic.
It didn't move.
I looked at the arena. It was three blocks away.
I looked at the G-Wagon.
I made a decision.
I pulled the car onto the sidewalk, ignoring the honks and the shouts of pedestrians. I parked it illegally in front of a Tim Hortons. I threw the keys under the seat.
I grabbed my bag—the one with the blue silk blazer—and I ran.
I ran in my combat boots. I ran past scalpers. I ran past fans wearing jerseys of teams I hated.
I reached the media entrance.
Security was tight.
"Credentials?" the guard asked, a mountain of a man who looked like he ate hockey pucks for breakfast.
I didn't have credentials. I was persona non grata.
"I'm Michelle Vane," I said, breathless. "I'm... I'm with the Bruins."
"List says Vane is banned," he said, checking a clipboard. "Victor Vane gave specific instructions. No family."
My father. Of course. He had anticipated this. He had locked down the perimeter.
"I'm not family," I said desperately. "I'm... I'm the stylist. For Greg Sterling. He needs his suit." I held up the garment bag I had shoved the blazer into.
The guard looked unimpressed. "No list, no entry."
Panic clawed at my throat. I could hear the roar of the crowd inside. The draft was starting.
"Please," I begged. "You don't understand. I have to see him."
"Step back, miss."
I looked around. I needed a distraction. I needed a miracle.
And then I saw him.
Beef.
He was walking toward the players' entrance, wearing a suit that was two sizes too small, looking uncomfortable.
"BEEF!" I screamed. "BEEF!"
He turned. His eyes widened.
"Vane?" he shouted back. He jogged over to the barrier. "What are you doing here? Cap said you were in LA being rich."
"I escaped," I said, gripping the barrier. "Beef, get me in. Please. I need to talk to him."
"He's in the Green Room," Beef said. "Locked down. Your dad is in there with him. And the agent."
"My dad is in there?"
"Yeah. Acting like he owns the place. Cap looks miserable, Vane. Like... zombie miserable."
"I know," I said. "That's why I'm here. I have to fix it."
Beef looked at the guard, then at me.
"She's with me," Beef told the guard. "She's... uh... my emotional support heiress."
The guard raised an eyebrow. "Emotional support heiress?"
"I get anxious," Beef said deadpan.
The guard sighed. "Fine. Go."
Beef grabbed my arm and pulled me through.
"You owe me a new toaster," he whispered as we sprinted down the hallway.
"I'll buy you a toaster factory," I promised.
The Green Room was a holding pen for the top prospects and their families. It was filled with round tables, nervous teenagers in expensive suits, and enough tension to power a city.
Beef led me to the service entrance.
"I can't go in there," Beef said. "I'm just a teammate. But that door leads to the back hallway where the bathrooms are. He's bound to come out eventually."
"Thanks, Beef."
"Fix him, Vane," Beef said seriously. "We need our Captain back."
I nodded.
I slipped into the hallway. It was carpeted, quiet.
I waited.
Ten minutes passed. The draft had started. I could hear the announcements over the PA system.
With the first overall pick...
Greg was projected to go fourth or fifth. To the Bruins or the Flyers.
The door to the Green Room opened.
Greg walked out.
He was alone.
He was wearing a black suit. It fit him perfectly. He looked devastatingly handsome.
And he looked dead inside.
He walked toward the bathroom, his head down, checking his phone.
"Greg," I said.
He froze.
He didn't turn around immediately. His shoulders tensed.
Then, slowly, he turned.
When he saw me, the color drained from his face. He looked like he was seeing a ghost.
"Michelle?" he whispered.
"Hi," I said. I took a step forward. "I like the suit. Did you buy it yourself?"
He didn't smile. He stared at me, his eyes scanning my messy hair, my travel-stained clothes, my combat boots.
"What are you doing here?" he asked. His voice was flat. Cold.
"I came to watch you get drafted."
"You're not supposed to be here," he said. "Your father..."
"Screw my father," I said. "I'm not here for him. I'm here for you."
"Why?" He laughed, a harsh sound. "Did you run out of money in LA? Did you get bored of the villa?"
The venom in his voice stung, but I deserved it. I had planted that seed.
"I didn't go to the villa," I said. "I didn't take the money. I lied, Greg."
He flinched. "Stop."
"I lied," I repeated, stepping closer. "In your room. When I said you were a project. When I said I was bored. It was all a lie."
"I don't believe you."
"Thorne blackmailed me," I blurted out.
Greg went still. "What?"
"Carter Thorne. He had the photos. He said if I didn't break up with you—if I didn't make you hate me—he would send them to the NCAA. He said you'd be suspended. He said you'd lose the draft."
Greg stared at me. His brain was working, processing the new data.
"So you... you blew us up to save my career?"
"Yes."
"And then you left."
"I had to! If I stayed, you would have fought it. You would have thrown it all away for me."
"And you decided you knew better?" he asked, his voice rising. "You decided to make the choice for me?"
"I was protecting you!"
"I didn't ask for protection!" he shouted. The sound echoed in the hallway. A waiter poked his head out, saw the Gavel, and ducked back in.
"I didn't ask to be saved, Michelle! I asked for a partner. I asked for the truth. And you looked me in the eye and told me I was nothing to you."
"I was trying to be the Wall!" I cried. "I was trying to do what you do! I was trying to hold up the roof so you wouldn't get crushed!"
"Well, you failed," he said. "Because the roof fell anyway. Do you know what the last three weeks have been like? Do you have any idea?"
"Yes!" I stepped into his space, chest to chest. "Because I've been living it too! I've been a zombie in LA. I've been miserable. I drove three thousand miles to get here, Greg. I haven't slept. I haven't eaten. I smell like a rest stop. Does this look like someone who doesn't care?"
He looked down at me. He looked at the circles under my eyes. He looked at the desperation in my face.
"You drove?" he asked quietly.
"Yes. In the G-Wagon. Which I abandoned on a sidewalk in Montreal about twenty minutes ago."
He looked at me for a long, agonizing moment.
Then he shook his head.
"It's too late," he said. "The draft is happening. I'm about to go out there. My parents are in that room. Your dad is in that room."
"I don't care," I said. "Let them watch."
"Michelle, go home. Please. I can't do this right now. I have to go be the Iceman. I have to go shake the Commissioner's hand and smile."
He turned to walk away.
He was walking away. Again.
I couldn't let him.
"I made you something," I said.
He stopped.
I reached into my bag. I pulled out the blue silk blazer.
"It's not armor," I said to his back. "It's soft. It's messy. It's... it's us."
He turned around slowly. He looked at the blue fabric in my hands.
"The silk," he whispered. "From Portland."
"Yes. I finished it. I brought it for you."
He looked at the jacket. Then he looked at me.
"Why?" he asked. His voice cracked. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because," I said, my voice trembling. "I realized something in LA. I realized that a trophy is just metal. And a contract is just paper. But this?" I gestured between us. "This is rare. This is the only thing that matters."
I took a step closer.
"I love you, Greg. I love you more than I hate my father. I love you more than I love money. I love you enough to stand here and beg."
I dropped to my knees.
Right there in the hallway of the Bell Centre.
"Please," I whispered. "Don't walk away. Don't choose the game over me. Choose us."
Greg stared down at me.
His face crumbled. The mask broke. The Iceman melted.
He dropped to his knees in front of me.
He didn't say a word. He grabbed my face in his hands and kissed me.
It was violent. It was salty with tears—his and mine. It was a collision of souls.
"You idiot," he sobbed against my mouth. "You stubborn, reckless idiot."
"I'm sorry," I cried. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't ever lie to me again," he demanded, pulling back to look me in the eye. "Don't you ever try to save me again."
"I won't. I promise."
"Good."
He kissed me again. Longer. Deeper.
The door to the Green Room burst open.
"Sterling! Where the hell are you? The Bruins are on the clock!"
It was my father. Victor Vane.
He stopped. He saw us. Kneeling on the floor. Clinging to each other.
"Michelle?" he thundered. "What are you doing here?"
We broke apart. But we didn't let go.
Greg stood up. He pulled me up with him. He kept his arm around my waist, anchoring me to his side.
"She's with me," Greg said. The Gavel voice was back. But it wasn't cold. It was fiery.
"She is banned!" Victor shouted. "Get security! Get this girl out of here!"
"If she goes, I go," Greg said calmly.
Victor froze. "What?"
"You heard me. If you kick her out, I walk. I don't get drafted. I don't sign. I go play in Europe. And your 'investment' becomes a zero."
Victor turned purple. "You wouldn't dare. You've worked your whole life for this."
"I have," Greg agreed. He looked down at me. He smiled. A real smile. "But I realized something, Victor. The roof is too heavy to hold alone. And I'm done holding it."
"The Boston Bruins have the fourth pick," the PA announced. "They have three minutes."
"Greg," I whispered. "Go. Go get drafted."
"Not without you," he said.
He turned to Victor.
"She comes to the table," Greg said. "She sits next to me. Or I leave."
Victor looked at Greg. He looked at the determination in his eyes. He looked at the clock.
He was a businessman. He knew when he had lost leverage.
"Fine," Victor spat. "Bring her. But fix her hair. She looks like a homeless person."
Greg laughed. He actually laughed.
He reached out and smoothed my hair. He wiped a smudge of dirt from my cheek.
"She looks perfect," he said.
He took the blue silk blazer from my hand.
He took off his black suit jacket. He dropped it on the floor.
He put on the blue blazer.
It was a little tight in the shoulders. It was definitely a women's cut. It was midnight blue silk.
He looked ridiculous.
He looked magnificent.
"Ready?" he asked me.
"Ready," I said.
We walked into the Green Room. Hand in hand.
The cameras turned. The room went silent.
Greg Sterling, the stoic Captain, was wearing a blue silk blazer and holding hands with the disowned Vane heiress who was wearing combat boots.
We walked to the table. We sat down.
My father sat on the other side, fuming. Greg's parents looked confused but happy to see him smiling.
"With the fourth overall pick," the Commissioner announced from the podium, "the Boston Bruins select... from Blackwood University... Greg Sterling."
The room erupted.
Greg stood up.
He didn't hug his agent. He didn't hug his dad.
He turned to me.
He pulled me up.
And he kissed me. Live on national television.
It was a long kiss. A statement.
Then he walked to the stage. In the blue blazer.
He put on the Bruins jersey.
He shook the Commissioner's hand.
He looked into the camera. He tapped his chest three times.
I see you.
I stood by the table, tears streaming down my face.
My father leaned over.
"You ruined the photo op," he hissed.
I turned to him.
"No, Dad," I said, smiling through the tears. "I fixed the lighting."
Greg
The press conference was chaos.
Reporters were shouting questions. Not about my defensive stats. About the blazer. About the girl. About the kiss.
"Greg! Greg! Who is she?"
"Is that Michelle Vane?"
"Is it true you were blackmailed?"
I sat behind the microphone. I was still wearing the blue blazer under the jersey.
I leaned forward.
"Her name is Michelle," I said into the mic. The room went quiet. "And she designed this jacket. She's going to be the biggest name in fashion in five years. You should write that down."
I looked at the reporters.
"And yes. We're together. And if anyone has a problem with that... well, I'm a defenseman. I'm good at blocking noise."
I stood up.
"That's all. Go Bruins."
I walked off the stage.
Michelle was waiting in the wings. Beef was there too, holding a plate of hors d'oeuvres he had stolen.
"You looked hot," Michelle said, grinning.
"I felt hot," I admitted. "Silk doesn't breathe."
"Take it off," she said.
"Never. I'm playing in this."
She laughed. She threw her arms around my neck.
"I love you, Gladiator," she whispered.
"I love you, Princess."
I picked her up and spun her around.
We were in the middle of a media storm. My agent was having a stroke in the corner. Her father was probably plotting a lawsuit. Thorne was somewhere gnashing his teeth.
But in that hallway, holding the girl who had driven through three states to save me, I knew one thing.
The wall was gone.
And the view was spectacular.