Chapter 19
Michelle
The morning after the draft, I woke up in a hotel room in Montreal. It wasn't the Villa d’Este. It wasn't my father's sterile mansion in Bel Air.
It was a standard Marriott king suite that smelled faintly of lemon pledge and Greg.
Greg was already awake. He was sitting in the armchair by the window, still wearing the black suit trousers from last night, but shirtless. He was reading the newspaper. An actual, physical newspaper.
"You look like a 1950s dad," I mumbled, stretching. My body ached—from the drive, from the floor of the hallway, from the frantic reunion we’d had in the elevator (we hadn't made it to the room before hands started wandering).
"Top story," Greg said, ignoring my insult. He folded the paper and held it up.
The headline of the Montreal Gazette sports section read: brUINS PICK STERLING: DEFENSEMAN brINGS GRIT, GLORY, AND A MYSTERY GIRL.
There was a photo of us. The kiss. My hair was a mess. Greg looked like he was trying to inhale me. It was scandalous. It was perfect.
"Mystery girl," I scoffed. "Do they not know who I am? I'm Michelle Vane. I have an IMDB page. I was an extra in Gossip Girl."
"They know who you are now," Greg said. "Page three has a breakdown of your outfit. They called the blazer 'avant-garde'."
"Avant-garde means weird," I noted, sitting up. "But I'll take it."
Greg put the paper down. He walked over to the bed. He climbed in next to me, pulling me into his chest. His skin was warm. Solid.
"My agent called," he said.
"And?"
"And he's having palpitations. Apparently, your father threatened to sue him for 'aiding and abetting a fugitive'."
"I'm the fugitive?"
"You're the fugitive. And the Bruins PR team wants a meeting. In an hour."
I tensed. The PR team. That sounded like code for "Damage Control." That sounded like "Break up with her or we trade you to Winnipeg."
Greg felt my tension. He squeezed me tighter.
"Relax," he said. "I handle the PR team. You handle your dad."
"My dad isn't going to meet with me," I said. "He's probably already on his jet, plotting how to freeze my assets."
"He's downstairs," Greg corrected. "In the lobby. Drinking coffee and yelling at a bellhop."
I sat up so fast I got dizzy.
"He's here?"
"He wants a meeting. With both of us."
"Greg, we can't. He'll destroy us. He'll..."
"He'll do nothing," Greg interrupted. He grabbed my face, forcing me to look at him. "Listen to me, Michelle. The dynamic has shifted. Yesterday, I was a college kid hoping for a shot. Today? I'm a first-round pick. I have a signing bonus. I have a contract."
"And I have nothing," I whispered. "I'm broke, Greg."
"You have me," he said. "And I have money. We have leverage. He can't threaten your tuition anymore—you quit. He can't threaten my career—I'm signed. The only thing he has left is his pride."
"And his money."
"Money is just paper," Greg said, echoing my words from the hallway. "We're going down there. Together. And we're going to tell him how it's going to be."
I looked at him. The Gavel. He wasn't afraid.
And looking at him, I realized I wasn't afraid either.
"Okay," I said. "Let's go slay the dragon."
We walked into the hotel restaurant hand in hand.
I was wearing Greg's hoodie (stolen back from his suitcase) and jeans. Greg was wearing a Bruins t-shirt the team had sent over and jeans.
We looked like college kids.
Victor Vane was sitting at a corner table. He was wearing a three-piece suit. He looked like he owned the hotel.
He saw us coming. His eyes narrowed.
"Sit," he commanded as we approached.
Greg pulled out a chair for me. Then he sat down next to me. He put his arm over the back of my chair. A protective, claiming gesture.
"Good morning, Victor," Greg said. Not Mr. Vane. Not Sir. Just Victor.
My father bristled.
"This is a disaster," Victor began, pointing a finger at me. "Do you have any idea what the headlines are saying? 'The Romeo & Juliet of the Rink'. It's nauseating. You've turned my family name into a romantic comedy."
"People love romantic comedies," I said, taking a sip of his water. "They test well with the 18-35 demographic."
"Don't get smart with me, Michelle. You ran away. You embarrassed me in front of the entire league."
"I embarrassed you?" I laughed. "You tried to sell me to a polo player to secure a business deal. You threatened to ruin the man I love. I didn't embarrass you, Dad. I outmaneuvered you."
Victor's face turned red. "You are cut off. Do you understand? No trust fund. No allowance. The car goes back. The apartment goes back."
"Keep it," I said. "I don't want it."
"You say that now," he sneered. "Wait until you're living in a dump, eating store-brand macaroni. You'll come crawling back."
"She won't," Greg said. His voice was calm, deep, and dangerous. "Because she's not alone. I signed my contract this morning, Victor. Three years. Entry level max. Plus bonuses. It's not Vane money, but it buys a lot of macaroni."
Victor looked at Greg. He assessed him. He saw the confidence. He saw the lack of fear.
"You think you can support her?" Victor scoffed. "She has expensive taste, Sterling. She burns through cash like oxygen."
"She designed a blazer out of three hundred dollars worth of silk that got more press than your entire portfolio last quarter," Greg shot back. "She doesn't need your money. She needs an investor who actually believes in her product. And guess what? I'm investing."
I looked at Greg, my heart swelling.
"You're investing in my label?"
"Damn right," Greg said. "Vane & Valor. I'm the silent partner. Or the loud one, if you need me to yell at suppliers."
Victor looked between us. He saw the united front. The Wall.
He realized, perhaps for the first time in his life, that he couldn't buy his way out of this conversation.
He sat back. He adjusted his tie.
"Fine," he said. "Go play house. Go be poor and happy. But don't expect a Christmas card."
"We weren't expecting one," I said. "You never send them anyway. Your assistant does."
Victor stood up. He looked at me one last time. There was no love in his eyes. Just calculation.
"You're making a mistake, Michelle."
"Maybe," I said. "But it's my mistake."
He walked away.
I watched him go. I waited for the pain. I waited for the familiar feeling of abandonment.
It didn't come.
Instead, I felt… light.
Greg squeezed my shoulder.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," I breathed. "I really am."
"Good. Because we have another meeting."
"The PR team?"
"No. The Agent. We need to find an apartment in Boston."
The meeting with the Bruins PR team was surprisingly painless.
They loved us.
"The engagement metrics are through the roof!" the PR director, a frantic woman named Sarah, gushed. "People love the 'Bad Boy Captain and the Heiress' angle. We want to do a feature. Maybe a spread in GQ?"
"We're not doing GQ," Greg said firmly. "I'm here to play hockey. Not model."
"But Michelle..." Sarah looked at me. "Your blazer is trending on Twitter. People want to buy it."
"They can buy it," I said. "In six months. When I launch the collection."
"Perfect!" Sarah clapped. "We'll coordinate. Opening night at the Garden. You wear the collection. Greg scores a goal. Synergy!"
We walked out of the meeting dazed.
"Synergy," Greg muttered. "I hate that word."
"I kind of like it," I grinned. "It sounds profitable."
We spent the rest of the day looking at listings online. Boston apartments.
"This one has a gym," Greg pointed out.
"This one has a walk-in closet," I countered.
"This one is next to the arena."
"This one is next to a Sephora."
We compromised. An apartment in the Seaport. Near the arena, but with good light for my studio. It was expensive. Greg paid the deposit without blinking.
"I'll pay you back," I promised. "Once I sell the blazers."
"No," he said. "You pay for the dog food. That's the deal."
"The dog food?"
"For Puck. The Great Dane we're getting."
"We are not getting a Great Dane in an apartment, Greg! It's cruel."
"Fine. A Golden Retriever. But his name is still Puck."
We argued about dogs all the way back to the hotel. It was mundane. It was domestic. It was heaven.
That night, we ordered room service. Champagne (cheap stuff, because I was feeling frugal) and burgers.
We sat on the floor of the hotel room, leaning against the bed.
"So," I said, dipping a fry in ketchup. "You're a professional athlete."
"Yup."
"And I'm a... well, I'm an unemployed designer."
"You're a CEO," he corrected. "Of Vane & Valor."
"Right. CEO. Sounds fancy."
I looked at him. He was relaxed. The tension that had carried him through the season, the draft, the breakup—it was gone.
"Are you scared?" I asked. "About the NHL? The big leagues?"
"Terrified," he admitted. "Everybody is faster. Everybody is stronger. I might get crushed."
"You won't get crushed," I said. "You're the Wall."
"The Wall needs maintenance," he said. "It needs support."
He put his burger down. He turned to me.
"I need you there, Michelle. In Boston. At the games. I can't do it if I look up at the glass and you're not there."
"I'll be there," I promised. "Row four. Seat twelve. Wearing your jersey."
"Good."
He reached out and touched the silver chain on my wrist.
"You kept it," he said softly.
"I threw it at my dad first," I admitted. "But I picked it back up."
"I kept mine too." He pulled the other cufflink out of his pocket. He had carried it with him all day.
"We need to put them somewhere safe," I said.
"Or," he said, "we could make them permanent."
"Tattoos?" I raised an eyebrow. "Greg Sterling, are you suggesting we get matching tattoos? That is so... 2004."
"Not matching," he said. "Complementary. A shield. Half on you. Half on me."
I thought about it. Permanent ink. Marking us.
"Okay," I said. "But I design it. I don't want clip art on my body."
"Deal."
He leaned in. He kissed me.
It started slow. A burger-flavored kiss of contentment.
But then his hand slid up my thigh. My hand tangled in his hair.
The playful mood shifted. The air in the room grew heavy, charged.
"Are you done eating?" he murmured against my lips.
"I'm done with the burger," I whispered. "But I'm still hungry."
He groaned. He pushed the room service tray away with his foot. He pulled me onto his lap.
"Bed," he commanded.
"Floor," I countered. "Right here."
"You're bossy."
"I'm the CEO."
He laughed, a low rumble that vibrated against my chest. He lay back on the carpet, pulling me down on top of him.
I straddled his hips. I looked down at him.
He looked happy. Not just relieved. Happy.
"I love you," I said.
"I love you," he replied. "Show me."
I reached for the hem of his t-shirt. I pulled it off. I threw it across the room.
He reached for my hoodie. He pulled it off.
I wasn't wearing a bra.
He stared up at me. His eyes darkened.
"Beautiful," he breathed.
He reached up. His large hands cupped my breasts. His thumbs circled.
I gasped, throwing my head back.
"Greg..."
"I've got you," he said. "I've always got you."
We moved together. It wasn't the frantic, desperate sex of the breakup. It wasn't the tentative sex of the first time.
It was celebratory. It was claiming.
It was a victory lap.
He entered me slowly, savoring the slide. I watched his face. I watched his eyes roll back, his jaw clench.
"Mine," he grunted.
"Yours," I agreed.
We found a rhythm. Slow, deep thrusts that hit every nerve ending.
"Tell me," he demanded, his hands gripping my hips, bruising in the best way. "Tell me you're never leaving again."
"Never," I panted. "I'm stuck to you. Like gum."
"Sexy."
"Shut up and kiss me."
He pulled my head down. He kissed me.
And as we moved together on the floor of a Marriott in Montreal, surrounded by discarded clothes and a room service cart, I knew we had won.
We had beaten the odds. We had beaten my father. We had beaten the world.
We came together, a shuddering, synchronized release that left us breathless and tangled.
I collapsed onto his chest. I listened to his heart slow down.
"So," I murmured, tracing a pattern on his sweat-slicked skin. "Boston."
"Boston," he agreed.
"Great Danes."
"Golden Retrievers."
"We'll see," I smirked.
"Yeah," he kissed the top of my head. "We'll see."
I closed my eyes.
For the first time in my life, the future didn't look like a scary, empty void.
It looked like a hockey rink. It looked like a studio full of silk.
And it looked like the man holding me.
We were going to be just fine.