Chapter 11
Graham
The war room was my kitchen island.
The enemy was a five-inch screen buzzing incessantly against the marble countertop.
The casualties were my patience, my reputation, and potentially, my entire future in the NHL.
I stood leaning against the counter, fully dressed in my suit—armor on—staring at the phone. It was vibrating so hard it was actually moving across the stone surface, a slow, angry dance of notifications.
Twitter. Instagram. ESPN notifications. Texts from my agent. Texts from my father’s assistant. Texts from random numbers I didn’t recognize.
The photo had gone viral. Of course it had. It had all the elements of a perfect collegiate scandal: The brooding, rich captain; the fallen, disgraced heiress; a dark alleyway; and enough sexual tension to melt the polar ice caps.
"Stop looking at it," Faye said.
She was sitting on the stool across from me. She was wearing my black t-shirt again, her legs bare, her hair a chaotic halo of blonde bedhead. She was holding a mug of coffee with both hands, looking like the only peaceful thing in a world on fire.
"I’m not looking at it," I lied. "I’m assessing the blast radius."
"The blast radius is 'Everyone,'" she said dryly. "My phone died an hour ago. I think it committed suicide out of self-preservation."
"Silas hasn't called you?"
"No. He doesn't call when he's angry. He executes." She took a sip of coffee, her eyes watching me over the rim. "What’s the play, Governor?"
I looked at her. Really looked at her.
Twelve hours ago, I had been inside her. I had unraveled in her arms. I had told her she was the endgame.
Now, the sun was up, the world was watching, and I had a meeting with Coach heavy in thirty minutes.
I should be terrified. I should be drafting a public apology. I should be moving her out of the penthouse to save my draft stock.
But as I looked at her—messy, sleepy, and mine—I didn't feel fear. I felt a reckless, intoxicating defiance.
"The play," I said, my voice steady, "is denial."
Faye raised an eyebrow. "Denial? Graham, there is a photo of you practically inhaling my soul in an alleyway."
"It’s a photo of a conversation," I corrected smoothly. "A heated conversation. I was checking on you. You were upset. It was dark. The angle is misleading."
"Misleading?" She snorted. "You had your hand on my neck. You looked like you were about to devour me."
"I was," I admitted, my voice dropping. "But they don't know that. They see what they want to see. And we are going to tell them they saw wrong."
I walked around the island. I stepped between her knees—a habit I was rapidly becoming addicted to—and placed my hands on the counter on either side of her hips.
"We are roommates," I recited, drilling the narrative. "I am helping you out because your father cut you off. It’s a charitable arrangement. We are friends. Colleagues. Nothing more."
Faye looked up at me, her hazel eyes dancing with amusement. "Colleagues? Do colleagues usually do... that?"
She nodded toward the bedroom.
"No," I murmured, leaning down until our noses brushed. "That is Classified information. Top Secret clearance only."
"So we lie."
"We lie to everyone. The Coach. The Dean. The Press. Your father."
"And us?" she whispered. "What are we?"
"We," I said, brushing my lips against hers, "are the people who know the truth."
I kissed her.
It wasn't a chaste, goodbye kiss. It was a hungry, possessive claim.
I tasted the coffee on her tongue. I felt her hands slide up my chest, gripping the lapels of my suit jacket.
The friction of her body against mine sparked that familiar fire in my gut, the one that made me want to cancel the meeting, lock the doors, and spend the next three days exploring every inch of her.
The phone buzzed again. Loudly.
I pulled back, resting my forehead against hers. We were both breathing hard.
"I have to go," I groaned.
"Go lie to the world, Governor," she whispered, patting my chest. "I’ll be here, scrubbing the evidence of our crime scenes."
I smirked, stole one last kiss, and grabbed my phone.
As I walked to the elevator, I felt lighter than I had in years. The secret didn't feel like a burden. It felt like a weapon. A diamond tucked in my pocket that no one else knew I had.
The Sterling Vale locker room was a sanctuary of masculinity, sweat, and terrible acoustics.
Usually, when I walked in, the room quieted down out of respect. Today, it quieted down out of anticipation.
I pushed through the double doors, my suit jacket already discarded in my locker, wearing my practice gear. I kept my face blank. The Governor Mask was firmly in place.
Twenty heads turned.
Rys was sitting at his stall, taping his stick with agonizing slowness. He looked up, a grin splitting his face.
"Well, well," he drawled, his voice echoing in the silence. "If it isn't the scandal of the century. How’s the roommate situation, Cap? Need any help with the... rent?"
Laughter rippled through the room. Nervous, excited laughter.
I walked to my stall. I didn't smile. I didn't flinch.
"Tape looks sloppy, O'Malley," I said coolly. "Fix the toe or you’ll be turning over the puck in the neutral zone again."
Rys laughed, tossing the tape roll to me. "Deflect all you want, G-Man. But Twitter thinks you're a god. 'The Governor and the Princess.' It’s like a Hallmark movie, if Hallmark movies had sexual tension and daddy issues."
I sat down and started lacing my skates. My hands were steady.
"Don't believe everything you read on the internet, boys," I said loud enough for the room to hear. "Faye was in a bad spot. I helped her out. End of story."
"You looked pretty helpful in that alley," Miller chirped from the rookie corner.
I shot him a look. The same look I had given him at the party. He shut up instantly.
"It’s a distorted angle," I lied, tightening my laces until my circulation cut off. "Now, are we going to gossip like a sewing circle, or are we going to prep for Michigan State?"
The room settled. The boys bought it—or at least, they pretended to because I was the Captain and I signed their checks on the ice.
But Rys didn't buy it.
As we filed out to the ice, he skated up beside me.
"You're full of shit," he whispered, bumping my shoulder.
"Focus, Rys."
"I see the way you look at her. And I saw the way you looked this morning. You're not stressed. You're glowing. It’s disgusting."
"I don't glow."
"You're practically bioluminescent. You slept with her."
I stared straight ahead, shooting a puck into the empty net. Thwack.
"She’s my roommate, Rys."
"Uh-huh. And I’m the Queen of England." Rys grinned. "Just be careful, man. The sharks are circling. If Coach finds out you're lying..."
"He won't."
"He's got eyes too."
I skated away, putting distance between us. Rys was right. The lie was fragile. But as I moved through the drills, feeling the bite of my edges and the burn in my legs, I realized I didn't care about the risk.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Faye in the sunlight. Every time I breathed, I smelled vanilla.
I was compromised. And I loved it.
We met in the equipment room at 2:00 PM.
It wasn't planned. Or maybe it was. We had been texting all morning—a stream of seemingly innocuous messages that were laden with subtext.
Faye: The washing machine is confusing. It has too many buttons.
Me: Read the manual. Or wait for me.
Faye: I’m impatient.
Me: I know. Hold that thought.
Then:
Me: Where are you?
Faye: Library. Why?
Me: I left my lucky tie in the car. Need you to bring it to the arena.
Faye: You don't have a lucky tie. You think luck is a statistical anomaly.
Me: Bring the tie, Faye.
She showed up twenty minutes later.
I was waiting in the equipment room, deep in the bowels of the arena. It smelled of rubber, fresh-sharpened steel, and laundry detergent. It was lined with racks of jerseys and stacks of pads. It was private.
The door creaked open. Faye slipped inside.
She was wearing oversized sunglasses and a trench coat, looking like a spy from a bad 60s movie.
"This feels clandestine," she whispered, locking the door behind her.
I was leaning against a stack of stick crates. I pushed off and walked toward her.
"Did you bring it?"
"The tie that doesn't exist?" She pulled a blue silk tie out of her pocket. "Yes. I grabbed one from your closet. I felt very weird smuggling men’s accessories across campus."
I didn't take the tie. I took her waist.
"Thank you," I murmured, backing her up until she hit the wall of jerseys.
"You're welcome." Her breath hitched. She took off the sunglasses. "Is this wise? We are literally under the ice. The Coach is upstairs."
"The Coach thinks I’m reviewing tape."
"Are you?"
"I’m reviewing something."
I kissed her.
It was urgent. It was the kind of kiss that happens when you've spent six hours pretending you don't know what the other person tastes like. I devoured her. My hands roamed over her coat, finding the belt, untying it.
She was wearing a dress underneath. Soft wool. Easy access.
"Graham," she gasped against my mouth. "Someone will hear."
"Soundproof," I lied. It wasn't soundproof. It was just loud outside because the Zamboni was running.
I lifted her up, pressing her against the hanging jerseys. The soft mesh of the Sentinels' uniforms cushioned her back.
She wrapped her legs around my waist instantly. It was muscle memory now.
"I missed you," I admitted, biting her lower lip.
"It’s been four hours."
"Four hours of lying. It’s exhausting."
"You're a very good liar, though. I saw your interview on ESPN. 'Just friends.' You sounded so convincing I almost broke up with you."
"We're not dating," I reminded her, running my hand up her thigh. "We're roommates."
"Roommates with benefits?"
"Roommates with an addiction."
I ground my hips against hers. We were both fully clothed, but the friction was enough to make my head spin. I wanted to take her right here, surrounded by the smell of the game, with the threat of discovery hanging over our heads like a guillotine.
"God, you make me crazy," I groaned, burying my face in her neck.
"Is that a good thing?"
"It’s a dangerous thing."
The doorknob rattled.
We froze.
"Hey! Anyone in there? I need more tape!"
It was Miller.
Faye’s eyes went wide. She clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.
I held her tight, staying perfectly still. My heart hammered against her chest.
"Hello?" Miller called again. He jiggled the handle. Locked.
"Weird," he muttered.
We heard his footsteps recede.
Silence returned to the room.
Faye looked at me. Her pupils were blown wide. Then, slowly, a smile spread across her face. A wicked, adrenaline-fueled smile.
"That was close," she whispered.
"Too close."
"Do you want to stop?"
I looked at her. I looked at the way her hands were gripping my shoulders. I felt the heat of her body burning against mine.
"No," I said. "I really don't."
We didn't have sex. We couldn't risk the noise. but we did everything else. We spent twenty minutes in the dark, hands roaming, mouths exploring, whispering filthy promises against each other's skin.
It was reckless. It was stupid.
And it was the best twenty minutes of my season.
The Coach’s Office
Coach Halloway’s office was a shrine to mediocrity. Wood paneling from the 90s, a carpet that smelled of cigar smoke, and trophies from championships won before I was born.
I sat in the uncomfortable wooden chair across from his desk.
Coach Halloway leaned back, his leather chair groaning. He was a large man, red-faced, with a mustache that had seen better decades. He looked at me with disappointment.
"Vane," he said heavily.
"Coach."
"You know why you're here."
"The photo."
"The photo. The rumors. The phone call I got from Silas Allister this morning threatening to pull his funding for the new training facility if I didn't 'get my house in order.'"
I kept my face neutral. "Mr. Allister is... protective. It’s a misunderstanding."
"Is it?" Coach leaned forward. "Look, Graham. You're my best player. You're the best captain I've had in ten years. You run this team like a machine. I respect that."
"Thank you, sir."
"But Silas Allister owns this town. And he owns this team. If he says you're a problem, you're a problem. I can't protect you if you're actually sleeping with his daughter."
He paused, letting the silence stretch. He was giving me an out. He was giving me a chance to confess.
"I need you to look me in the eye," Coach said, "and tell me that nothing is going on. That she is just a roommate. that you aren't violating the morality clause of your scholarship."
My stomach tightened. I respected Halloway. He had given me a chance when other schools thought I was too stiff, too robotic.
Lying to the press was easy. Lying to Miller was fun.
Lying to Halloway felt like swallowing glass.
But then I thought of Faye. I thought of her in the equipment room, flushed and happy. I thought of her painting in the studio. I thought of the way she held me when the world was too loud.
If I told the truth, she was out on the street. And I was off the team.
I looked Coach Halloway in the eye.
"Nothing is going on, sir," I said. My voice didn't waver. "Faye needed a place to stay. I had a room. That’s it. The photo was... a moment of high emotion after a scare at a party. It won't happen again."
Coach studied my face. He was looking for a tell. A twitch. A blink.
I gave him nothing. I gave him the Governor.
Finally, he sighed and leaned back.
"Alright," he said. "I believe you."
Relief washed over me, cold and sickly.
"But Graham?"
"Yes, Coach?"
"Silas isn't going to stop. He’s looking for a reason to bury you. If you slip up... if you give him one inch... he’ll take everything. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Get out of here. Go watch tape."
I stood up and walked out.
I made it to the hallway before I had to lean against the wall and take a deep breath.
I had done it. I had secured the lie. We were safe.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out.
A text from a number I didn't recognize.
Unknown: Nice performance with the Coach. But you should really check the security cameras in your own building. Elevators have eyes, Graham.
Attached was a video file.
I clicked it.
Grainy, black and white footage. The elevator in the penthouse. Me carrying Faye. Her legs wrapped around my waist. The gold dress hiked up. The way we were kissing like the world was ending.
My blood ran cold.
Unknown: Silas wants a meeting. Tonight. 8 PM. Come alone. Or this goes to ESPN.
I stared at the screen. The adrenaline from the equipment room turned to ash in my mouth.
The lie hadn't saved us. It had just bought us a few hours.
And now, the bill was due.