Chapter 16
Faye
There is a specific kind of numbness that comes with shock. It’s a biological mercy, a way for your brain to keep your heart beating when it should have stopped from the sheer force of the impact.
I was in that numbness.
Across the desk, Silas Allister was pouring two glasses of scotch. He looked calm. Vindicated. He looked like a man who had just won a chess game he had been playing for twenty years.
"Drink," he said, sliding a glass toward me.
I stared at the amber liquid. I didn't reach for it. My hands were folded in my lap, gripping each other so tightly my knuckles were white.
"I don't want your scotch," I whispered. My voice sounded hollow, like it was coming from someone else.
"Suit yourself." Silas took a sip, savoring the burn. "You look terrible, Faye."
"I just watched the man I love get suspended on national television because of a lie you fabricated."
"A lie?" Silas raised an eyebrow. "The transfer papers were real. The audio was real. Graham made a deal with his father. He sold his freedom to protect his reputation."
"He did it to protect me!" I shouted, the numbness cracking for a second. "He made that deal to stop you from blackmailing us!"
Silas sighed, setting his glass down. He looked at me with pity. That was the worst part. Not anger. Pity.
"Faye. Sweetheart. Look at the facts. Graham Vane is a politician’s son. He’s a survivor. When the walls closed in, who did he call? Did he call you? No. He called his daddy. He secured his future."
"He loves me."
"Does he? Or does he love the idea of saving you? There’s a difference. And right now... he can't save anyone. He can't even save himself."
Silas leaned forward. The predator was back.
"The NCAA investigation is real. The betting allegations are serious. Even if he’s innocent, the investigation alone will take months. He’ll miss the playoffs. He’ll miss the draft. His career is over before it started."
I felt the nausea roll in again. Graham’s dream. The one thing he had worked for his entire life. The one thing that gave him worth in his father’s eyes.
Gone. Because of me. Because I was the liability.
"Unless..." Silas let the word hang in the air.
I looked up. "Unless what?"
"Unless the narrative changes."
"What do you mean?"
"The narrative right now is that Graham Vane is a corrupt player who threw games for money and sex.
That destroys him." Silas swirled his drink.
"But... if the narrative becomes that Graham Vane was a victim of a distracted, unstable girl who led him astray...
well, the NCAA tends to be more forgiving of young men who make mistakes with women than young men who make mistakes with bookies. "
I froze.
"You want me to take the blame?"
"I want you to fix it. You say you love him? Prove it."
He opened a drawer and pulled out a document. He slid it across the desk.
It was a press release. Drafted and ready for signature.
Statement from Faye Allister regarding the suspension of Graham Vane.
I scanned the text. It was brutal. It painted me as obsessive. It claimed I had falsified the relationship. It claimed I had pressured him. It exonerated Graham completely, painting him as a focused athlete who had tried to distance himself from my "instability."
"If you sign this," Silas said quietly, "and if you leave... I make the betting allegations disappear. I tell the NCAA it was a misunderstanding. I reinstate his scholarship. He plays tomorrow. He gets drafted."
"And me?" I whispered.
"You go to Paris. The acceptance letter came this morning. I intercepted it." He pulled another envelope from his pocket. "You go to Paris. You paint. You start over. Far away from here."
"And Graham?"
"Graham forgets you. He moves on. He becomes the star he was meant to be."
I stared at the press release.
It was a lie. A devastating, humiliating lie. It would brand me as the crazy ex-girlfriend forever. It would validate every fear Graham had about chaos destroying order.
But it would save him.
If I stayed, we fought the investigation together. But it would drag on. He would miss the season. His father would disown him. He would lose his purpose.
If I left... he hated me. But he played. He won. He survived.
We save each other, he had said in the hotel room.
Maybe this was how I saved him. By letting him go.
"I need to see him," I said.
"No."
"Yes. If I sign this... if I leave... I need to tell him myself."
Silas considered this. He checked his watch.
"He’s at the arena. In the locker room. Probably cleaning out his stall. You have one hour. If you aren't on the plane to New York by 6 AM to catch the connector to Paris... the deal is off. And Graham burns."
I stood up. My legs were shaking, but I forced them to hold me.
"Give me the pen," I said.
Silas handed me a heavy, gold fountain pen.
I signed the statement. Faye Allister.
I didn't look at my father. I turned and walked out of the house. I walked out to the Uber waiting in the driveway—my car was still impounded.
I was going to the arena.
I was going to break my own heart.
The locker room was dark. The main lights were off, leaving only the dim, amber glow of the emergency strips and the illuminated nameplates above the stalls.
Vane. 19.
He was there.
He was sitting on the bench in front of his stall, still wearing his suit pants and dress shirt from last night, though the shirt was unbuttoned and wrinkled. His head was in his hands.
He looked broken.
The silence was heavy, filled with the ghosts of a thousand games.
I stood in the doorway for a moment, just looking at him. Memorizing the line of his shoulders, the way his dark hair curled at the nape of his neck. I wanted to run to him. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and tell him we would fight the world.
But fighting the world would cost him his dream.
I took a breath. I put on the mask. Not the "Brat" mask. The "Cold" mask. The one I learned from him.
"Graham."
He jerked his head up.
His eyes were red-rimmed. When he saw me, a flicker of hope ignited in the grey depths.
"Faye." He stood up, stumbling slightly. "You came back."
"I came to get my things," I lied. "My sketchbook. It’s in your bag."
The hope flickered, dimmed, but didn't die.
"Faye, listen to me. The suspension... we can fight it. My dad is already on the phone with lawyers. Rys is organizing a statement from the team. We can fix this."
"There is no 'we,' Graham."
He stopped, a few feet away from me. "What?"
"I signed a statement," I said, my voice steady, ice-cold. "It’s going to the press in an hour. It clears you."
"What statement?"
"I told them the truth." I looked him in the eye. "That I was a distraction. That I was needy. That I... exaggerated our relationship to get back at my father."
Graham stared at me. "That’s not the truth."
"Isn't it?" I stepped closer, forcing a sneer onto my face. "Look at us, Graham. Look at where we are. You're suspended. You're losing your mind. And why? Because you tried to save the poor little rich girl."
"I love you," he whispered.
The words hit me like a physical blow. I almost buckled.
Don't cry. Don't let him see you bleed.
"You love the idea of fixing me," I countered cruelly. "You love the project. But the project failed. I’m tired, Graham. I’m tired of the drama. I’m tired of fighting my dad. I’m tired of... you."
He recoiled. He actually took a step back, as if I had slapped him.
"You don't mean that."
"I do. I got into the Paris program." I pulled the acceptance letter from my pocket—the only real thing in this entire conversation. "I leave tonight."
"Tonight?"
"My flight is in two hours."
"Faye, don't do this." He reached for me. His hand was shaking. "We talked about New York. The loft. The yellow kitchen."
"That was a fantasy!" I shouted, slapping his hand away. "That was pillow talk! This is reality. The reality is that if I stay, you lose everything. And I won't be the reason you fail. I won't be the anchor that drags you down."
"I don't care about the hockey! I don't care about the draft!"
"Yes, you do!" I screamed back. "It’s who you are! It’s all you are! Without it, you're just... empty."
Silence crashed down on us.
Graham looked at me. The hurt in his eyes was so raw, so deep, it felt like I was dissecting him alive.
"Is that what you think of me?" he asked quietly. "That I’m empty?"
"Yes," I lied. "You're perfect, Graham. You're efficient. You're safe. But you're empty. And I need... I need color. I need life. And I can't find it here."
He stared at me for a long, agonizing minute. He was searching my face for the lie. He was looking for the girl who had held him in the hotel room.
I didn't let him find her. I gave him the Allister stare. Cold. Detached.
Finally, the light in his eyes went out. The grey turned to stone.
He nodded slowly.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
He turned around. He walked back to his stall. He picked up my sketchbook from his bag.
He walked back to me and held it out.
"Take it," he said.
I took it. Our fingers brushed. The spark was still there, hot and painful.
"Goodbye, Graham."
"One question," he said. He didn't look angry anymore. He looked dead.
"What?"
"Did you ever love me? Or was I just... material for the painting?"
I gripped the sketchbook. I wanted to scream Yes! I love you more than air! I’m doing this to save you!
But if I said that, he would follow me. He would throw it all away.
"You were a study in contrast," I said, my voice breaking on the last word. "Nothing more."
He flinched.
"Get out," he said. "Get out of my locker room. Get out of my life."
I turned. I walked to the door.
I didn't look back.
I walked down the tunnel. I walked past the ice, gleaming under the security lights. I walked out into the cold Aspen night.
I got into the Uber.
"Airport," I choked out.
As the car pulled away, I watched the arena disappear in the rearview mirror.
I broke.
I curled into a ball in the backseat, sobbing so hard I couldn't breathe. I screamed into my coat, a guttural, animal sound of grief.
I had saved him. I had given him his life back.
But I had killed us.
And as the plane took off an hour later, soaring over the mountains toward a future I didn't want, I realized the cruelest truth of all:
Sometimes, the only way to love someone is to break their heart so completely they never look for you again.
Graham
I sat in the dark for a long time.
I didn't move. I didn't cry. Vanes don't cry.
I stared at the empty space where she had stood.
Empty.
She called me empty.
My phone buzzed.
It was Coach Halloway.
Coach: Great news, son. The statement was released. The NCAA accepted the explanation. The suspension is lifted. You're playing tomorrow.
I looked at the text.
I felt nothing.
I stood up. I walked to my locker.
I put on my gear. Piece by piece. Shin guards. Pants. Chest protector. Elbow pads.
I laced my skates. Tight. Until my feet went numb.
I grabbed my stick.
I walked out to the ice.
The arena was empty. The stands were silent.
I stepped onto the ice.
I skated.
I skated until my lungs burned. I skated until my legs screamed. I skated until the physical pain was loud enough to drown out the voice in my head that was screaming her name.
I shot pucks. Bang. Bang. Bang.
I shattered the glass behind the net with a slap shot.
It rained down on the ice like diamonds.
I stood there, panting, surrounded by the wreckage.
I was the Captain. I was the Governor. I was going to the NHL.
And I had never been more alone in my life.