Chapter 19
Faye
There is a specific kind of quiet that falls over a private jet when you are flying toward your own execution.
It wasn't a fearful quiet. It was a focused quiet. The kind you see in the locker room before the puck drops. The kind that smells like ozone and determination.
But right now, I was only interested in the man sitting opposite me.
Graham was asleep. Finally.
He had passed out an hour ago, his head resting against the window, one hand still gripping mine across the narrow table.
He looked exhausted. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes, and stubble darkened his jaw.
He was wearing the clothes we had scrounged from the plane’s emergency wardrobe—black jeans and a cashmere sweater that fit him a little too snugly in the shoulders.
He looked beautiful. He looked like ruin.
I squeezed his hand gently. He didn't stir.
We were flying back to Boston. Back to the Championship. Back to the lions.
We had no plan. We had no strategy. We had no guarantee that Coach Halloway would even let Graham into the building, let alone put him on the ice.
And for the first time in my life, I didn't care about the outcome.
I looked at the sketchbook lying open on the table. I had been drawing while he slept. Quick, frantic sketches of his hands, his sleeping face, the curve of his neck.
I wasn't drawing him as a statue anymore. I was drawing him as a man. Vulnerable. Tired. Mine.
The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom.
"Mr. Vane, Ms. Allister. We are beginning our initial descent into Logan International. Estimated arrival time is 12:30 PM local time. Please prepare for landing."
Graham jerked awake. His eyes snapped open—grey, alert, instantly assessing the threat.
"We're here?" he rasped, his voice thick with sleep.
"Almost," I said, rubbing his thumb with mine. "How’s the shoulder?"
He rolled it experimentally. He winced, but it was a small wince.
"It’ll hold."
"Graham."
"It’ll hold, Faye. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug."
He sat up, running a hand through his messy hair. The Governor mask tried to slide into place, but it didn't fit right anymore. It was cracked. I could see the light shining through.
"You realize what we're walking into?" he asked, looking out the window at the Boston skyline approaching below.
"A disaster?"
"A circus. My dad will be there. Your dad will be there. The press. The scouts."
"Good," I said, leaning forward. "I like an audience."
He looked at me, a slow grin spreading across his face. It wasn't the polite smile of the politician’s son. It was the wicked, reckless smile of the boy who stole a jet to chase a girl across an ocean.
"You really are chaos," he murmured.
"And you love it."
"Yeah. I do."
The plane touched down with a smooth bump.
We were on the ground.
The game started in six hours.
"Ready?" I asked.
He unbuckled his seatbelt. He stood up, towering over me in the small cabin. He reached down and pulled me up, wrapping his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
"With you?" he whispered against my lips. "I'm ready for anything."
He kissed me. A hard, grounding kiss. A promise.
Then he let go.
"Let's go win a trophy."
TD Garden. 5:00 PM.
Security stopped us at the players' entrance.
"Name?" the guard asked, looking bored. He didn't look up from his clipboard.
"Graham Vane," Graham said.
The guard froze. He looked up. His eyes went wide.
"Uh. Mr. Vane. We... we heard you quit. The list says you're inactive."
"The list is wrong," Graham said calmly. "I'm the Captain. And I'm playing."
The guard hesitated. He looked at Graham—who looked like he had just walked off a GQ shoot after a three-day bender—and then at me. I was wearing Graham’s away jersey (stolen from his bag weeks ago) over my jeans, and heels. I gave the guard my best "Do you know who my father is?" glare.
"Let us in," I said. "Or I call Silas Allister and tell him you're obstructing team assets."
The guard swallowed. He swiped his badge.
"Good luck, Cap."
We walked in.
The tunnel was quiet. The calm before the storm. We could hear the faint hum of the Zamboni on the ice.
We walked hand in hand toward the locker room.
When we reached the double doors, Graham stopped. He turned to me.
"You can't come in," he said. "Team only."
"I know." I straightened his collar. "I'll be in the stands. First row behind the bench."
"You sure? Your dad will see you."
"Let him look."
He stared at me for a long moment. Then he leaned down and kissed my forehead.
"I love you," he whispered.
"Go be the Governor," I ordered. "But... be my Governor. Okay?"
"Always."
He pushed open the doors and disappeared inside.
I took a deep breath. I walked toward the seating area.
I had a date with two very angry fathers.
Graham
The locker room went silent the moment I walked in.
Twenty guys stopped what they were doing. Tape stopped ripping. Music stopped playing. Rys dropped a water bottle.
They stared at me like I was a ghost.
"Holy shit," Miller whispered.
Coach Halloway stepped out of his office. He saw me. His face went red, then pale, then a complicated shade of purple.
"Vane?" he barked. "What the hell are you doing here? Your father called. He said you resigned. He said you were having a mental breakdown in Europe."
"My father exaggerates," I said, walking to my stall. My gear was still there. No one had touched it. "I took a personal day. I'm back."
"You missed the morning skate," Coach said, crossing his arms. "You missed the team meal. You haven't slept in two days by the look of you."
"I slept on the plane."
"Graham," Coach softened his voice. "Son. You don't have to do this. The pressure... we understand. If you need to sit this one out—"
"I'm not sitting out," I said, stripping off the cashmere sweater. "I'm the Captain. This is the Championship. I play."
I looked around the room. I looked at Rys. I looked at Miller. I looked at the guys I had bled with for four years.
" unless you don't want me," I said quietly.
Rys stood up.
"Are you kidding?" Rys grinned. "We were about to put a cardboard cutout of you at center ice. Suit up, Cap. We need you."
"Suit up!" Miller yelled.
The room exploded. Cheering. Fist bumps. The tension broke.
I sat down and started dressing.
As I taped my stick, my phone—a burner I had bought at the airport—buzzed.
A text from my father.
Senator Vane: I see you made it back. We need to talk. Immediately. Come to the Owner’s Box.
I ignored it.
Then a text from Silas.
Silas: Nice entrance. Don't disappoint me.
I ignored that too.
I finished taping. I stood up.
"Alright boys," I said, my voice steady. "Let's go play hockey."
Faye
I found my seat. First row. Right behind the glass.
The arena was filling up. The energy was electric.
I looked up at the luxury boxes.
I saw them.
Silas Allister and Senator Vane were in the Owner’s Box. Together.
They looked like two vultures circling a carcass. They were arguing. I could see the Senator gesturing wildly. Silas looked calm, sipping a drink.
They saw me.
The Senator stopped talking. He stared down at me. If looks could kill, I would be ash.
Silas just raised his glass.
I didn't wave. I sat down. I smoothed my jersey. Vane. 19.
The lights went down. The music started. Enter Sandman. Cliché, but effective.
The Sentinels skated out.
The crowd roared.
And then, he came out.
Last.
Graham Vane.
The announcer screamed his name. "NUMBER 19! THE CAPTAIN! GRAHAM VANE!"
The noise was deafening.
He skated a lap. He looked fast. He looked focused. But he wasn't looking at the puck.
He skated past the bench. He looked at the glass.
He found me.
He stopped. Right in front of me.
He banged his glove against the glass. Once. Twice.
I placed my hand on the glass against his.
He winked.
Then he turned and skated to center ice.
The game began.
It was brutal. The University of Denver was fast and heavy. They hit hard.
Graham took a beating. Every time he touched the puck, they swarmed him. They knew about the shoulder. They targeted it.
First period: 0-0. Graham got checked into the boards three times. Each time, he got up slower.
Second period: 1-0 Denver. Graham looked exhausted. He was sweating heavily.
Intermission.
I stayed in my seat. I was too nervous to move.
My phone rang.
Senator Vane.
I answered.
"You," he hissed. "You did this. You dragged him back here. You ruined his life."
"I saved his life," I said calmly. "He was miserable without the game. And he was miserable without me. Now he has both."
"He has nothing! He resigned! He has no contract with me!"
"Good. He doesn't need your contract. He's Graham Vane. He'll write his own."
"You little—"
I hung up.
Third period.
The Sentinels tied it up. 1-1. Rys scored on a power play.
Five minutes left.
Graham had the puck. He was in the offensive zone. He was pinned against the boards by two defenders.
He spun. He protected the puck with his feet. He saw a lane.
He passed to Miller. Miller shot. Rebound.
The puck slid loose. Right in the slot.
Graham dove.
He didn't skate. He dove. Full extension. Superman style.
He hit the puck with the toe of his stick.
It slid past the goalie’s pad.
Goal.
2-1 Sentinels.
The arena exploded.
Graham slid into the corner. He lay on the ice for a second.
Then he stood up. He didn't celebrate. He didn't do a lap.
He skated straight to the glass. To me.
He pointed.
The crowd went wild. The cameras zoomed in.
He pointed at me. Then he pointed at his heart.
I was crying. Ugly crying. I didn't care.
The buzzer sounded.
Game over. National Champions.
The team piled on him. Confetti rained down.
I watched him. He was smiling. A real smile.
He broke away from the team. He skated to the gate.
"Let her in!" he shouted at security.
The guard looked at me. He opened the gate.
I ran onto the ice. In my heels. I almost slipped.
Graham caught me.
He lifted me up. My legs wrapped around his waist. He spun me around.
He kissed me.
On national television. In front of twenty thousand people. In front of our fathers.
He kissed me like he was drowning and I was air.
"We did it," he whispered against my lips. "We did it."
"You did it," I sobbed.
"No. We."
He set me down. He kept his arm around me.
A reporter shoved a microphone in his face.
"Graham! Graham! Incredible game! Talk us through the winning goal! And... who is this?"
Graham looked at the camera. He looked up at the Owner’s Box where our fathers were standing, watching.
He looked at me.
"The goal was luck," he said into the mic. "But this?" He squeezed my waist. "This is Faye. She's my partner. And she's the only reason I'm standing here."
The reporter blinked. "So the rumors...?"
"The rumors are true," Graham said, grinning. "I'm in love with the owner's daughter. And I'm pretty sure she's the best thing that ever happened to this team."
Mic drop.
We walked off the ice together.
Two Hours Later
The penthouse.
Silence. But good silence.
We were in the shower. Together.
The hot water beat down on us, washing away the sweat, the adrenaline, the fear.
I washed Graham’s hair. He stood there, eyes closed, letting me take care of him.
"You're amazing," I whispered, massaging his scalp.
"I'm tired," he mumbled. "Bone tired."
"I know."
I rinsed the soap away. I turned off the water.
We stepped out. I dried him off with a fluffy towel. He dried me.
We walked to the bedroom.
We didn't turn on the lights. The city glow was enough.
We fell onto the bed.
"Graham?"
"Hmm?"
"What now?"
"Now," he said, pulling me on top of him. "We sleep for twelve hours."
"And then?"
"And then we go to New York."
"New York?"
"My agent called while I was in the shower. The Rangers want to sign me. First round pick."
I gasped. "Graham! That's... that's incredible!"
"Yeah. My dad is furious. He wanted me in Boston. But the Rangers offered more money. And..." He smirked. "It's closer to Tribeca."
"You're taking the loft?"
"We're taking the loft. If you still want it."
"I want it. I want the yellow kitchen."
"Good."
He kissed me. Soft. Sweet.
Then his hands started to wander.
"I thought you were tired," I teased, feeling him harden against my thigh.
"I got a second wind."
"Liar."
"Okay. I'm exhausted. But I need to feel you. Just... slow. Okay?"
"Okay."
We made love slow. Lazy. Gentle.
It wasn't about claiming anymore. It wasn't about fear. It was a celebration. It was a victory lap.
Every touch said We made it. Every kiss said I'm not going anywhere.
When he was inside me, he held my face in his hands.
"You saved me, Faye," he whispered. "You brought the color back."
"You saved me too," I promised. "You gave me a canvas."
We moved together in the dark, two broken pieces that had finally found the way to fit together perfectly.
And as I drifted off to sleep in his arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart, I knew that the storm was over.
We had survived the ice. We had survived the fire.
And now... we had everything.