Chapter 20
Graham
The locker room smelled different today.
Usually, it smelled of anxiety and Deep Heat. Today, it smelled of champagne (cheap, Andre, smuggled in by Rys) and finality.
It was Graduation Day.
Technically, the ceremony had happened two hours ago. I had worn the cap and gown. I had walked across the stage. I had shaken the Dean’s hand while he whispered, "Good luck in New York, Vane. Try not to cause any more scandals."
I had smiled. Because scandals were the least of my worries.
Now, we were back in the locker room. The team—the seniors, anyway—had drifted back here instinctively. We were shedding the gowns, putting on our jerseys one last time for a photo op.
I sat in my stall. Vane. 19.
The nameplate was already loose. Tomorrow, a freshman’s name would be there.
I looked around the room. Rys was spraying champagne on Miller, who was screaming. Davis was crying—actually crying—while hugging his shin guards.
It was chaos.
But it was a happy chaos.
I closed my eyes, letting the noise wash over me.
Four years ago, I had walked into this room as a boy made of ice. I was terrified of failure. I was terrified of my own blood. I had a schedule for my breathing and a spreadsheet for my emotions. I thought that if I controlled everything, I would be safe.
I was safe. But I was dead.
Now?
I opened my eyes.
I looked at my phone. A text from Faye.
Faye: If you don't come out here in five minutes, I’m coming in. And I’m wearing a dress that is definitely not locker-room appropriate.
I smiled.
I wasn't safe anymore. I was in love with a woman who painted storms and defied gravity.
I was moving to New York City to play for the Rangers, a team with a media market that would eat me alive if I let it.
I had a father who was currently not speaking to me because I signed with the team offering the best contract for us, not the family trust.
My life was messy. It was loud. It was unpredictable.
And I had never been happier.
"Cap!" Rys shouted, throwing an arm around my neck. "Why are you sitting there brooding? We're done! No more 5 AM skates! No more suicide drills!"
"I’m not brooding," I said, standing up. "I’m reflecting."
"Gross. Stop reflecting. Start drinking." Rys shoved a bottle of champagne into my hand. "To the Sentinels! To the National Champs! To never seeing Coach Halloway’s mustache again!"
"To the mustache," I agreed, taking a swig.
"So," Rys lowered his voice, leaning in. "New York, huh? Big time."
"Yeah."
"You nervous?"
"Terrified."
"Good. If you weren't, I’d think you were a robot again." Rys punched my shoulder—the good one. "Take care of her, man. Faye. She’s... she’s good for you. You smile now. It’s weird, but I like it."
"I will," I promised.
"Alright, let's go. The girls are waiting on the ice."
We walked out of the locker room for the last time. We walked down the tunnel. The concrete echoed with our footsteps.
The arena was dark, save for the center spotlight.
Faye was standing at center ice.
She was wearing a white sundress that ended mid-thigh, and my jersey over it. It was huge on her. The sleeves covered her hands. She was spinning in slow circles, looking up at the rafters where the Championship banner now hung.
2024 National Champions.
She saw me. She stopped spinning.
Her face lit up. That smile. The one that hit me in the chest every single time.
I walked toward her. My skates were off; I was in sneakers. But I still felt like I was gliding.
"Hey, grad," she said as I reached her.
"Hey, artist."
She reached up and adjusted my collar. "You look decent. For an unemployed hockey player."
"I’m employed. Camp starts in July."
"Details." She stood on her tiptoes and kissed me. It tasted like strawberry lip gloss and summer. "How do you feel?"
"Like I’m leaving home."
"This isn't home, Graham. This is just where we grew up."
She took my hand.
"Come on. I want to show you something."
The Art Studio
We drove across campus to the Fine Arts building. It was quiet. Most students had already left for the summer.
Faye led me down the familiar hallway to the basement studios. The smell of turpentine hit me—a scent that used to trigger panic attacks, but now just smelled like her.
We walked into her studio.
It was empty. The easels were gone. The floor was swept clean (mostly).
But on the far wall, there was one canvas left. covered in a sheet.
"My final project," she said nervously. "Vance gave me an A. She said it was 'transformative.'"
"Can I see it?"
"That’s why we're here."
She walked over to the canvas. She took a deep breath. She pulled the sheet down.
I stopped breathing.
It wasn't a painting of a storm. It wasn't a painting of me.
It was a painting of the locker room bench.
The bench where I had found her that first night. Where she had been curled up, freezing, terrified.
But in the painting, the locker room wasn't dark. It was flooded with light. Golden, warm light pouring in from an open door. And on the bench, sitting side by side, were two figures.
A wolf. Battered, scarred, with ice in its fur.
And a bird. Small, bright yellow, fragile but singing.
The wolf was leaning into the bird. The bird was leaning into the wolf.
They were keeping each other warm.
I walked closer. The detail was incredible. She had captured the texture of the wood, the scuff marks on the floor, the specific way the light hit the dust motes.
"It’s called Thaw," she whispered.
I felt a lump in my throat.
"It’s perfect."
"It’s us," she corrected. "Before the noise. Before the contracts. Just... two people freezing in the dark."
I turned to her.
"We aren't freezing anymore," I said.
"No. We're on fire."
I pulled her into my arms. I kissed her. Deep and slow and full of gratitude.
"I have something for you too," I murmured against her lips.
"Another key?"
"Better."
I reached into my pocket. I pulled out a small, folded piece of paper.
"What is this?"
"Read it."
She unfolded it.
It was a contract.
AGREEMENT OF PARTNERSHIP AND CHAOS
Clause 1: The Landlord (Graham Vane) agrees to tolerate messes, paint stains, and loud music in the shared residence (Tribeca Loft).
Clause 2: The Tenant (Faye Allister) agrees to attend at least 50% of home games and critique the lighting design of Madison Square Garden.
Clause 3: Both parties agree that there are no 'off-limits' topics. No secrets. No hiding.
Clause 4: The 'Breeding Kink' clause is hereby suspended until such time as both parties agree they are ready for a miniature chaos agent. (Estimated timeline: 5 years).
Clause 5: Graham Vane belongs to Faye Allister. Faye Allister belongs to Graham Vane. In perpetuity.
Signed:
Graham Vane
Faye read it. She laughed. Then she cried.
"You dork," she sobbed, hitting my chest with the paper. "You absolute dork."
"Is it legally binding?"
"I don't care. I’m signing it."
She grabbed a charcoal stick from the window sill and scrawled her signature at the bottom. Faye Allister. Big and messy and looping.
"Done," she said. "Now you're stuck with me."
"I was counting on it."
New York City. Two Weeks Later.
The loft in Tribeca was exactly as promised. Huge windows. Exposed brick. Dust everywhere.
We stood in the middle of the empty living room, surrounded by boxes.
"It echoes," Faye said, her voice bouncing off the walls.
"We'll fill it."
"With what?"
"Furniture. Art. Noise."
I walked over to the window. The city was spread out below us. Taxis honking. People shouting. Sirens wailing.
It was loud. It was chaotic.
It was perfect.
"You start camp on Monday?" Faye asked, coming to stand beside me.
"Yeah. Rookie camp."
"Are you ready?"
"I think so. The shoulder feels good. The head feels... clear."
"And your dad?"
"He sent a text. 'Congratulations on the contract. Don't embarrass the family.'"
"Warm."
"It’s progress. He didn't disown me. He just... demoted me."
"His loss."
She wrapped her arms around my waist, resting her chin on my shoulder.
"I have an interview tomorrow," she said. "With the gallery in SoHo. The one that liked my portfolio."
"You'll crush it."
"They want to do a show. 'New Voices in Modern Realism'."
"You are the new voice."
"I’m nervous."
"Don't be. You have the Governor in your corner."
I turned around and lifted her onto the wide window sill. The sunlight hit her hair, turning it into a halo.
"Faye?"
"Yeah?"
"Remember the first night? In the locker room?"
"Vividly. I thought you were going to murder me."
"I thought you were a nuisance."
"And now?"
I stepped between her legs, resting my hands on her thighs.
"Now," I said, "I think you're the only thing that makes sense."
I kissed her.
It wasn't a goodbye kiss. It wasn't a hello kiss. It was a stay kiss.
We made love right there on the window sill, high above the city, with the noise of New York as our soundtrack.
It was messy. We knocked over a box of books. We almost fell off the sill. We laughed halfway through because my elbow hit the glass and made a funny sound.
But it was real.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't ordered. It wasn't clean.
It was life.
Afterward, we sat on the floor, eating takeout from cartons, watching the sun go down over the Hudson.
"Graham?"
"Hmm?"
"Do you miss it? Being safe?"
I looked at the apartment. I looked at the contract taped to the fridge. I looked at the paint stains already on her fingers.
"No," I said honestly. "Safety is overrated."
"What do you want instead?"
I leaned back, pulling her into my lap.
"This," I said. "Just this."
We watched the lights of the city come on, one by one. A million little chaotic stars in a grid of concrete.
The game was over. The season was done.
But our story?
It was just beginning.
And for the first time in my life, I didn't need a playbook to know how it ended.
It ended with us. Winning. Together.