Chapter 16
Toby
The drive back to Duluth was a funeral procession of one.
The rental car smelled of Georgia’s vanilla perfume and the stale coffee we had shared just hours ago. The seat beside me was empty. The ghost of her warmth lingered, a cruel reminder of the life I had just incinerated.
I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white, my eyes burning but dry. Tears were a luxury I couldn't afford. Tears implied there was something left to save.
There wasn't.
My phone, resting in the cup holder, buzzed incessantly. Marcus Thorne. My father. Coach Miller. The NCAA compliance officer.
I ignored them all.
I was operating on autopilot. The robot mode I had cultivated for twenty-two years had finally taken over completely, shutting down the screaming, bleeding part of my soul that wanted to turn the car around and drive back to the cabin.
But I couldn't go back.
Because if I went back, I would ruin her.
I pulled into the underground garage of the Kincaid Tower. It was swarming with reporters. Vans with satellite dishes, paparazzi with telephoto lenses. They were camped out like vultures waiting for a carcass.
I drove past them, ignoring the flashes, and pulled into the private residents' entrance.
I took the elevator up to the penthouse.
The apartment was silent.
It was exactly as we had left it. Her sketchbook was on the coffee table. Her shoes were by the door. A half-drunk mug of tea sat on the counter.
It looked like a home.
I walked to the window and looked out at the city. The snow was falling harder now, blurring the lights.
"Mr. Kincaid."
I turned.
Marcus Thorne was sitting in my Eames chair. He looked comfortable. He looked like he owned the place.
"How did you get in?" I asked, my voice devoid of inflection.
"I have keys," Marcus said smoothly. "Your father owns the building, Toby. Remember?"
"Get out."
"We need to talk. The press conference is in two hours."
"I'm not doing a press conference."
"You are," Marcus said, standing up. "Because if you don't, the narrative stands. 'Sugar Daddy Scandal.' The NCAA strips your eligibility. The draft drops you. And Georgia... well, Georgia becomes the villain of the story. The gold digger who ruined a prodigy."
He walked toward me, his heels clicking on the hardwood.
"Is that what you want? For her to be dragged through the mud? For her brother's debt to be exposed to the world?"
I flinched. "Leave her out of this."
"I can't," Marcus said. "She's already in it. Unless..."
"Unless what?"
"Unless you fix it."
Marcus pulled a folder from his briefcase. He handed it to me.
"A statement. Prepared by the PR team. You go out there. You admit to a 'brief lapse in judgment.' You say the relationship was casual. Transactional. You say she was a... distraction. And that you ended it because you realized your priority was hockey."
I stared at the folder. "You want me to lie."
"I want you to spin," Marcus corrected. "If you frame it as a mistake—a young man caught up with the wrong woman—the public will forgive you.
They love a redemption arc. The NCAA will slap you with a fine, maybe a game suspension, but they won't ban you.
You keep your draft stock. You keep your bonus. "
"And Georgia?"
"She gets the money," Marcus said. "The check clears. Her brother is safe. She goes to Paris. She starts over. With a clean slate. We bury the recording. We bury the debt story."
"She goes to Paris thinking I hate her," I said.
"She goes to Paris safe," Marcus countered. "Isn't that what you promised her? To catch her?"
I looked at the folder. I looked at the view.
I saw the figure in the ice painting. Trapped. Preserved. Perfect.
If I did this, I was locking myself in the ice forever. I would be the Kincaid heir. The NHL star. The cold, unfeeling machine.
But Georgia would be free.
"Give me the pen," I whispered.
Marcus smiled. It was the smile of a predator who had just trapped its prey.
"Smart choice, Toby."
The press conference was held in the media room of the arena.
The lights were blinding. The microphones were a forest of black foam.
I sat at the table, flanked by Coach Miller and Marcus Thorne. I wore my team polo shirt. I looked like the perfect student-athlete.
"Toby," a reporter from ESPN called out. "Can you address the rumors regarding Miss Sterling? Was money exchanged?"
I leaned into the microphone. My heart was a dead weight in my chest.
"I made a mistake," I said. The words tasted like ash. "I allowed my personal life to interfere with my commitment to this team. The relationship with Miss Sterling was... complicated. It was a lapse in judgment."
"Was it transactional?" another reporter shouted.
I closed my eyes for a second. I saw Georgia's face in the firelight. I love you.
"We came from different worlds," I said, dodging the question with the lie Marcus had scripted. "It's over. My focus is entirely on the upcoming playoffs and the draft. I apologize to my teammates, my coaches, and the university for the distraction."
"And the money?" the reporter pressed. "The check?"
"Resolved," Marcus interjected smoothly. "A private financial matter between families. No NCAA violations occurred."
The reporters scribbled furiously. The flashbulbs popped.
I sat there, stone-faced.
I had done it. I had sold my soul.
And somewhere, in a car headed to the airport, Georgia was probably reading the headlines.
KINCAID CALLS ROMANCE A "LAPSE IN JUDGMENT."
STERLING OUT. FOCUS BACK ON HOCKEY.
I hoped she hated me. Hate was easier than heartbreak. Hate was fuel.
After the conference, I didn't go home. I couldn't go back to the penthouse. It was haunted.
I went to the rink.
It was midnight. The building was empty. The ice was freshly resurfaced, gleaming under the security lights.
I didn't put on my gear. I didn't put on skates.
I walked out to the center of the ice in my dress shoes.
I stood on the face-off dot.
This was my kingdom. This was where I was king.
And it felt like a prison.
My phone buzzed.
Georgia: I saw the conference. Nice speech.
I stared at the screen.
Georgia: I'm at the airport. My flight leaves in an hour.
Georgia: Goodbye, Toby.
I typed a reply.
I love you. I did it for you.
I stared at the words.
Then I deleted them.
If I told her I loved her, she might come back. She might try to fight. And if she fought, my father would destroy her.
I typed a new message.
Be safe. Be good.
I hit send.
Then I threw the phone across the ice. It slid for a hundred feet and hit the boards with a dull thud.
I sank to my knees on the cold, hard surface.
The silence of the arena pressed in on me.
I let out a scream.
It was a raw, primal sound that tore my throat. I screamed until my lungs burned. I screamed until the echo died away, leaving only the hum of the cooling units.
Then, I lay down on the ice.
I let the cold seep into my bones. I let it numb the pain.
I closed my eyes and visualized the figure in the painting.
The ice had closed over my head.
And this time, I wasn't going to break out.
Two Weeks Later
The draft was held in Montreal.
I was there. Suit. Tie. Smile.
My father was there. He patted my back when the cameras were on us. He looked proud. He looked victorious.
"With the first overall pick," the Commissioner announced, "the Montreal Canadiens select... Toby Kincaid."
The room erupted. I stood up. I hugged my father. I hugged Marcus.
I walked to the stage. I put on the jersey. I smiled for the photos.
Inside, I felt nothing.
I was a ghost in a suit.
Later that night, at the after-party, Jager found me on the balcony.
"You did it, man," Jager said, handing me a beer. "Number one. You're rich. You're famous."
"Yeah," I said. "I did it."
"You don't look happy."
"I'm tired."
Jager looked at me. He wasn't joking tonight.
"She's gone, isn't she?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah."
"Did you hear?"
I looked at him sharply. "Hear what?"
"She opened a gallery," Jager said. "In Paris. Lola told me. It's called The North."
My breath hitched.
The North. True North.
"Good for her," I said, my voice cracking.
"Toby," Jager said. "You look like you're dying."
"I'm fine," I lied. "I'm always fine."
I turned away from him and looked out at the city lights of Montreal.
I had the money. I had the career. I had the freedom.
But without her, freedom was just another word for empty.
I took a sip of the beer. It tasted bitter.
I checked my watch. 2:00 AM. 8:00 AM in Paris.
She was probably waking up. Probably drinking coffee. Maybe painting.
I touched the pocket of my suit jacket.
The key was there. The brass key to the storage unit.
I hadn't given it to her. She had left it at the cabin.
It was the only thing I had left of her.
I gripped it tight.
One day.
Maybe not today. Maybe not next year.
But one day, the ice would melt.
And when it did, I was going to find her.
Even if I had to burn the whole world down again to do it.