Chapter 18
Toby
I ran.
I ran out of the ballroom, down the grand staircase of the hotel, and out into the humid Montreal night. I ignored the valets. I ignored the confused murmurs of the guests smoking on the patio.
I loosened my tie as I sprinted toward the street, my dress shoes slapping against the pavement.
"Taxi!" I shouted, waving my arm like a maniac.
A cab screeched to a halt. I dove into the back seat.
"Airport," I gasped. "Pierre Elliott Trudeau. Go fast."
The driver looked at me in the rearview mirror—tuxedo, wild eyes, sweat on my forehead.
"You in trouble, buddy?"
"I'm in love," I said, catching my breath. "Which is worse."
He laughed and slammed on the gas.
I pulled out my phone.
Me: Jager. Flight info?
Jager: Sent. Private charter. Tail number N482K. It's fueled and waiting at the FBO. Pilot is a guy named Sully. He owes me money.
Me: You're a lifesaver.
Jager: I know. Just bring her back. The team needs their Captain. And you're a terrible Captain when you're depressed.
I stared at the screen. I was going to Paris.
But first, I had to deal with the obstacle.
My phone rang.
Marcus Thorne.
I hesitated. Then I answered.
"Toby," Marcus’s voice was calm, but there was an edge of steel to it. "Mr. Molson tells me you just walked out of your own gala. Your father is... concerned."
"Tell him to save his concern for his shareholders," I said. "I'm done, Marcus."
"Done with the gala? That's fine. We can spin it as—"
"Done with the game," I interrupted. "Done with the lies. Done with you controlling my life."
"Toby, think very carefully," Marcus warned.
"You signed a contract. You have obligations.
If you get on a plane right now, you are breaching the morality clause of your endorsement deal.
You are violating team policy. Your father can freeze your assets again pending a competency hearing.
He can argue you're having a breakdown."
"Let him try," I said. "I have the signing bonus. It's in a Swiss account. He can't touch it. And as for the team? They want a winner. They don't care about my personal life as long as I put the puck in the net."
"You're making a mistake."
"The only mistake I made was listening to you in the first place," I said. "Goodbye, Marcus."
I hung up. Then I blocked the number.
I blocked my father's number.
I took a deep breath.
Silence.
No more voices in my ear. No more strings.
Just me. And the mission.
The flight was eight hours of agonizing nothingness.
I paced the aisle of the small jet. I drank water. I stared out the window at the black Atlantic Ocean.
I rehearsed what I was going to say.
I'm sorry. Too weak.
I made a mistake. Too selfish.
I love you. Too little, too late.
What do you say to the woman you sacrificed on the altar of your own ambition?
What do you say to the person you lied to, publicly humiliated, and abandoned?
There were no words. Only actions.
I landed at Charles de Gaulle at 10:00 AM Paris time.
I didn't have luggage. Just my tuxedo (which I had swapped the jacket for a leather one I kept in my gym bag) and the key in my pocket.
I grabbed a taxi.
"Rue Saint-Dominique," I told the driver. "Number 42."
Jager’s intel was precise. That was the address of the gallery. The North.
Paris blurred past the window. The Eiffel Tower. The Seine. The cafes. It was beautiful. It was romantic. It mocked me.
We pulled up to a small storefront on a quiet street in the 7th arrondissement.
The sign was discreet. THE NORTH.
I paid the driver and got out.
My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. This was harder than Game 7. This was harder than facing a slapshot without pads.
I walked to the door.
It was locked. A sign in the window said Fermé.
I peered through the glass. The gallery was empty. White walls. Hardwood floors. And there, hanging on the far wall, was the painting. The blue storm.
But Georgia wasn't there.
Panic flared in my chest. Had I missed her? Was she gone?
"Excuse me," a woman's voice said behind me.
I turned.
An older woman carrying a baguette (classic Paris) was watching me.
"Are you looking for the American girl?" she asked in heavily accented English.
"Yes," I said. "Georgia. Where is she?"
"She is not here today," the woman said. "She went to the bridge."
"The bridge?"
"Pont des Arts," she said. "She goes there to... think. She looks very sad, that one."
"Thank you," I said.
I started running.
The Pont des Arts used to be the "Love Lock Bridge," where couples attached padlocks to the railing to symbolize eternal love. The city had removed the locks years ago because the weight was destroying the structure.
A fitting metaphor for us. The weight of our love had almost collapsed the bridge.
I reached the Seine. I ran along the quay, dodging tourists and artists.
I saw the bridge ahead.
And there she was.
She was standing in the middle of the bridge, leaning against the railing, looking down at the water. She was wearing a white trench coat and a beret (she really leaned into the aesthetic). Her hair was short, chopping around her jawline.
She looked different. Harder. More poised.
But the way her shoulders slumped... that was the Georgia I knew. The Georgia who carried the world on her back.
I slowed to a walk. I needed to catch my breath. I needed to approach this carefully.
I walked up behind her.
"It's a long way down," I said softly.
She stiffened.
She didn't turn around immediately. She gripped the railing. I saw her knuckles turn white.
"Go away," she whispered. Her voice was flat. Cold.
"I can't," I said.
She turned slowly.
Her face was pale. Her eyes were dull. The spark I loved—the defiant, bratty fire—was gone. It had been extinguished.
"What are you doing here, Toby?" she asked. "Are you lost? Montreal is that way." She pointed vaguely west.
"I'm not lost," I said. "I was lost. Now I'm found."
"Save the poetry for the press conference," she spat. "I read the transcript. 'A lapse in judgment.' 'Transactional.' Is that what I was? A transaction?"
"You know I had to say that," I stepped closer. "To protect you."
"Protect me?" She laughed, a harsh sound. "You humiliated me! You made me look like a whore to the entire world! And you let me leave thinking you hated me!"
"I thought it was the only way," I pleaded. "Marcus said if I didn't cut ties completely, my father would destroy you. He would have blocked the money for Leo. He would have ruined your reputation."
"So you decided for me?" she shouted. People turned to stare. She didn't care. "You took away my agency! You decided that my reputation was worth more than our relationship! You treated me like... like an asset to be managed. Just like your father treats you."
The accusation hit me like a physical blow.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
"Sorry isn't enough," she said, tears welling in her eyes. "You broke me, Toby. I came here... I built this gallery... but every time I look at a painting, I see you. Every time I close my eyes, I hear you telling me to leave. I can't do this anymore. I can't keep loving a ghost."
She turned to walk away.
"Georgia, wait!"
I grabbed her arm.
"Don't touch me!" she screamed, yanking her arm back. "Go back to your ice! Go back to your money! That's what you chose!"
"I chose wrong!" I shouted back.
The crowd on the bridge went silent.
"I chose wrong," I repeated, my voice cracking. "I thought... I thought I needed the money to be free. I thought I needed the career to be someone. But I was wrong."
I reached into my pocket.
"I have $84 million in the bank," I said. "I have a penthouse in Montreal. I have the adoration of an entire country."
I took a step toward her.
"And I would trade every single cent, every single goal, every single minute of ice time... just to wake up next to you one more time. To hear you laugh. To watch you paint."
Georgia stared at me. Her chest was heaving.
"You're lying," she whispered. "You're a machine. Machines don't feel regret."
"I'm not a machine," I said. "I'm a man who is terrified. I'm terrified because without you, I am nothing. I am just a rich kid in a suit. You make me real, Georgia."
I dropped to my knees.
Right there on the bridge. In my tuxedo pants. In front of Paris.
"Toby, stand up," she hissed, looking around. "People are watching."
"Let them watch," I said loudly. "Let them see."
I looked up at her.
"I don't care about the scandal," I said. "I don't care about the NCAA. I don't care about my father. Let them strip my title. Let them take the money. I don't care."
I reached into my pocket again.
I pulled out the key. The brass key on the leather cord.
I held it up to her.
"I kept it," I said. "I carried it every day. Because it's the only home I have."
Georgia looked at the key. A sob escaped her throat.
"You idiot," she choked out.
"I know," I said. "I'm a moron. I'm a coward. But I'm your coward. If you'll have me."
"You... you walked out on your gala?" she asked, sniffing.
"I ran."
"And your father?"
"Blocked."
"And hockey?"
"On hold. Until I fix this."
She looked at me. The ice in her eyes was melting. The fire was coming back.
"You can't just quit hockey, Toby. You love it."
"I love you more," I said. And I meant it. "Hockey is what I do. You are who I am."
She stared at me for a long, agonizing moment.
Then, she sighed. A long, shuddering sigh.
"Stand up," she said.
I stood up.
She stepped closer. She reached out and straightened my bowtie, which was hanging loose around my neck.
"You look terrible," she said softly. "You have bags under your eyes."
"I haven't slept in three weeks."
"Me neither."
She looked up into my eyes.
"If you ever... ever try to 'protect' me again by lying to me," she said, poking me hard in the chest, "I will paint a mural of you naked on the side of the Eiffel Tower."
I laughed. A real laugh. "Deal."
"And," she continued, "you have to promise me something."
"Anything."
"No more secrets. No more managing. We are partners. Equal partners. If the ship goes down, we go down together."
"Together," I promised. "Always."
She grabbed the lapels of my leather jacket and pulled me down.
She kissed me.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was fierce. It was claiming. It tasted of tears and forgiveness and Paris rain.
I wrapped my arms around her, lifting her off her feet, burying my face in her neck.
"I missed you," I groaned. "God, I missed you."
"I missed you too, Robot," she whispered.
The crowd on the bridge erupted in applause. Tourists were cheering. Someone whistled.
We broke apart, breathless, laughing.
"We're a spectacle," Georgia said, wiping her eyes.
"We're a masterpiece," I corrected.
"Smooth," she rolled her eyes. "Okay. So... now what? You have a team in Montreal. I have a gallery here."
"We commute," I said instantly. "I'll buy a jet. A real one. I'll fly here on off days. You fly there for games."
"That's expensive."
"I'm rich," I reminded her. "Remember?"
"Right. Sugar Daddy."
She grinned. It was the bratty grin. The one I loved.
"Take me home, Toby," she said. "Not to Montreal. Not to Duluth. Take me to the apartment. The one with the big windows."
"I don't have that apartment yet," I admitted.
"Then let's go find it," she said.
She took my hand.
We walked off the bridge together, hand in hand, leaving the ghosts behind us in the Seine.
The war was over. The lie was dead.
And for the first time in my life, I wasn't skating on thin ice. I was on solid ground.
One Hour Later
We were in her apartment. It was a tiny studio in Le Marais. It smelled of paint and croissants.
We didn't talk. We didn't look for apartments.
We stripped each other bare.
I laid her down on the narrow bed. The window was open, letting in the sounds of the street below.
"Show me," I whispered, hovering over her. "Show me I'm forgiven."
"Make me believe it," she challenged.
I kissed her throat, her collarbone, the curve of her breast.
"I love you," I said against her skin. "I love you. I love you."
I said it over and over, like a mantra, like a prayer.
And when I finally entered her, sliding home into the warmth I had craved for weeks, she wrapped her legs around me and held on tight.
"Welcome home, Daddy," she whispered.
And in that moment, in a tiny room in Paris, with my career on hold and my family at war... I had everything.
I had the girl. I had the truth.
And I had the future.
And it was anything but boring.