Chapter Twenty-Six
LUKE
The envelope arrived on a Tuesday afternoon. I knew what it was the moment I saw the return address from University of Michigan Athletics.
The paper felt heavier than it should have when I lifted it from the mailbox. I just stood there at the end of the driveway, the Pacific wind pushing faint briny air up the hill from the water while I turned the envelope over in my hands.
Years. That was how long I had been working toward this. Early practices before school. Off-season training when everyone else treated summer as a break. Ice time that started before the sun came up and ended long after everyone else had gone home.
Hockey had always been the cleanest part of my life. No boardrooms. No investors. No expectations attached to the King name. Just work.
I positioned my thumb beneath the seal and opened it. The letter confirmed what the hockey coach had already told me days earlier. A full athletic scholarship. Official documentation. Arrival expectations for the fall.
For a few seconds, I stood there, reading the same paragraph twice while the reality took hold.
Not a possibility anymore but officially real. My future sitting in my hands, printed on heavy university letterhead.
A car passed slowly along the street below the driveway. Somewhere down the block, a dog barked once before going quiet again.
For the first time in weeks, my mind wasn’t filled with Dunn, or Darren, or the shifting tension inside my family’s company.
Just the ice and the next step. I folded the letter, tucked it back into the envelope, and tucked it into my backpack.
Mom stood near the far end of the kitchen when I walked in, speaking quietly with one of the house staff about something on her tablet. The tall windows behind her framed the ocean, afternoon light reflecting off the water in bright silver bands.
She glanced up briefly as I crossed the room. “Luke.”
“Hi, Mom.”
She returned her attention to the screen in her hand. The conversation with the staff member resumed without another look in my direction.
The kitchen remained immaculate. Staff handled everything in this house. Mom treated the space as a meeting point, not a place to linger.
Michigan didn’t belong in any conversation with my mom. Not yet.
My parents already had a future mapped out for me—one that involved a university of their choosing, working inside King Enterprises, and eventually a seat at a conference table where decisions shaped the company’s direction.
Hockey had always been tolerated—encouraged, even. As long as it remained temporary. Michigan changed that.
I slung the backpack over my shoulder and headed for the stairs without another word.
Soon, there would be cold winters, packed arenas, and ice under bright lights instead of boardroom ceilings.
A future I was building—piece by piece. For me. For Mila.
My phone buzzed on the desk.
Mila: Did it come?
I smiled before answering. It’s here.
Her response arrived almost instantly.
Mila: I’m proud of you.
The simple sentence sent a wave of warmth through me. I started typing a reply when the phone rang. An unknown number flashed across my scene, the area code from Michigan. I answered immediately.
“King.”
“Luke, it’s Coach Davidson.”
My attention snapped in. “Coach.”
“I wanted to congratulate you again on your acceptance and scholarship.”
“Thank you.”
His tone sounded steady. Professional. But something underneath it felt cautious.
“I assume the acceptance package arrived this afternoon?”
“It did.”
“Good.” A brief pause followed. Then he continued. “There’s something else we should talk about.”
The shift in his voice erased the last of the easy feeling from earlier. “What’s going on?”
Coach exhaled slowly on the other end of the line. “Over the past two days, the athletic department has received several calls raising concerns about an incident at your school.”
I leaned back in my chair. “What kind of incident?”
“A physical altercation,” he replied carefully. “From what we’ve been told, you assaulted another student in a hallway and had to be pulled off him.”
My jaw flexed. Anonymous calls. Of course.
“They claim the other student required medical attention and that the situation escalated to the point where multiple people had to restrain you,” he continued. “They also mentioned that your school issued a two-game suspension.”
I stared at the scholarship letter on my desk, my future sitting there in clean black ink.
“They didn’t present documentation,” he added. “But the story was detailed enough that we needed to address it.”
“So someone decided to make a few phone calls.”
“Yes.” His tone remained steady, but the caution underneath it was impossible to miss. “Understand something,” he continued. “No one here is accusing you of anything. Hockey is a physical sport. We understand emotions can run high.”
“But.”
“But when a recruit becomes associated with violence outside the rink, it raises questions. Especially when it involves disciplinary action.”
The word hung between us. Disciplinary. Programs paid attention to that kind of thing.
“We just need clarity before this becomes a distraction,” he continued. “The program has a responsibility to avoid situations that could create negative attention.”
I kept my voice even. “The other student was forcing himself on my girlfriend in an empty hallway.”
Silence followed on the other end of the line.
When Coach spoke again, his tone had shifted. “Is that what happened?”
“Yes.”
Another pause stretched between us. “I’m going to be very clear about something, Luke,” he continued. “I don’t tolerate men putting their hands on women. If someone on my team stood by and watched that happen without stepping in, I’d have a much bigger problem.”
Some of the tension in my chest eased.
“But,” he added after a moment, “the calls we received didn’t present it that way. They described an unprovoked assault and emphasized that multiple people had to pull you off the other student.”
My jaw clenched. “It wasn’t unprovoked.”
“I suspected as much,” he replied evenly. “So I made a few calls of my own.”
He paused briefly. “From what I’ve been told, the school handled it internally. Two-game suspension because of their zero-tolerance rule. Conduct review. No police involvement.”
“That’s correct.”
“Good.” The word carried quiet finality.
“As long as there are no further incidents and nothing official surfaces beyond what we already know, I don’t see a reason this becomes a larger issue for the program,” he continued. “Hockey players defend their teammates. Men defend the women around them. Context matters.”
The message landed clearly. This could stay contained—but only if nothing else happened.
That was the problem. Nothing about this situation was finished. And when it came to Mila, my choice had already been made. I would pick her over anyone or anything else.
“We want you here, Luke,” he added. “You earned your place in this program. Just make sure this is the last time I get a phone call about something like this.”
“Understood, Coach.”
“Good.”
The call ended a moment later. The room went quiet. I set the phone down slowly.
The letter on my desk hadn’t changed, but the feeling around it had.
Someone had placed those calls deliberately, given just the right details delivered to the right people. It was enough to introduce doubt and attempt to damage my reputation.
I leaned forward and rested my elbows on my knees. Whoever had started this wasn’t trying to destroy me outright. They were applying pressure, exactly where it would hurt and make me reconsider things.
My phone buzzed again.
Mila: Hey, you went silent. Everything okay?
I stared at the message.
Me: Meet me at the boardwalk tonight.
Mila: Of course.
The beach was quiet when I arrived. California winter meant the air cooled quickly once the sun disappeared, and the ocean never stopped moving.
The tide rolled in a steady rhythm beneath a darkening sky, the sound of waves breaking against the sand filling the quiet stretch of shoreline.
Mila stood near the edge of the water when I walked down from the parking lot. Her hair moved lightly in the coastal wind as she turned toward me. “You sounded serious in your text.”
I reached her and stopped close enough that the wind carried the warmth from her skin toward me. “I got a call from Coach Davidson at UM.”
Her brows drew together immediately. “Why?”
“Someone started making calls to the athletic department about the fight with Logan.”
Her eyes widened. “Already?”
“Yes.”
A quiet possessiveness coiled deep in my chest, instinct more than thought. Not the kind that tried to cage something rare but the kind that recognized its value and refused to let it be harmed.
The breeze lifted a strand of her hair across her cheek. I reached out without thinking and brushed it back behind her ear.
My thumb lingered as it passed her mouth, brushing lightly over her lower lip. The skin there was smooth now, the cut Logan had split open already healed.
The memory hit fast anyway—blood on her mouth, the sound her head made against the locker.
My jaw clenched before I could stop it. Even thinking about it made something dark stir in my chest. I still wanted another five minutes alone with him.
Her gaze stayed on mine the entire time.
She never seemed aware of what she did to a room.
People noticed her the moment she walked in.
Conversations slowed. Eyes followed her without meaning to.
It wasn’t just that she was beautiful—though she was, in a way that made it difficult to look anywhere else.
There was something steadier beneath that. Something genuine.
Mila moved through the world with a kind of quiet kindness most people had lost somewhere along the way.
She never saw it. Never noticed the way people softened around her. I noticed though. Every time.