Chapter 29
Nylah POV
The third-floor reading annex of the Graduate Science Library smelled of damp bindings, decaying paper, and oxidized radiator iron.
Outside the tall Gothic diamond-paned windows, a violent winter sleet was lashing the stone lintels, throwing sharp needles of frozen water against the glass. The grey morning light barely penetrated the heavy oak carrels, leaving the perimeter of the room lost in long, cold shadows.
I sat alone at the end of a twelve-foot mahogany table, my laptop open to the encrypted biomechanics server.
A sudden, sharp wave of cold nausea lurched in the back of my throat.
I clamped my jaw shut, pressing the back of my hand against my mouth as my stomach spasmed in a tight, sickening revolt.
The sour taste of bile rose to the root of my tongue, making my vision blur around the edges.
I held my breath, forcing my diaphragm to remain motionless, waiting for the contraction to pass.
Slowly, the nausea subsided into a dull, leaden ache behind my ribs.
My left hand drifted down beneath the heavy knit of my charcoal sweater, my fingers settling flat and protective over the lower curve of my abdomen.
The biological reality was no longer an equation I could rationalize away.
My breasts were swollen and tender against my clothes; my limbs felt weighted with lead; and my cycle was nineteen days past due.
A microscopic life was taking root deep within my own flesh, growing beneath my ribs while the outside world was gearing up to tear our lives apart.
Across town at the harbor hotel, Ryan was locked in mandatory team quarantine. Coach Vance had confiscated cell phones at dawn; the varsity roster was running through three separate defensive walkthroughs ahead of tomorrow night’s regional final against Boston University.
I had spent the last twelve hours running cryptographic checksums on every telemetry file we had ever logged, determined to ensure the anonymous compliance complaint from yesterday died on Athletic Director Hayes’s desk.
The heavy double doors at the far end of the quiet wing groaned on their brass hinges.
A slow, deliberate scrape of polished leather soles echoed across the parquet floor, breaking the silence of the room.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
I didn't turn around. I kept my eyes on the screen as the footsteps rounded the high mahogany bookshelf, coming to a halt directly across the table from my chair.
Arthur Vance pulled out the heavy wooden armchair, the legs screeching sharply against the floorboards, and sat down.
* * *
He wore a tailored navy cashmere overcoat over a crisp grey suit, a gold signet ring glinting on his pinky finger. He smelled of expensive sandalwood cologne, stale cigar smoke, and cold arrogance.
"Miss Collins," Vance said, his voice smooth, quiet, and dripping with venomous familiarity.
My spine locked into a rigid rod of bone. I closed my laptop with a sharp plastic click, keeping my hands resting flat on the mahogany surface.
"This is a closed graduate study carrel, Mr. Vance," I said, my voice level, cold, and stripped of inflection. "Trustees are not permitted in the research annex without an academic escort."
Vance smiled—a thin, vicious parting of his lips that held no humor.
"I think you'll make an exception for this," he murmured.
He reached inside his cashmere coat, pulled out a thick manila dossier, and dropped it onto the wood between our hands with a dull, concussive thud.
He reached forward, flipping the cover open with a manicured fingernail.
The breath trapped itself in my windpipe.
Staring up from the paper were glossy, eight-by-ten high-resolution photographs taken with a telephoto lens from across the shipyard gravel.
The first image showed Ryan lifting me into the passenger seat of his black truck during the blizzard, his massive hands spanning my waist, his face buried in my neck.
The second shot was taken through the rain-slicked side window of his cab, capturing his lips pressed hard against mine.
The third photograph showed me stepping through the doorway of his warehouse loft at dusk, wearing his grey team fleece, his large hand resting possessively on the small of my back.
Beneath the photographs lay an official legal brief stamped with the header of a prominent Boston sports law firm.
My gaze tracked the typed lines: FORMAL COMPLAINT OF ACADEMIC AND ATHLETIC FRAUD... ILLICIT CONFLICT OF INTEREST... CONSPIRACY TO FALSIFY BIOMECHANICAL TELEMETRY FOR DRAFT PRESERVATION.
Attached to the back was a sworn, notarized affidavit bearing the signature of Thomas Owen, detailing Ryan’s history of violent off-ice aggression and claiming that Ryan was currently skating on an undisclosed navicular stress fracture that had been deliberately wiped from the university server.
"A rather compelling narrative, wouldn't you say?" Vance whispered, leaning across the table, his eyes gleaming with dark triumph.
The blood roared in my ears with the deafening force of an avalanche. A cold sweat broke out along my collarbone, my fingernails digging into the grain of the mahogany table until the wood bit into my skin.
"This is illegal electronic surveillance," I forced out, my voice shaking with a rage so violent it tasted of copper. "You paid a private investigator to follow a student."
"I protected my family’s investment in this university," Vance countered, his tone hardening into pure steel.
"And tomorrow morning at eight o'clock, this dossier will be hand-delivered to three specific desks: the NCAA Division One Eligibility Council, Director Hayes’s office, and the head of the NHL Central Scouting Bureau. "
He leaned in closer, his stale cigar breath washing over my face.
"Do you know what happens to a projected top-five pick when a dossier like this hits the wire, Miss Collins?
The NCAA places an immediate administrative freeze on his eligibility.
Ryan sits tomorrow night's championship game.
His team forfeits the regional final. And when the NHL scouts see evidence of a concealed bone fracture combined with character-flag fraud and off-ice misconduct?
He won't even be drafted in the seventh round. "
The room tilted. My stomach heaved violently, a cold, suffocating terror wrapping around my throat like a noose.
He gave up Edmonton for me. He gave up millions in leverage so he could stay near Colorado.
"What do you want?" The words ripped out of my throat, raw and bleeding.
Vance tapped a clean white sheet of paper resting on top of the file.
"You resign your position as Technical Director effective immediately," he said, every word dropping like lead onto my chest. "You sign this administrative affidavit stating that you made analytical errors in the load-management telemetry, take full responsibility for the data anomalies, and withdraw from St. Jude before sunrise tomorrow. "
He pinned me with a merciless, reptilian stare.
"You pack your bags, you sever all communication with Ryan Owen, and you disappear from this state.
If you are anywhere near that arena tomorrow night, if you so much as send him a text message before the draft in June, I release the file.
You walk away, and his record stays clean.
He wins his championship. He signs his contract. The choice is yours."
* * *
The silence in the library was absolute.
The sleet continued to hammer against the diamond panes, a frantic tapping that matched the wild, rabbit-fast thud of the pulse hammering behind my ears.
My hand stayed flat against my lower abdomen, hidden beneath the edge of the table.
He has a future. He has an eight-figure contract waiting to pay for his brother's care. He has a life that can't survive this scandal.
I looked up from the dossier.
The trembling in my limbs stopped. The cold sweat along my collarbone dried, replaced by an icy, lethal clarity that rose from the marrow of my bones.
I leaned forward, placing my forearms on the mahogany wood, fixing Arthur Vance with a stare so cold, so stripped of fear, that the smirk on his face flickered.
"You are an extraordinary coward, Mr. Vance," I said.
My voice didn't rise. It dropped into a low, razor-sharp cadence that cut through the quiet room like a scalpel.
Vance’s eyes narrowed. "Watch your tongue, young lady."
"You hire private investigators to stalk college students because your own son doesn't have the talent to earn sixty seconds of ice time on his own merits," I said, every word hitting his face like a slap.
"You think this file makes you powerful?
Extortion, blackmail, and unauthorized surveillance of university property carry mandatory state prison sentences in Maine. "
I reached out with two fingers, sliding the manila dossier back across the table until it hit his cashmere sleeve.
"You submit this file tomorrow morning, Vance," I whispered, my amber eyes burning into his, "and I will personally hand your bank transfers, your private investigator invoices, and your son’s academic fraud records to the state attorney general before the first period ends."
Vance’s face flushed a dark, mottled purple, a vein throbbing violently at his temple. He rose from the table, his chair scraping back with a deafening screech that echoed through the vaulted room.
"You have until eight tomorrow morning, Miss Collins," he snarled, grabbing the dossier and stuffing it back inside his coat. "Decide whether your little pride is worth destroying his entire life."
He turned on his heel and strode down the parquet floor, shoving the heavy double doors open with enough force to rattle the glass in the transoms.
The doors slammed shut.
The latch caught with a hollow, concussive boom.
The second the sound died, my armor disintegrated.
My knees gave out. I collapsed forward over the table, my forehead hitting the cold mahogany wood as a violent, dry heave tore through my chest. The room spun in nauseating, grey circles, my breath hitching in ragged, terrified gasps as cold sweat drenched my sweater.
He had the photographs. He had the father's affidavit. He held the button that could vaporize Ryan's entire world before tomorrow night's puck drop.
I pushed myself upright, my hands shaking so violently I couldn't lace my fingers together.
I had to protect Ryan. I had to save his draft, his brother, and his dream.
My hand dropped back to my stomach, pressing firmly against the quiet, microscopic life sheltered beneath my ribs.
I had to know for certain.
I grabbed my coat, shoved my laptop into my bag, and walked out into the freezing sleet toward the off-campus pharmacy, knowing that the clock on my life had just run out of time.