Chapter 32
Ryan POV
Forty-five minutes before puck drop, the reinforced concrete floor of the service tunnel was shaking.
Twelve thousand pairs of boots were stomping in unison on the wooden bleachers sixty feet above my head, a rhythmic, concussive thunder that vibrated straight through the soles of my skates into my shin guards. The sound rolled through the subterranean passages of The Foundry like artillery fire:
SAINTS! SAINTS! SAINTS!
The air in the runway smelled of fresh cut ice, freezing ammonia brine, damp wool, and vulcanized rubber.
I stood outside the private equipment annex, fully suited in my game armor.
The navy blue and gold St. Jude varsity sweater hung heavy over my shoulder pads, the white stitched 'C' sitting over my left breastbone like an iron brand.
My skate laces were pulled tight, my wrists wrapped in fresh white friction tape, my carbon-composite stick gripped firmly in my right hand, my helmet tucked beneath my left arm.
The adrenaline humming through my veins was cold, pure, and lethal.
Last night was a fire burned into the lining of my ribs.
The memory of Nylah curled in my lap, her tears hot against my jaw, her small hands knotting into my shirt while I swore to put her name on my life.
I was forty-five minutes from stepping onto that ice, winning the regional title, and walking off to claim her in front of every camera in the building.
The heavy steel fire door at the end of the service corridor swung open with a screech of rusted hinges.
A man stepped through the frame, cutting off the draft from the freezing rain outside.
Thomas Owen.
My boots stopped dead against the black rubber matting.
The breath locked in my windpipe, my knuckles tightening around the composite shaft until the carbon fiber groaned beneath my glove.
Thomas didn't look like the desperate extortionist who had cornered me in the parking underpass two days ago.
He wore a clean dark wool coat over a collared shirt, his grey hair combed back, his posture loose and relaxed.
A thin, victorious sneer pulled at his mouth as he stepped under the harsh halogen glare of the corridor.
"Get out of this arena, Thomas," I said, my voice dropping into a low, dangerous growl that didn't even rise above the roar of the crowd above. "Security will have you in handcuffs before you hit the ice gates."
Thomas didn't flinch. He let out a low, phlegm-heavy chuckle that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
"You won't be calling security, Ryan," he said smoothly.
He reached inside his dark wool coat, pulled out a thick, official white document folder stamped with the gold foil seal of St. Jude Academic Affairs and the United States Olympic Committee, and slammed it flat against the padded center of my chest.
"Read it, champion."
* * *
The paper hit my sternum with the weight of an unyielding lead weight.
My left hand caught the folder on pure reflex.
Across the top of the first page, printed in bold, raised black lettering, were the words:
OFFICIAL GRANT DETERMINATION: UNITED STATES OLYMPIC BIOMECHANICAL RESEARCH FELLOWSHIP — COLORADO SPRINGS.
Beneath the header: FELLOWSHIP CANDIDATE: COLLINS, NYLAH R.
STATUS: EXPEDITED APPROVAL GRANTED. FUNDING COMMENCED MARCH 15.
A cold, sickening numbness bloomed in the center of my stomach, spreading through my limbs like liquid ice.
"Turn the page," Thomas whispered, his eyes gleaming with dark, sadistic triumph.
My gloved thumb dragged the page back with a trembling jerk.
Page two was an internal university compliance disclosure, submitted through the engineering department’s administrative portal at four-fifteen yesterday afternoon. The digital authentication code at the bottom of the page was verified under a single user ID: COLLINS_N_884.
My vision tunneled into blackness as my gaze tracked the typed sentences:
ADDENDUM TO COMPLIANCE INQUIRY: TELEMETRY ANOMALY CONFIRMATION.
This memorandum serves as official disclosure regarding Athlete #4 (Owen, R.).
Proprietary kinematic data collected in Sub-Level Two confirms an unhealed navicular stress fracture in the left tarsus, accompanied by significant lateral compensation.
Athlete exhibits acute behavioral volatility and non-compliant aggression.
Submitted in fulfillment of secondary doctoral deliverables for USOC Grant Review.
Attached to the back was a printed email sent from Nylah’s university account directly to Arthur Vance and the Athletic Advisory Board:
Mr. Vance. Thank you for the expedited institutional endorsement. The evaluation of Athlete #4 is complete. The medical telemetry has been submitted to the national committee. I will withdraw from on-ice monitoring per our agreement.
The concrete corridor seemed to tilt on its axis.
The roar of twelve thousand screaming fans above faded into a high-pitched, deafening ringing that screamed behind my temples. The blood in my veins turned to frozen slush, my breath hitching in my chest in a sharp, suffocating wheeze.
The evaluation of Athlete #4 is complete.
The words burned through my optic nerves, scorching their way down into the deepest, darkest wound I possessed.
"She played you, boy," Thomas sneered, stepping closer until his stale cigar breath washed over my collar. "You thought she loved you? You thought a brilliant, beautiful girl with an Olympic career looked at a broken, violent brute like you and saw anything worth keeping?"
His laugh was a serrated blade twisting in my ribs.
"She used your bed to get past your armor. She needed an undocumented injury to prove her little sensor models worked, and you handed her your medical records on a silver platter. She traded your stress fracture to Vance’s board to lock down her grant in Colorado. She sold you out for a fellowship."
The memory of Michigan pond ice cracking four years ago detonated through my skull with concussive, catastrophic fury.
You broke Leo because of your arrogance. And now you let a girl destroy your entire career because you were pathetic enough to believe you were worth loving.
Every touch, every kiss, every whispered promise on the sofa last night turned to pure, poisonous acid in my blood.
"She walked into Vance’s office and signed the papers yesterday morning, Ryan," Thomas whispered, his eyes cold and pitiless. "She’s leaving for Colorado on Monday. You were just a spreadsheet to her."
He tapped the crushed folder against my ribs, turned on his heel, and shoved the heavy fire exit door open, disappearing into the sleet without looking back.
* * *
The fire door slammed shut.
The heavy iron latch caught with a deafening metallic boom that vibrated through the floorboards.
I stood motionless under the buzzing halogen lights, my chest heaving in ragged, shallow gasps that tasted of pure copper. My hands—large, scarred, wrapped in white athletic tape—began to shake with a violent, uncontrollable tremor that started in the marrow of my bones.
My fingers curled.
The official white folder crumpled beneath my gloves, the paper groaning, folding in on itself as my fist tightened until the staples tore through the cardstock, mangling her signature into a ruined ball of trash against my thigh.
My teeth ground together so hard a sharp pain shot up into my temples.
Above my head, the five-minute pre-game buzzer blared down the runway—a long, brutal mechanical horn that signaled the teams to take the ice.
Down the hall, Knox’s voice echoed off the concrete: "Owen! Let's go, Cap! The officials are on the ice!"
Then a different sound echoed from the far end of the service tunnel.
The rapid, frantic scrape of winter boots running across the rubber runner.
Nylah rounded the corner.
She was breathless, her cheeks flushed bright red from the outside gale, her dark wool coat buttoned tightly across her chest, her canvas bag clutched tightly in her arms. A few loose strands of dark hair had escaped her knot, blowing across her face as she ran.
Her amber-flecked eyes were wide, shining with an urgent, desperate fire that looked like tears.
"Ryan!" she gasped, her voice echoing down the empty hall, laced with breathless relief as she spotted my jersey. "Ryan, thank God. I need to tell you—"
I turned my massive frame to face her.
I didn't step forward.
I stood there on my skate blades, six-foot-three of armored bone and frozen muscle, my face drained of every drop of blood, my jaw carved out of dead, impassive stone.
My slate-grey eyes locked onto hers, hollowed out into empty, blackened craters of ruined grief and lethal, unyielding fury.
In my scarred, gloved fist, the crushed ball of her betrayal crunched in the silence.