Chapter 28
Killian POV
The glare of five television floodlights burned into my retinas, turning the crowded athletic press room into an airless, blinding box.
Microphones from four regional networks were clustered across the lectern in front of my chest, their black foam heads bristling like a row of spears.
Behind them, forty reporters, camera operators, and athletic department staffers packed the risers, the air smelling of wet wool coats, hot electrical cables, and stale instant coffee.
My right knuckles, wrapped in zinc tape beneath my suit jacket, throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache.
A tendon along the left side of my neck stood out like an iron wire. The ribs on my right side—the ones still bruised from Tuesday's full-contact scrimmage—groaned under the tight band of my dress shirt, but my face remained carved out of cold gray granite.
"Castaneda, the Central Scouting bureau released their updated mid-season rankings this morning," a beat reporter from the Detroit Free Press called out, waving a pen in the air.
"You're sitting at number three overall.
If you win the regional qualifier on Saturday, are you prepared to sign an entry-level contract immediately following the Frozen Four? "
I didn't blink. I leaned down to the microphone, my hands resting flat on the edges of the wooden lectern.
"Saturday is Northland State," I said, my voice coming out flat, low gravel that silenced the chatter in the front row. "My contract status doesn't play twenty minutes on the ice. The qualifier does. Next question."
Near the back exit, standing beside the camera tripod for a Duluth sports blog, was Martin Cole.
He didn't have his notebook open. He had his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his rumpled brown overcoat, a thin, poisonous smirk stretching across his mouth. He raised his hand, his voice cutting through the shutter clicks with calculated malice.
"Killian, following your mandatory sixty-hour diversion protocol last month, there have been persistent inquiries regarding institutional favoritism," Cole said, projecting loud enough to make the university sports information director stiffen by the curtain.
"Are you confident that your academic and medical records will withstand the scrutiny of an NCAA compliance audit before the draft in June? "
The room went dead quiet.
A sharp, violent pulse hammered behind my eyes. The skin over my cheekbones tightened, my back molars grinding together until the muscles along my mandible ached down into my throat.
Jared Holt.
The threat from the underpass three days ago echoed in my skull like the chambering of a round. Holt had taken his carbon-copy promissory note and fed it straight to Cole’s ear.
I looked Cole dead in the pupils. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't give the television cameras a single twitch of temper.
"My clearance was verified and certified by Dr. Evelyn Morris and the regional governing board on November nineteenth," I stated, the words steady as a firing squad.
"Every minute of my data is on file with the registrar.
If you have a question about biomechanics, Mr. Cole, I suggest you enroll in a seminar. "
A ripple of quiet laughter broke out among the beat writers.
Cole’s face darkened to a mottled, ugly purple.
The sports information director stepped to the podium, waving his hands. "That's all the time we have for the captain. Dreadnoughts face Northland State Saturday at seven. Thank you, everyone."
I stepped away from the microphones, pushed through the heavy curtain, and walked into the backstage corridor without looking back.
* * *
"Castaneda. Palmer's office. Right now."
Coach Donald Briggs was waiting in the shadow of the equipment ramp, his windbreaker unzipped, his jaw clamped around a half-chewed cigar. His eyes were hard as flint, devoid of the satisfaction that usually followed a clean media session.
I didn't ask what was wrong. I followed him up the concrete stairs to Suite 210.
The heavy oak door slammed shut behind us, the latch catching with a hollow, suffocating thud.
Athletic Director Derrick Palmer was standing behind his mahogany desk, but he wasn't sitting.
His suit jacket was tossed over a chair, his tie undone, his forehead shiny with a sheen of greasy sweat.
On his leather desk blotter lay a single sheet of white legal paper bearing the crimson header of the NCAA Regional Eligibility Enforcement Committee.
"We have a catastrophe, Killian," Palmer said, his voice shaking with a thin, brittle panic.
"Spit it out, Derrick," Briggs rasped, leaning his heavy frame against the filing cabinet.
Palmer tapped a trembling index finger against the paper.
"An anonymous formal inquiry was filed with the Indianapolis compliance desk at eight-thirty this morning.
It alleges that Killian has been the beneficiary of an undisclosed, third-party predatory financing arrangement—specifically an off-the-books medical promissory note totaling one hundred and forty thousand dollars, brokered through an unaccredited party in Minnesota. "
The air left my chest in a slow, toxic hiss.
Holt.
The parasite hadn't waited for January fifteenth. He had seen the scouts in section 106, seen the projected top-five money, and decided to squeeze the trigger forty-eight hours before the biggest game of the semester.
"It's a private loan," I said, my voice dropping so low it rattled the glass on Palmer's desk.
"It was signed three years ago in a hospital waiting room to keep Mateo from dying of spinal shock.
It has nothing to do with this university, it has nothing to do with agents, and not a single dime went into my pocket. "
"The NCAA Bylaws don't care where the money went, Castaneda!
" Palmer shouted, slamming his palms onto the mahogany.
"Bylaw Twelve states that any student-athlete who enters into an unverified financial agreement that leverages prospective professional earnings constitutes an automatic forfeit of amateur status!
The regional director called me ten minutes ago.
If an official investigation is opened before Saturday, they will issue an emergency administrative hold.
You sit for Northland. You sit for the qualifier.
And your draft stock slides out of the first round. "
My hands curled into fists inside my trouser pockets.
The knuckles turned bloodless, the skin over my joints pulled taut enough to split. The urge to put my fist through Palmer's wall—to drive to Duluth, find Jared Holt, and beat him until there was nothing left of his skull—raged in my blood with the heat of molten iron.
One hold.
That was all it took. One administrative letter, and the sixty hours Nadia had slaved over were erased. The championship run was dead. And the signing bonus that was supposed to buy Mateo’s freedom would vanish into thin air.
I took two steps forward, closing the distance between me and the desk.
At six-foot-four and two hundred and twenty-eight pounds, I leaned over the mahogany until my shadow completely engulfed Palmer. My face was inches from his, my eyes black pits of lethal, unblinking focus.
"Listen to me, Palmer," I growled, the gravel in my throat cutting like a serrated blade.
"You took sixty hours of my life in that basement to save your own skin with the compliance board.
Nadia Gregory gave you a bulletproof kinematic portfolio that cleared this athletic department of negligence.
You have the medical release forms signed by Dr. Alistair Ross in Duluth proving every cent of that debt went directly to hospital equipment. "
Palmer swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, shrinking back into his leather chair.
"You call Indianapolis back," I rasped, each word driven home like an iron spike.
"You tell them the inquiry is an extortion attempt by a discredited scout who was banned from Minnesota rinks two years ago.
You tell them you'll sue them for tortious interference with a prospective NHL contract if they touch my eligibility before the Frozen Four.
And you keep this filth away from Nadia's department. "
Briggs stepped away from the cabinet, his hand landing heavy on Palmer’s shoulder, squeezing with brutal force.
"The boy is right, Derrick," Briggs said, his voice flat as a tombstone. "You bury this paperwork until Monday morning. Killian skates on Saturday. If we don't play him, we forfeit forty years of hockey tradition because a blackmailer made a phone call. Handle your job."
Palmer looked between the two of us, his face pale as lard. He reached out with a trembling hand, took the NCAA memorandum, and slid it into the bottom drawer of his desk.
"Saturday," Palmer whispered. "Win the game, Killian. Because if you lose, I can't protect you from Indianapolis."
I didn't answer him.
I turned on my heel, pushed through the heavy oak door, and stormed down the back stairwell into the cold.
* * *
The freezing drizzle had turned the private staff lot into a slick expanse of dark ice.
The sub-zero wind lashing off Lake Superior cut straight through the wool of my suit jacket, but my skin was burning up, feverish with a violent, suffocating rage that made my breathing shallow and fast. My key fob clicked in my fist as I neared my black truck.
Near the concrete pillar beside the private player exit, a small figure stood huddled against the brick.
Nadia.
She wore her dark charcoal wool coat, the thick cream knit scarf wrapped high around her chin, her boots caked with slush. She was waiting for me in the freezing dark.
My boots stopped on the ice.
She looked pale, her cheekbones stark under the yellow glow of the sodium security lamp, her dark honey eyes heavy with an exhaustion that made my heart give a sudden, violent wrench.
Her coat was buttoned tight against the cold, but her left hand—small, gloved in dark wool—was resting flat and motionless against her lower abdomen, holding herself with a quiet, fragile care that I had never seen on her before.
The rage in my chest didn't just fade. It vanished, obliterated in half a heartbeat.
The draft, Palmer, Holt, the NCAA—every single threat clawing at my back ceased to exist.
I crossed the twenty feet of ice in four heavy strides, reached her side, and unlocked the truck. Without asking, I lifted her clean off the asphalt, placing her gently onto the high bench seat of the passenger cab.
I rounded the hood, climbed behind the wheel, and slammed the heavy door shut, locking the sub-zero world outside.
The heater roared to life, blowing warm air against the windshield.
Nadia turned her head toward me, a faint, fragile smile touching her pale lips. "Killian. The press conference took forever. Are you—"
I didn't let her finish.
I unbuckled my seatbelt, reached across the center console, and hauled her straight into my lap.
Nadia let out a soft, startled gasp as her boots cleared the transmission tunnel, her body collapsing flush against my chest. Her hands came up, curling into the fabric of my suit jacket, her face burying into the crook of my neck as my massive arms wrapped around her waist with a crushing, desperate hold.
My forehead pressed hard against the soft, warm hollow beneath her ear.
I dragged in her scent—vanilla soap, cold wool, and the sweet, quiet warmth that lived in her skin—breathing her into my lungs like a man who had just clawed his way out of an avalanche.
My shoulders heaved in three ragged, violent bursts against her back, my jaw clenching tight against the tears of pure, unadulterated relief that burned behind my eyelids.
"Killian," she whispered, her voice trembling softly against my ear. Her fingers slid into the short hair at the back of my neck, her small, warm palm stroking my nape with unshakeable tenderness. "What happened in there? You're shaking."
"Nothing," I rasped, my voice broken, thick with gravel. "Nothing that matters."
I slid my large, calloused hand down the front of her coat, covering her small gloved hand where it rested flat against her stomach. Her fingers twitched beneath mine, curling into my palm, her head resting heavy against my shoulder.
"Stay right here, Nadia," I rumbled, pressing a fierce, lingering kiss to the side of her throat, letting the steady beat of her pulse anchor the storm in my head. "Good girl. Let me hold you. I've got you."
She sighed—a long, sweet exhalation that sank straight into my ribs—her body molding against mine in the quiet, heated dark of the cab.
I held her through the freezing dusk, my hand pressed over hers, my chest expanding with a fierce, terrifying devotion.
They could come with their audits. They could come with their threats.
I would tear down the arena before I ever let a single shadow touch the woman in my arms.