Chapter 11 #2
Tank winked behind his mask. He knew. Of course he knew. He lived to torment me. But he wouldn't talk. Not really.
I focused on the puck.
Pain is a variable. Ignore it.
I took off.
The ice crunched under my blades. I built speed. My ribs screamed with every stride, but I pushed it down. I needed to look fast. I needed to look unbreakable.
I crossed the blue line. I faked a slap shot. Tank bit, dropping into a butterfly.
I pulled the puck back, dragged it to my backhand, and roofed it.
The water bottle on top of the net popped into the air.
Perfect.
I turned away, skating back to the line. I glanced up at section 105.
The scouts were writing. One of them nodded.
Good.
I looked toward the tunnel.
Heather was there.
She wasn't supposed to be. She had class. But there she was, standing in the shadows of the Zamboni entrance, clutching her backpack.
She was watching me. Her hands were clasped over her mouth. She looked terrified.
Why was she terrified? I had just scored.
I skated over to the bench for water.
"Vane!" Miller barked. "Focus! Where are you looking?"
"Just checking the clock," I lied.
I took a sip of water, my eyes darting back to the tunnel.
Heather was gone.
A knot of unease tightened in my stomach. Something was wrong. She wouldn't skip class to stand in a dark tunnel and look at me like I was about to explode unless something was wrong.
Practice dragged on for another hour. It was grueling. By the time Miller blew the final whistle, my left side was throbbing so hard I was seeing spots.
I skipped the post-practice stretch. I skipped the team shower banter. I showered in record time, dressed, and practically ran out of the locker room.
I found her in the parking lot, leaning against my car.
She was shivering. It was snowing lightly, and she wasn't wearing a hat.
"Heather?" I called out, unlocking the car as I approached. "What's wrong? Why aren't you in Ecology?"
She looked up. Her eyes were red. She had been crying.
"Get in the car," she said. Her voice was flat.
We got in. I turned on the heat instantly.
"Talk to me," I demanded, turning to face her. "Did someone say something? Was it Bianca?"
"No," she said. She reached into her bag and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. She handed it to me.
It was a letter. On official university stationary.
OFFICE OF ACADEMIC AFFAIRS
Dear Ms. Bloom,
This letter is to inform you that an anonymous tip has been received regarding a potential violation of the Student Code of Conduct and the Athletic Department Ethics Policy.
Specifically, it has been alleged that you are receiving financial compensation and housing benefits from a student-athlete in exchange for academic services, which constitutes a violation of NCAA amateurism rules and University bribery policies.
An investigation has been opened. You are required to appear before the disciplinary board on Monday at 9:00 AM.
Failure to appear may result in immediate expulsion and revocation of all financial aid.
I stared at the letter. The words blurred.
Expulsion. Revocation.
"They think you're paying me to do your homework," Heather whispered. "Or... or worse. That you're paying me for sex."
My hands clenched around the paper, crinkling it.
"Who?" I growled. "Who sent the tip?"
"It's anonymous," she said. "But we know. It has to be Bianca. Or Carter. Someone who saw us."
"This is bullshit," I said. "I'm paying your tuition, yes. But not for homework. Not for sex. It's a... personal gift."
"The NCAA doesn't care about 'personal gifts', Jerry!" she cried. "If they think you're supporting me financially, and I'm 'working' for you... they can rule you ineligible. They can strip the team of wins. And they can kick me out."
She turned to me, tears streaming down her face.
"I'm going to lose everything," she sobbed. "My degree. My scholarship. Everything I worked for."
"No," I said. "You won't."
I unbuckled my seatbelt and reached for her. I pulled her across the console, heedless of the gear shift digging into my hip. I wrapped my arms around her, crushing her to my chest.
"I will fix this," I vowed into her hair. "I have lawyers. My father has lawyers. We will bury them in paperwork."
"Your father," she choked out. "Jerry... if your father finds out about this investigation... about us..."
I froze.
If my father found out I was risking my eligibility—and his legacy—for a girl...
He wouldn't just be angry. He would be nuclear.
He would destroy her to save me.
I realized then, with a sickening clarity, that the danger wasn't just the NCAA. The danger was the man whose name was on the back of my jersey.
"He won't find out," I said. It was a lie. He found out everything.
"What are we going to do?" she asked, pulling back to look at me. Her eyes were wide, pleading.
I wiped a tear from her cheek with my thumb.
"We deny everything," I said. "We stick to the script. I hired you as a personal assistant. It's a job. You live in the penthouse as part of your compensation. We are not sleeping together. We are not in love."
"But we are," she whispered.
"Not on Monday," I said hard. "On Monday, we are strangers who share a zip code. Can you do that? Can you look them in the eye and lie?"
She took a shaky breath. She nodded.
"I can lie," she said. "I've been lying to myself about not loving you for weeks. I can lie to a board."
"Good," I said. I kissed her forehead. "We're going to be okay."
But as I drove us out of the parking lot, watching the scouts pack up their cars in the rearview mirror, I knew I was making a promise I might not be able to keep.
The bubble had popped.
The real world was here. And it brought lawyers.