Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Jerry
The boardroom at Vane Industries was not designed for comfort. It was designed for intimidation.
Located on the forty-fifth floor of a steel monolith in downtown Denver, the room was all glass and chrome. The table was a slab of polished black granite that looked like a tombstone. The air conditioning was set to a temperature that suggested the preservation of meat.
At the head of the table sat my father.
Silas Vane Sr. did not look like a man who had fathered a child.
He looked like he had been manufactured in a lab to maximize shareholder value.
He was sixty, but looked forty thanks to a team of Swiss doctors and a diet of pure ambition.
His suit was Italian, his watch was Swiss, and his eyes were dead.
I sat at the opposite end of the table. The distance between us—twenty feet of granite—felt like a canyon.
"Explain," he said.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. The single word landed with the weight of a gavel.
I kept my posture rigid, ignoring the persistent ache in my ribs. "Explain what, sir?"
My father tapped a finger on the file in front of him. "The investigation. The NCAA inquiry. The rumor that my son, the Captain of the Sabers, is potentially jeopardizing a hundred-million-dollar draft position over a... domestic arrangement."
My stomach tightened. He knew. Of course he knew. He probably knew about the letter before I did.
"It's a misunderstanding," I said, keeping my voice even. "An anonymous tip. Likely a rival player trying to destabilize the team before the playoffs. We've retained counsel. We're handling it."
"We?" My father arched an eyebrow. "Are you referring to yourself and the girl? Or yourself and the legal team I pay for?"
"The legal team," I corrected quickly.
"Good." He opened the file. "Because according to my sources, this 'girl'—Heather Bloom—is living in your penthouse. A property owned by the Vane Trust."
"She is my personal assistant," I recited the lie I had rehearsed with Heather. "It's a live-in position. Efficiency."
My father stared at me. His gaze was a laser, stripping away the layers of defense.
"Efficiency," he repeated slowly. "You're paying her tuition?"
"Compensation for services rendered."
"And the services?" he asked, his tone dripping with implication. "Are they strictly... clerical?"
My jaw clenched so hard I thought a molar might crack. I wanted to stand up. I wanted to flip the granite table. I wanted to tell him that Heather was worth more than his entire company, that she was the only person who had ever looked at me and seen Jerry, not Vane.
But I didn't. Because that would destroy her.
"Strictly clerical," I lied. "She manages my schedule. My nutrition. My public appearances. It was... Coach Miller's suggestion. To improve my image."
My father leaned back in his chair. He studied me for a long, agonizing minute.
"You look tired, Gerald," he observed. "You look distracted. Your stats in the last three games are down. Your hit percentage dropped by twelve percent."
"I'm recovering from a minor injury," I said.
"Pain is a variable," he recited his favorite mantra. "Winners eliminate variables. Losers let them dictate the outcome."
He closed the file with a snap.
"Fix this," he ordered. "The hearing is Monday. You will walk in there, you will deny everything, and you will ensure this girl corroborates your story. If there is even a whiff of impropriety... if the NCAA suspends you..."
He didn't finish the threat. He didn't have to.
"I will handle it," I said.
"See that you do." He stood up, signaling the meeting was over. He didn't ask how I was. He didn't ask about the team. He checked his watch. "I have a conference call with Tokyo. Don't disappoint me again."
He walked out.
I sat alone in the cold, glass room. The silence was deafening.
I looked down at my hands. They were shaking. Just a little. A tremor in the fingers.
Winners eliminate variables.
Heather wasn't a variable. She was the constant.
But right now, sitting in my father's shadow, I felt a terrifying certainty: I couldn't have both. I couldn't have the career and the girl. The world was forcing me to choose.
And I was terrified that I was going to make the wrong choice.
The drive back to campus was a blur of gray highway and spiraling anxiety.
I went straight to the arena. It was 6:00 PM on a Friday. Most of the team was out, starting the weekend early. I needed the ice. I needed the cold to numb the noise in my head.
I changed into my gear in the empty locker room. The smell of old sweat and tape was comforting. It was simple.
I skated for two hours. Suicide drills. Blue line to red line. Stop. Start. Stop. Start.
My ribs burned. My legs screamed. My lungs felt like they were filled with broken glass.
Push harder. Eliminate the variable.
I imagined my father’s face on the puck. Slap shot.
I imagined the NCAA board members. Backhand.
I imagined losing Heather.
I missed the net. The puck sailed wide, hitting the glass with a hollow thud.
"Fuck!" I roared, the sound echoing in the empty rink. I slammed my stick against the crossbar, shattering the composite blade.
I stood there, heaving, staring at the broken stick in my hands.
"That looked expensive."
I spun around.
Heather was standing by the bench. She was wearing her coat—a new one I had bought her, black wool, warm—and clutching a thermos. She looked worried.
"What are you doing here?" I snapped. The adrenaline was still high, mixing with the shame of her seeing me lose control.
"You weren't answering your phone," she said, walking toward the gate. "I tracked your car. You've been here for three hours, Jerry. You missed dinner."
"I'm not hungry."
"You need protein," she said. "And hydration. And probably a hug, though you look like you might bite my head off if I try."
She stepped onto the rubber matting, holding out the thermos.
"Chicken soup," she said. "Homemade. Well, mostly. I added extra carrots."
I looked at the thermos. Then I looked at her.
She was so... steady. In the midst of the chaos, with the investigation looming and my father breathing down my neck, she was here. Bringing me soup.
It broke me.
"I can't do this," I rasped, dropping the broken stick.
"Can't do what? Eat soup?"
"This," I gestured between us. "Us. The investigation. My father knows, Heather. He knows you're living with me. He thinks you're a distraction."
Heather’s face fell. She lowered the thermos.
"He thinks I'm the reason you're playing bad?"
"He thinks feelings are a weakness," I said bitterly. "And right now... maybe he's right. I'm missing shots. I'm breaking sticks. I'm terrified, Heather. I'm terrified that on Monday, they're going to take it all away."
"They won't," she said, stepping closer. "We have a plan. We lie."
"Lying isn't a strategy!" I shouted. The anger flared, hot and irrational. "It's a gamble! And I don't gamble with my future!"
She flinched. "I'm part of your future, aren't I?"
I looked at her.
Was she? Could she be? Or was she just the collateral damage in my war to become the man my father wanted?
"I don't know," I whispered. The truth hung between us, ugly and naked. "I don't know if I can afford you."
Heather went pale. She took a step back, as if I had slapped her.
"Afford me?" she repeated. Her voice trembled. "Is that what I am? A luxury item? An expense line on your balance sheet?"
"That's not what I meant."
"It sounded like exactly what you meant," she said. Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn't let them fall. She set the thermos down on the bench with a heavy clunk. "Here's your protein. Efficient. Just like you like it."
She turned and walked away.
"Heather, wait!" I called out.
She didn't stop. She pushed through the doors and disappeared.
I stood alone on the ice. The cold seeped into my bones.
I had eliminated the distraction.
So why did I feel like I had just lost the game?
I didn't go home. I couldn't face the penthouse. I couldn't face the silence where she should be.
I slept in the player's lounge at the arena on a lumpy couch. I woke up stiff, sore, and miserable.
Saturday was a blur of video review and dry-land training. I avoided my phone. I avoided thinking.
By Saturday night, the exhaustion was a physical weight. I drove back to The Spire because I had run out of clean clothes.
The penthouse was dark when I entered.
"Heather?" I called out tentatively.
Silence.
My heart dropped. Had she left? Had she packed her boxes and gone back to the dorms, investigation be damned?
I walked down the hall. Her bedroom door was open. The bed was made. The closet was... still full.
She was still here.
I found her in the sanctuary—the greenhouse room. The previous owner had enclosed a balcony in glass and filled it with plants. Heather had taken it over. It was humid, smelling of earth and jasmine.
She was sitting on a wicker chair, her legs tucked under her, reading a textbook by the light of a small lamp. She was wearing headphones.
She didn't look up when I entered.
I stood there, watching her. The anger from yesterday had evaporated, leaving only a hollow ache.
I walked over and knelt beside her chair.
She saw me. She pulled her headphones down around her neck. Her expression was guarded. Cool.
"You're back," she said.
"I live here," I said weakly.
"Debatable," she countered. "You live at the rink. You just sleep here."
"Heather..." I reached for her hand.
She let me take it, but her fingers were limp. She didn't squeeze back.
"I'm sorry," I said. "About yesterday. I was... scared. My father... he gets in my head. He makes me feel like everything is a zero-sum game. If I have love, I lose power. If I have happiness, I lose focus."
"He sounds lonely," she said softly.
"He is," I admitted. "And he wants me to be lonely too. Because lonely people work harder."
I rested my forehead against her knee. "I don't want to be lonely, Heather. I don't want to be him."
She was silent for a long moment. Then, I felt her hand move. Her fingers threaded through my hair. She scratched lightly at my scalp.
"Then don't be," she whispered. "Be Jerry. Be the guy who brought me soup when I had the flu last week. Be the guy who defended me at dinner."
"I'm trying," I mumbled. "But I'm failing. I'm failing you."
"You're not failing," she said. "You're just... struggling. And that's okay. You're allowed to struggle."
She tugged gently on my hair, urging me to look up.
I met her eyes.
"We have the hearing on Monday," she said. "We're going to walk in there, and we're going to tell the story we agreed on. And then... whatever happens, happens. But you don't have to do it alone."
"I don't deserve you," I said hoarsely.
"Probably not," she smiled, a small, sad thing. "But you're stuck with me. At least until the contract expires."
The contract. That damned piece of paper.
"Heather," I said. "Screw the contract."
"Jerry..."
"No," I stood up, pulling her with me. "I mean it. The contract is protecting my money. But it's not protecting us. I don't care about the money anymore."
"You care about hockey," she reminded me.
"I care about you more," I said.
The realization hit me with the force of a slapshot. It was true. If I had to choose... if the NCAA said "Give up the girl or give up the Captaincy"...
I would hand over the 'C'.
"Don't say that," she whispered, looking terrified. "Don't say that unless you mean it."
"I mean it," I said. I cupped her face. "I love you, Heather Bloom. I love you more than the draft. More than my father's approval. More than the game."
She let out a sob. She threw her arms around my neck, burying her face in my shoulder.
"I love you too," she cried. "You idiot."
We held each other in the humid, plant-filled room. The city lights twinkled outside, indifferent to our crisis.
The world was still waiting to crush us on Monday. My father was still waiting to disown me. The NCAA was waiting to ban me.
But in that moment, holding her, I felt something I hadn't felt in years.
Invincible.
"Come to bed," I murmured into her hair. "No more couch. No more rink. Just us."
"Just us," she agreed.
We walked to the bedroom. We didn't have sex. We didn't have the energy. We just stripped down to our underwear and climbed under the heavy duvet.
I pulled her back against my chest, wrapping my arm around her waist, tangling our legs together.
"Monday," she whispered into the dark.
"Monday," I agreed.
I closed my eyes.
Winners eliminate variables.
But maybe, just maybe, my father was wrong. Maybe love wasn't a variable.
Maybe it was the only constant worth fighting for.