Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Jerry
The world looked different from the roof.
The Spire was the tallest building in Sterling Falls, a jagged finger of glass pointing accusingly at the sky.
From up here, fifty stories above the pavement, the campus looked like a toy set.
The arena was a glowing beetle. The dorms were Lego bricks.
The people were ants, scurrying about with their petty concerns, completely unaware of the gods watching from above.
Or the monsters.
I sat on the edge of the helipad—a ridiculous feature my father insisted on, though he never visited—my legs dangling over the abyss. The wind was fierce up here, biting through my hoodie, but I welcomed it. It scoured the skin. It made me feel present.
It was 3:00 AM on Monday morning. The hearing was in six hours.
I wasn't sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the boardroom. I saw the panel of faceless bureaucrats stripping me of my Captaincy. I saw my father’s disappointed sneer.
And worst of all, I saw Heather packing her boxes, walking out of the penthouse, and disappearing into the gray swarm of the city, lost to me forever.
"I knew I'd find you up here."
The voice was soft, carried away almost instantly by the wind.
I didn't turn. I knew the sound of her footsteps. Light. Hesitant.
Heather sat down next to me. She was wrapped in my duvet, looking like a fabric burrito with a human head. Her hair was a mess, blowing wildly across her face.
She didn't say anything about the height. She didn't tell me to come away from the edge. She just sat there, swinging her legs next to mine, staring out at the horizon where the black sky met the black mountains.
"Couldn't sleep?" I asked, my voice rough.
"Hard to sleep when your boyfriend is missing and the bed feels like a tundra," she said.
"Boyfriend," I tested the word. "Is that what I am today? I thought we were 'employer and employee' for the hearing."
"It's 3:00 AM," she said. "The hearing doesn't exist at 3:00 AM. Right now, you're just Jerry. And I'm just Hattie."
Hattie. Her nickname. The one her mom used to call her. She had told me that a few nights ago, in the dark.
I reached over and took her hand. It was cold. I pulled it into the pocket of my hoodie, encasing it in my warmth.
"Why are you up here, Jerry?" she asked quietly. "And don't say 'the view'."
I looked down at the city lights. They blurred into streaks of gold and red.
"My mother used to take me to the roof," I said.
The confession slipped out before I could stop it. I hadn't planned to say it. I hadn't told anyone this. Not Tank. Not the therapists my father hired after the divorce.
Heather squeezed my hand inside the pocket. "Your mother?"
"Before she left," I continued, staring at a distant blinking radio tower. "We lived in Chicago then. A penthouse. She would take me up to the terrace when my father was... difficult. When he was shouting about margins or mergers. We would sit on the edge, just like this."
I paused, the memory sharp and jagged in my chest.
"She would tell me that the people down there didn't matter," I said. "She said that when you're high enough, the noise can't reach you. She said we were birds, and one day we would just fly away."
"She sounded... sad," Heather whispered.
"She was desperate," I corrected. "She felt trapped. My father... he consumes people. He takes up all the air in the room. She was suffocating."
I looked at Heather. Her eyes were wide, reflecting the city lights. She was listening. Not judging. Not pitying. Just witnessing.
"On my tenth birthday," I said, my voice dropping to a monotone, "we went up to the roof. She gave me a gift. A toy plane. And she told me that she was finally going to fly away. She said she had made a deal with my father. She was leaving."
I swallowed hard. The lump in my throat tasted like bile.
"I asked if I could go with her," I said. "I asked if I could fly too."
Heather’s breath hitched. She leaned closer, her shoulder pressing against mine.
"And she looked at me," I whispered, "and she said, 'You're too heavy, Gerald. You're just like him. You're an anchor. If I take you, I'll drown.'"
A tear slipped down my cheek. The wind dried it instantly.
"She left that afternoon," I finished. "She took the check. She took her freedom. And she left me with the man she was running from. Because I was too heavy."
Silence stretched between us, filled only by the wind.
I waited for Heather to pull away. I waited for her to realize that my mother was right. That I was heavy. That I was damaged goods, weighted down by my father's expectations and my own frozen heart.
Instead, Heather let go of my hand in the pocket.
She unwrapped the duvet from around her shoulders.
She draped it over both of us, creating a cocoon. She wrapped her arms around my waist, burying her face in my neck.
"She was wrong," Heather said fiercely into my skin. "She was weak, Jerry. She wasn't flying; she was running. There's a difference."
"I feel heavy," I admitted, my voice cracking. "All the time. The pressure. The expectations. It feels like I'm carrying the whole damn building."
"I know," she whispered. "But you're not an anchor. You're a shelter. You're the strongest person I know. You carry the weight so everyone else can be safe. You protect the team. You protect Tank. You protect me."
She pulled back to look at me. Her hands came up to cup my face, her thumbs brushing away the moisture under my eyes.
"You're not like him," she promised. "Your father breaks people to build his empire. You build people up. You defend them. You love them, even when you're terrified to do it."
"I'm terrified now," I confessed. "If I lose hockey... if I lose the Captaincy... I lose my value. I become worthless."
"No," she said. "If you lose hockey, you're still Jerry. You're still the guy who likes green smoothies and hates mess. You're still the guy who kisses me like I'm the only girl in the world. You have value because you exist, not because you win."
She kissed me.
It wasn't a sexual kiss. It was a seal. A vow. It was a transfer of strength.
"You don't have to fly away," she whispered against my lips. "You can stay here. With me. We can be heavy together. I'll help you carry it."
I closed my eyes, leaning into her touch. The wind howled around us, but inside the duvet, inside her arms, it was quiet.
"I don't deserve you," I murmured.
"Too bad," she said. "You're stuck with me. Now come inside. It's freezing, and we have a hearing to crush."
The hearing room was not as intimidating as my father's boardroom, but it smelled worse—like stale coffee and judgment.
It was 9:00 AM. I was wearing my best suit. Heather was wearing a conservative navy dress and a cardigan. We sat at a small table, facing a panel of five people: The Dean, the Athletic Director, a faculty representative, and two stone-faced lawyers from the NCAA compliance office.
My father’s lawyer, a shark named Mr. Sterling, sat beside me. He had briefed us for an hour. Deny. Deflect. Minimise.
"Mr. Vane," the lead NCAA investigator began. He was a balding man with glasses perched on the end of his nose. "We have received reports that you are providing housing and financial support to Ms. Bloom, a student at this university. Is this correct?"
"Yes," I said calmly. "Ms. Bloom is my personal assistant. She resides in the guest quarters of my off-campus residence as part of her employment package."
"And what are her duties?"
"Scheduling. Nutrition management. Logistics."
"Does she perform academic work for you?"
"No."
"Do you have a sexual relationship with Ms. Bloom?"
The room went silent.
I felt Heather stiffen beside me. I could feel the heat of her leg next to mine under the table.
I looked the investigator in the eye.
"Ms. Bloom is my employee," I said. "Our relationship is professional."
The lie tasted like poison. I hated reducing her to this. I hated denying us.
The investigator turned to Heather.
"Ms. Bloom," he said. "You are a scholarship student. Your financial aid records indicate significant need. Suddenly, your tuition balance is paid in full by an anonymous trust associated with the Vane family. You are living in a penthouse. You are driving a car registered to Vane Industries."
Heather folded her hands on the table. They were shaking, but her voice was steady.
"Mr. Vane has been very generous," she said. "The job has allowed me to focus on my studies without working three shifts a week."
"Is that all it is?" the investigator pressed. "Generosity? Or is there an expectation of... other services?"
"Excuse me?" Heather asked, her voice sharpening.
"We have photos," the investigator said. He slid a manila envelope across the table.
Mr. Sterling reached for it, but I was faster. I opened it.
Photos spilled out.
Grainy, long-lens shots. Taken through a window? From a car?
Me and Heather walking into The Spire late at night. Me holding her hand at the steakhouse.
And one... one taken through the glass of the greenhouse room.
We were hugging. My face was buried in her neck. It looked intimate. It looked undeniable.
"That doesn't look like an employer and an employee," the investigator said smugly. "That looks like a couple."
"It looks like a moment of comfort," Mr. Sterling interjected smoothly. "My client had just suffered a significant injury. Ms. Bloom was assisting him."
"Assisting him with a hug?"
"Emotional support is part of the job description," I snapped.
"Mr. Vane," the Dean spoke up. "This is serious. If you are in a relationship, you must disclose it. If you are paying your girlfriend's tuition, that is a violation of amateurism rules. It is considered an improper benefit."
I looked at the Dean. I looked at the photos.
I looked at Heather.
She was pale. She was terrified. She was looking at me, waiting.
We can be heavy together.
I took a breath.
"It is not a relationship," I said. My voice was cold.
Hard. The voice of The Judge. "Ms. Bloom is indispensable to my routine.
I rely on her. Yes, we are close. Living together creates proximity.
But I am not paying her for sex, and I am not paying her for homework.
I am paying her because she makes me a better athlete. Period."
The investigator frowned. "So you deny any romantic involvement?"
I looked at the photo of us in the greenhouse. The way I was holding her. The way she was holding me.
It was the most honest moment of my life.
And I had to piss on it to save her future.
"I deny it," I said. "We are not a couple."
The investigator stared at me. He looked at Heather.
"Ms. Bloom?" he asked. "Do you corroborate this?"
Heather looked at me. Her eyes were shimmering. She knew what I was doing. She knew I was protecting the scholarship. Protecting the team.
She took a breath.
"Yes," she whispered. "We are not a couple. It's... it's just a job."
The words hung in the air, heavy and sad.
The investigator sighed. He gathered the photos.
"Without definitive proof of a romantic relationship, or proof of academic fraud, we cannot pursue sanctions at this time," he said reluctantly.
"However, Mr. Vane, Ms. Bloom... be advised.
We will be watching. If evidence surfaces that this arrangement is a cover for an illicit relationship, the consequences will be severe. "
"Understood," Mr. Sterling said, standing up. "Thank you for your time."
We walked out of the hearing room.
We walked down the long, echoing hallway of the administration building.
We didn't hold hands. We didn't look at each other.
We walked to my car in silence.
Once inside the safe, leather-scented cocoon of the Porsche, Heather finally broke.
She let out a ragged sob, covering her face with her hands.
"That was awful," she cried. "Denying us... it felt like... like we were killing it."
"We were saving it," I said fiercely. I reached over and pulled her hands away from her face. "Heather. Listen to me. We won. They dropped it. You keep your scholarship. I keep the Captaincy."
"But at what cost?" she asked, looking at me with tear-filled eyes. "We have to hide now. Really hide. No more dinners. No more holding hands. We have to be... invisible."
"We can do invisible," I promised. "Inside the penthouse, we can be whatever we want. We can be loud."
"Can we?" she asked. "Or will we just be waiting for the next knock on the door?"
"I don't care about the knocks," I said. I leaned over and kissed her. It was desperate. Apologetic. "Let them knock. As long as you're inside with me, they can't touch us."
She kissed me back, clinging to my lapels.
"Take me home," she whispered. "Take me to the roof. I need to feel the wind."
"Okay," I said. "Home."
I started the car.
We had survived the battle.
But as I drove away, checking the rearview mirror, I saw a black sedan pull out behind us. It followed us to the main road. Then it turned.
Paranoia pricked at my neck.
We will be watching.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter.
Let them watch.
I wasn't going to let her go. Not now. Not ever.
I was an anchor. And I was digging in.