Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Jerry
The first thing you notice when you cut off a limb is not the pain. It’s the phantom sensation. The brain refuses to accept the absence. It still sends signals to nerves that no longer exist. It reaches out to grab a cup with a hand that isn’t there.
It had been three weeks since Heather left.
My apartment was clean. Pristine. The glass shards from the broken tumbler had been swept away.
The boxes in the hallway were gone. The stray bobby pins on the bathroom counter had vanished.
Even the smell of her—that stubborn, lingering scent of vanilla and soil—had been scrubbed away by the cleaning crew I hired to scour the place twice.
It was exactly how I liked it. Efficient. Sterile. Controlled.
It felt like a tomb.
I woke up at 5:00 AM. I didn't need an alarm. My body simply refused to stay unconscious any longer than necessary.
I rolled over. The other side of the king-sized bed was perfectly made. The pillow was fluffed.
For a split second—that cruel, hazy moment between sleep and wakefulness—I reached for her. My hand sought the warmth of her back, the tangle of her hair.
My fingers brushed cold, 1000-thread-count Egyptian cotton.
The reality hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest.
Gone.
I sat up, ignoring the dull throb in my head. I hadn't been drinking, but grief felt remarkably like a hangover. The nausea, the sensitivity to light, the sluggishness of thought.
I went through the motions. Shower. Coffee (black, no smoothie). Dress.
I walked into the kitchen. The Fiddle Leaf Fig in the corner was drooping. Its leaves were turning brown at the edges. I had forgotten to water it. Or maybe it was just dying of a broken heart, too.
I grabbed a glass of water and dumped it into the pot.
"Don't die," I muttered to the plant. "One of us has to survive this."
The plant didn't answer.
I grabbed my keys and left The Spire. I didn't look at the view. I didn't care about the view.
I drove to the rink.
The investigation was officially closed. The NCAA had ruled: "Insufficient Evidence." The university had reinstated me. The team was back in the playoff hunt.
I had won. I had kept everything.
So why did I feel like I had lost?
Practice was a masterclass in brutality.
Coach Miller was riding us hard. The semi-finals were in two days. The scouts were back, circling like vultures now that the scandal had "blown over."
I was skating better than I ever had. My edges were sharp. My shot was lethal. I was a machine on the ice—cold, precise, and utterly devoid of mercy.
"Great shift, Vane!" Miller shouted, blowing his whistle. "That's the intensity I want! You're terrifying out there!"
I skated to the bench, ripping off my helmet. Sweat poured down my face, stinging my eyes.
"Water," I barked at the student manager—a new kid, terrified of me. He scrambled to hand me a bottle.
Tank slid onto the bench next to me. He looked exhausted.
"You need to dial it back, Cap," Tank panted. "You almost took Johnson's head off in that last drill. We need him alive for Saturday."
"He was slow," I said, squirting water into my mouth. "Slow gets you killed."
"He's not slow, you're just... manic," Tank said. He lowered his voice. "Have you slept? Like, actual REM sleep?"
"I sleep," I lied.
"Right. And I'm a ballerina," Tank snorted. "You look like a raccoon with a caffeine addiction. The dark circles have dark circles."
"I'm fine," I snapped.
"You're not fine," Tank said, his voice turning serious. "You're a ghost, Jerry. You show up, you destroy everyone on the ice, and then you vanish. You don't talk in the locker room. You don't come to dinners. You're scaring the rookies."
"Good. Fear is a motivator."
"Fear is toxic," Tank countered. "And so is whatever you're doing. Look, man... call her. Just call her."
I froze. My grip on the water bottle tightened until the plastic crinkled loudly.
"She made her choice," I said, my voice cold. "She left. She said I was convenient. She said I was heavy."
"And you believed her?" Tank asked incredulously. "Jerry, you're the smartest guy I know, but you're an idiot about feelings. She lied to save your ass. She took the fall."
"It doesn't matter," I said, standing up. "She's gone. The variable is eliminated. Now let's get back to work."
I vaulted over the boards and back onto the ice before he could say another word.
I skated until my legs burned. I skated until my lungs screamed. I skated until the physical pain was loud enough to drown out the memory of her voice saying I love you.
But the ice doesn't lie.
And the ice knew I was empty.
Saturday Night: The Semi-Finals
The arena was deafening. Eighteen thousand people screaming my name.
Vane! Vane! Vane!
It was a home game. The energy was electric. The Sabers were up 3-1 against Michigan in the third period. A win meant we went to the National Championship. A win meant my draft stock was cemented.
I was in the zone.
I took a pass from Tank—a risky, cross-ice feed that only we could pull off. I caught it on my backhand, spun around a defender, and drove to the net.
The goalie dropped. I waited. Patience. Control.
I flipped the puck over his shoulder. Top shelf.
The red light flashed. The buzzer sounded. The crowd erupted.
4-1.
My teammates mobbed me. Gloves punched my helmet. Bodies slammed into me.
"You're a god, Vane!" Johnson screamed.
I felt... nothing.
I skated to the bench, tapping gloves with the line. I sat down. I looked up at the Jumbotron. They were replaying the goal. It was beautiful. Textbook.
Then the camera cut to the crowd. Section 104.
It was packed with students painted in black and silver. They were going wild.
But my eyes automatically drifted to Row C. Seat 4.
Empty.
No. Not empty. There was a guy sitting there, eating nachos.
But it was empty to me.
She wasn't there. She wasn't wearing my jersey. She wasn't biting her lip with nerves. She wasn't looking at me with that fierce, protective pride that made me feel ten feet tall.
The victory tasted like ash.
The final buzzer sounded. We won. We were going to the Championship.
I went through the handshake line. I did the on-ice interview with ESPN.
"Jerry, incredible performance. How does it feel to lead this team to the finals after such a turbulent month?"
"It feels... efficient," I told the reporter, giving her the perfect, media-trained smile. "We eliminated the distractions. We executed the plan."
"Eliminated the distractions," she repeated, nodding. "Well, it certainly worked. Good luck in Frozen Four."
I walked down the tunnel.
The team was already celebrating in the locker room. I could hear the music thumping through the concrete walls. Victory Lap.
I didn't go in.
I couldn't handle the noise. I couldn't handle the champagne and the back-slapping and the false camaraderie.
I turned left. I walked down the quiet hallway toward the equipment room.
I sat on a stack of puck crates. I leaned my head back against the cinderblock wall and closed my eyes.
"You know," a voice said, "usually the MVP celebrates with the team."
I opened my eyes.
My father was standing there.
Silas Vane Sr. looked out of place in the bowels of a hockey arena. His cashmere coat and Italian leather shoes were too clean for this grimy hallway.
He walked over, inspecting a rack of sticks with mild distaste.
"That was an impressive game, Gerald," he said. "Three points. Disciplined. No penalties."
"Thank you, sir," I said, not standing up.
"The Krakens called me during the second intermission," he continued, turning to face me. "They're back in. They want to sign you immediately after the season ends. The bonus structure is... substantial."
"That's good," I said dully.
"It is," he agreed. "It seems my advice was sound. You cut the dead weight, and you ascended."
Dead weight.
He was talking about Heather.
A slow, burning anger ignited in my gut. It wasn't the explosive rage I felt when I broke the glass. It was a cold, dangerous fire.
"She wasn't dead weight," I said quietly.
My father frowned. "Excuse me?"
"She wasn't an anchor," I said, standing up. I was taller than him now. I hadn't realized that until this moment. In my head, he had always been a giant. But standing here, in my gear, I looked down at him. "She was the engine."
"Don't be sentimental," my father scoffed. "Sentimentality is what got you into that mess. You were sloppy. You let a girl distract you."
"She didn't distract me," I said. "She focused me. Tonight? That goal? I didn't score that because I was 'disciplined'. I scored it because I was angry. I scored it because I wanted to feel something other than the hole she left."
"Whatever the motivation," my father waved a hand dismissively. "The result is what matters. You won. You have the contract. You have the future."
"Do I?" I asked.
I looked at him. Really looked at him.
I saw a lonely old man in an expensive coat. A man who had driven away his wife, his son, and anyone who ever tried to love him, all in the name of "efficiency."
I saw my future. And it terrified me.
"I don't want it," I whispered.
"What?"
"I don't want to be you," I said louder. "I don't want the boardroom. I don't want the empty penthouse. I don't want to be the King of nothing."
"You are ungrateful," my father snapped. "I built this for you. I protected you."
"You isolated me!" I shouted. The sound echoed down the hall. "You taught me that love was a weakness! You taught me that people were liabilities! And I believed you! I let the best thing that ever happened to me walk out that door because I was afraid of being heavy!"
My father stared at me, his mouth a thin line. "Get a hold of yourself, Gerald. You're hysterical."
"No," I said, unzipping my jersey. I pulled it over my head—the jersey with VANE on the back—and threw it on the floor at his feet. "I'm done."
"What are you doing?"
"I'm eliminating the variable," I said. "You. You're the variable, Dad. You're the one who makes me weak."
I grabbed my gear bag. I didn't bother changing. I walked past him.
"If you walk out that door," my father threatened, his voice trembling with rage, "you are cut off. The trust. The inheritance. The connections. All of it. Gone."
I stopped at the door.
I turned back.
"Keep it," I said. "It's too heavy."
I pushed through the door and walked out into the cold night air.
I drove Tank’s Jeep again. I hadn't given it back.
I drove straight to The Spire.
I ran up to the penthouse. I didn't know what I was looking for. A sign. A clue. Something.
I tore through the apartment. I checked the drawers I had already checked. I checked under the bed.
Nothing.
I went into the greenhouse room.
The Fiddle Leaf Fig was definitely dead.
I sank to my knees on the tile floor, surrounded by her plants. The silence pressed in on me, suffocating.
She's gone. She's really gone.
And then I saw it.
Tucked under the pot of a massive Monstera plant in the corner. A flash of white paper.
I crawled over to it.
It was an envelope. Plain white. My name was written on the front in her messy, looping handwriting.
Jerry.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Inside was a single sheet of notebook paper. And a check.
The check was for the exact amount of the tuition I had paid. Every cent. It was dated for ten years from now.
I unfolded the letter.
Jerry,
If you’re reading this, then you’re probably angry. Or maybe you’re just relieved. Either way, I needed to say this without you interrupting me with your logic.
I lied. (Obviously. I’m a terrible actress, remember?)
I didn't leave because you were heavy. I didn't leave because you were convenient.
I left because I love you. And because I realized that as long as I was in the picture, you were going to be fighting a war on two fronts. You can’t win the Stanley Cup if you’re worrying about the NCAA.
Coach Miller said that if you loved me, you would drown. I couldn't let you drown, Jerry. You were born to fly.
So fly. Go to Seattle. Win the games. Be the King.
But do me a favor? Buy a plant. A real one. And talk to it sometimes. It gets lonely at the top.
I love you. Always.
—Hattie
P.S. The check is an IOU. I’ll pay you back. I promise. Even if it takes me a decade of teaching kindergarten.
I stared at the letter. The tears finally came. Hot, scalding tears that blurred the ink.
She loved me. She had left to save me.
And she was going to spend ten years paying me back for a gift I gave her out of love.
"You idiot," I choked out, clutching the letter to my chest. "You stubborn, noble idiot."
I looked at the check. Cleveland, Ohio. The address was printed on the top left corner.
Cleveland.
I stood up.
I checked my watch. It was 11:00 PM.
Cleveland was a fourteen-hour drive. Or a two-hour flight.
I didn't care about the Championship. I didn't care about the draft.
I grabbed my keys. I grabbed my passport (just in case). I grabbed the letter.
I dialed Tank.
"Yo, Cap. Where are you? The team is asking—"
"I'm going to Cleveland," I said.
"What? Now?"
"Now," I said. "I'm going to get her back."
"About damn time," Tank said. "Do you need a wingman?"
"No," I said. "I need a ring."
"A ring?" Tank choked. "Like... a ring ring?"
"Yeah," I said, walking to the elevator. "If I'm going to ask her to ruin her life for me again, I better have some collateral."
"Go get her, tiger," Tank laughed. "I'll tell Miller you have... food poisoning. Explosive diarrhea. Nobody questions that."
"Thanks, Tank."
I hung up.
I walked into the elevator.
I pressed the button for the garage.
The descent didn't feel like falling this time. It felt like landing.
I was done flying solo. I was going to find my co-pilot.
And if she wouldn't come to Seattle... well, I heard Cleveland had nice gardens too.