Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Jerry
The interstate was a white void. Tank’s Jeep was a beast, but even it was struggling against the wind that battered the sides like an angry giant. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel. My eyes burned from staring into the hypnotic swirl of snowflakes in the headlights.
I had been driving for fourteen hours.
I had stopped once for gas and once to buy a terrible cup of coffee that tasted like burnt rubber. I hadn't eaten. My stomach was a knot of acid and adrenaline.
Cleveland.
The GPS said I was twenty minutes away from the address on the check.
24 Maplewood Drive.
It sounded suburban. Safe. Normal. The kind of place where people watered their lawns and didn't have fathers who threatened to disown them for falling in love.
I checked the time on the dash. 6:45 AM.
I wondered if she was awake. I wondered if she was sleeping in a twin bed in her childhood room, dreaming of a garden in Seattle. I wondered if she hated me.
She probably hates me.
And she had every right to. I had let her walk away. I had believed the lie because it was easier than fighting the truth. I had been a coward.
But not anymore.
I exited the highway. The suburban streets were quiet, buried under fresh powder. The houses were dark, slumbering.
I found Maplewood Drive. It was a cul-de-sac of modest ranch houses. Number 24 was blue with white shutters. There was a rusted sedan in the driveway—her mom’s car, probably.
I parked the Jeep on the street, half-blocking the driveway. I didn't care.
I got out. The cold hit me instantly, biting through my thin jacket. I hadn't packed for a blizzard. I hadn't packed at all.
I walked up the driveway. The snow crunched under my boots.
I stood on the porch. I raised my hand to knock.
And I hesitated.
Fear, cold and paralyzing, gripped my chest. What if she slammed the door in my face? What if she called the police? What if she looked at me with those hazel eyes and told me, truthfully this time, that I was too heavy?
Winners eliminate variables.
The only variable here was my fear.
I knocked. Three sharp raps.
Silence.
I knocked again. Harder.
A light flickered on inside. Footsteps approached.
The door opened a crack, revealing a chain lock and a slice of a woman’s face. She looked like an older version of Heather—same eyes, same worried mouth.
"Who is it?" she asked, her voice wary. "It's seven in the morning."
"Mrs. Bloom," I said, my voice hoarse. "I'm Jerry. Jerry Vane."
Her eyes widened. She recognized the name. Of course she did. I was the guy who had ruined her daughter's life.
"You," she breathed. The door started to close.
"Wait!" I shoved my boot into the gap. It was rude. It was desperate. "Please. I need to see her."
"She doesn't want to see you," Mrs. Bloom hissed. "She's been crying for three days. You broke her heart. Go away before I call the cops."
"Call them," I said. "I'll wait in the squad car. I'm not leaving until I talk to her."
"Mom?"
A voice from the top of the stairs. Sleepy. Confused.
Heather.
"Who is it?"
Mrs. Bloom looked back over her shoulder. "Nobody, honey. Just a solicitor."
"A solicitor in a blizzard?" Heather asked.
I heard her footsteps on the stairs. Then she appeared in the hallway behind her mother.
She was wearing flannel pajamas with penguins on them. Her hair was a bird's nest. Her face was bare, pale, and ravaged by grief.
She looked beautiful.
She saw me through the crack in the door.
She froze. Her hand flew to her mouth.
"Jerry?"
"Hi," I whispered.
"Let him in, Mom," she said. Her voice was shaking.
"Hattie, no," her mother argued. "He's trouble."
"I know," Heather said. She walked to the door, gently moving her mother aside. She undid the chain. "But he drove here. In a blizzard. Let him in."
The door opened.
I stepped into the warm, cinnamon-scented hallway. I felt like a bull in a china shop—too big, too messy, too loaded with baggage.
Mrs. Bloom glared at me, tightened her robe, and marched into the kitchen. "I'm making coffee. And I'm getting the bat."
Heather stood there, arms crossed over her chest, shivering slightly despite the warmth.
"You're here," she said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of disbelief.
"I'm here," I confirmed.
"Why?"
"Because you forgot your check," I said, pulling the envelope from my pocket.
She stared at it. Then she looked up at me, her eyes narrowing.
"You drove fourteen hours to return a check?"
"No," I said. "I drove fourteen hours because I read the letter."
She flinched. A blush crept up her neck. "Oh."
"Yeah. Oh."
I took a step toward her. She took a step back.
The rejection stung, but I deserved it.
"You left," I said. "You lied to me."
"I saved you," she corrected, lifting her chin. "You're back on the team. You're going to the Championship. You're welcome."
"I quit," I said.
The words hung in the air.
Heather blinked. "What?"
"I quit," I repeated. "I walked out. Last night. After the game. I left my jersey on the floor in front of my father."
"You... you quit the team?" She looked horrified. "Jerry, no. Why?"
"Because I don't want to play for them," I said. "I don't want to play for a legacy that demands I give you up. I don't want to be the King if the castle is empty."
"But the draft..." she whispered. "The Krakens..."
"I don't care about the Krakens," I said. "I care about the garden. In Seattle. With you."
"Jerry," she sighed, dragging a hand through her hair. "You're exhausted. You're emotional. You're making a mistake."
"The only mistake I made," I said, stepping closer again—this time she held her ground—"was letting you walk out of that apartment. I was scared, Heather. I was terrified that my father was right. That love makes you weak."
"It does," she said, tears filling her eyes. "Look at us. We're a mess."
"We are," I agreed. "But I'm stronger now than I was three weeks ago. Because I know what I'm fighting for."
"And what are you fighting for?" she asked, a tear spilling over.
I reached into my pocket. My other pocket.
I pulled out the ring box.
It wasn't a fancy box. I had bought it at a pawn shop in Toledo at 4:00 AM because it was the only place open. The ring inside was vintage—a simple gold band with a modest diamond. It wasn't the Vane diamond. It wasn't a rock that cost a mortgage.
It was real.
I dropped to one knee.
Heather gasped. Her hands flew to her face.
"Jerry, what are you doing?"
"I'm eliminating the variables," I said, looking up at her. "I'm making a contract that can't be broken by the NCAA or my father or a lie."
I opened the box.
"Heather Bloom," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "I am heavy. I come with baggage. I come with a father who is a monster and a career that might be over before it started. I am not safe. I am not easy."
"Jerry..." she sobbed.
"But I love you," I continued. "I love you more than oxygen. I love you more than the ice. You are the only person who has ever made me feel light. So please... don't make me fly alone. Marry me."
She stared at me. She stared at the ring. She stared at the snow melting off my boots onto her mother's carpet.
"You're crazy," she choked out.
"Certifiable," I agreed.
"You quit hockey for me."
"I quit the bullshit for you," I corrected. "I can still play hockey. I just want to play it coming home to you."
"We have no money," she sniffled. "If your dad cut you off..."
"I have savings," I said. "I have my own trust he can't touch. We won't be billionaires, Heather. But we'll have the townhouse. We'll have the garden."
She looked at me. She looked deep into my eyes, searching for the doubt, searching for the regret.
She found only certainty.
She dropped to her knees in front of me. She didn't take the ring. She grabbed my face with both hands and kissed me.
It was a kiss of forgiveness. It was a kiss of homecoming. It tasted like tears and hope and cinnamon.
"Yes," she whispered against my lips. "Yes, you idiot. Yes."
I let out a shuddering breath, resting my forehead against hers. "Thank God."
I fumbled with the ring, my hands shaking. I slid it onto her finger. It was a little loose, but it fit.
"It's perfect," she whispered, looking at it.
"It's temporary," I promised. "I'll get you a better one when I get a signing bonus."
"I don't want a better one," she said. "I want this one. From the pawn shop in the blizzard."
"How did you know?"
"You smell like old coins and desperation," she laughed, crying at the same time.
I pulled her into my arms, burying my face in her neck. I was home. Finally.
"Ahem."
We broke apart.
Mrs. Bloom was standing in the kitchen doorway, holding a baseball bat in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other.
"So," she said, eyeing the ring on Heather's finger. "I guess I don't need the bat?"
"No, Mom," Heather said, wiping her eyes. "He's staying."
Mrs. Bloom sighed. She set the bat down. She walked over and handed me the coffee.
"It's black," she said. "Heather said you like it bitter."
"Thank you," I said, taking the mug with trembling hands.
"You hurt her again," Mrs. Bloom said, her voice mild but her eyes deadly, "and I won't use the bat. I'll use the car."
"Understood," I said.
Heather squeezed my hand. "Come on. You need sleep. And a shower."
"I need to talk to you," I said. "About Seattle. About the draft. I need to call my agent."
"Later," she said. She pulled me up. "Right now, you're off the clock. No variables. Just us."
She led me upstairs to her childhood bedroom. It was pink. There were posters of bands I didn't know on the walls. The bed was a twin.
We squeezed into it anyway.
I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her back against my chest. Her head rested under my chin. Our legs tangled together.
The blizzard howled outside, beating against the windowpane. But inside, it was warm.
"Jerry?" she whispered into the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"Are we really going to do this? Seattle? Marriage? Everything?"
"We are," I said. "I'm not letting you go again, Hattie. You're stuck with me."
"Good," she murmured. "Because I was really dreading finishing my degree in Ohio."
I chuckled, kissing the top of her head.
I closed my eyes. For the first time in weeks, the silence wasn't heavy. It was full.
I fell asleep holding my world in my arms.
Two Days Later: The Press Conference
We didn't stay in Ohio. We couldn't. The world was still spinning, and I had a narrative to reclaim.
We flew back to Sterling Falls. Not to apologize. To announce.
I called a press conference. Not at the university. At a hotel downtown. Independent. On my terms.
I stood at the podium. Heather was next to me, wearing a simple black dress and the ring. She looked terrified, but she held her head high.
The room was packed. Reporters, cameras, scouts. Tank was in the front row, grinning like a maniac.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I began. I didn't use notes. "I have a statement."
The flashes went off like lightning.
"Effective immediately, I am declaring for the NHL Draft," I said. "I will not be returning to Sterling Falls University next season."
A murmur went through the room.
"Furthermore," I continued, reaching out to take Heather's hand. I lifted it, showing the ring to the cameras. "I am announcing my engagement to Heather Bloom."
Chaos. Shouting. Questions flying like arrows.
“Is she the girl from the tape?”
“Did you pay her?”
“What does your father say?”
I raised a hand. The room quieted.
"The tape was manipulated," I said clearly. "The allegations were false. But the relationship is real. I love her. She is my partner. And she is the reason I am standing here today."
I looked at the camera. I imagined my father watching from his glass tower.
"Some people think that love is a weakness," I said. "They think it makes you heavy. They think it's a liability."
I squeezed Heather's hand. She squeezed back, her grip strong and sure.
"They're wrong," I said. "Love is the only thing that makes you strong enough to carry the weight."
I looked at Heather.
"I'm ready for questions," I said to her, ignoring the reporters.
She smiled. A real, dazzling smile.
"Let's go home," she whispered.
We walked off the stage.
We didn't answer a single question. We didn't have to.
We had already given the only answer that mattered.