Chapter 14
Faye
Confidence was a hell of a drug.
I walked through the Kinesiology lab on Wednesday morning feeling like I was glowing. And not just because I had aced my biomechanics practical—which I had—but because for the first time in my life, I felt like the main character in my own story, not the supporting cast.
I was dating the Captain of the Timberwolves. We were in love. We had a secret world that was just ours, built on midnight drives, hushed conversations, and a physical connection that was rewriting my entire understanding of biology.
"Nice work, Sommers," Dr. Aris said as he handed back my evaluation sheet. "Best taping job I've seen all semester. Your understanding of the deltoid ligament support is flawless."
"Thank you, Dr. Aris," I beamed, tucking the paper into my folder.
"Keep it up," he said, turning back to his computer. "The audit committee is reviewing files next week. You're my star pupil. Don't give them anything to find."
The reminder of the audit should have scared me. Two weeks ago, it would have sent me into a panic spiral. But today? Today I just felt... invincible.
We were careful. We had rules. We used encrypted messaging apps. We met off-campus. We were smarter than the system.
I walked out of the lab and into the bustling hallway. My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Oakley (10:15 AM): Shoulder feels great. You’re a wizard. Also, I miss your face. Meet me at the rink? 10 minutes.
I checked my schedule. I had an hour break before my next class.
Me (10:16 AM): Can’t. Too risky. Aris just mentioned the audit again.
Oakley (10:17 AM): Nobody is at the rink. Practice ended 20 minutes ago. Everyone is gone. It’s just me and the Zamboni guy, and he’s asleep. Come on. I need a recharge.
I bit my lip, staring at the screen.
I should say no. I should go to the library and study.
But the pull was undeniable. Just ten minutes. Just a quick hug and a kiss to get me through the rest of the day.
Me (10:18 AM): Fine. 10 minutes. Don't make me late.
I turned left, heading toward the arena instead of the library.
It was a small decision. A tiny deviation from the path. But that's how tragedies start—not with a bang, but with a whisper.
The arena was quiet, the air cool and smelling of ozone. I swiped my badge at the side entrance and slipped inside.
The hallway was deserted. I walked quickly past the locker rooms, my sneakers silent on the rubber floor. I checked every corner, every shadow. Clear.
I found Oakley in the equipment room—our unofficial meeting spot.
He was sitting on the workbench, sharpening a stick, wearing nothing but his practice shorts and a cut-off shirt that exposed the tattoos on his arms.
When I walked in, he looked up, and his face lit up like a Christmas tree.
"Mouse," he breathed, setting the stick down.
He hopped off the bench and crossed the room, wrapping his arms around me and lifting me off my feet. He spun me around once before setting me down, keeping me pinned against his chest.
"Hi," I laughed, breathless. "You're sweaty."
"I'm working hard," he grinned, leaning down to kiss me.
It was sweet, quick, and full of joy.
"How was the practical?" he asked, brushing a stray hair from my face.
"Perfect score," I bragged. "Dr. Aris said I'm a wizard."
"I told you," he said, kissing my nose. "Smartest girl in the room. And the prettiest."
"Flattery will get you everywhere."
"I'm counting on it." He tightened his arms around me. "So. Ten minutes. What can we do in ten minutes?"
"Talk," I said firmly, pushing gently on his chest. "We are here to talk. And to check your shoulder."
"Shoulder is fine," he dismissed. "Heart is the problem. It beats too fast when you're not around."
"Cheesy," I groaned. "You've been reading romance novels."
"I'm doing research," he winked. "Trying to be the perfect boyfriend."
Boyfriend.
The word hung in the air, shiny and new. We hadn't used it officially. But hearing him say it made my heart soar.
"You're doing a pretty good job," I admitted softly.
He leaned in, his expression turning serious. "I mean it, Faye. I've never been this happy. Even with the audit, and my dad, and the pressure... knowing I get to see you makes it all bearable."
"Me too," I whispered.
He kissed me again, deeper this time. I melted into him, forgetting the time, forgetting the risk. For a moment, we were just two college kids in love, hidden away in a room full of hockey sticks.
We didn't hear the door open.
We didn't hear it because the equipment room door had a hydraulic closer that was nearly silent.
But we heard the gasp.
We broke apart instantly, spinning toward the door.
Standing there, clutching a stack of towels, was a girl.
Not just any girl. It was Jessica. The head cheerleader. The one who had been trying to get Oakley’s attention since freshman year. The one who had made passive-aggressive comments about my clothes in the cafeteria.
She stared at us. Her eyes were wide, darting from Oakley’s hands on my waist to my flushed face, to the intimate proximity of our bodies.
Silence stretched, agonizing and thick.
"Oh," Jessica said. A slow, malicious smile spread across her perfectly painted lips. "So the rumors are true."
Oakley stepped in front of me, his body shifting instantly into protective mode. "Jessica. What do you want?"
"I was just looking for Stan," she said innocently, though her eyes were gleaming with triumph. "But I think I found something way more interesting."
"You didn't see anything," Oakley growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous octave.
"Didn't I?" She laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "I saw the Captain of the Timberwolves macking on the student trainer. In a closet. Very cliché, Oakley. I expected better from you."
"Jessica," Oakley took a step forward. "If you say a word to anyone—"
"Are you threatening me?" She raised an eyebrow. " careful, Thorne. Bullying a student isn't a good look for a future NHL star."
She looked at me then. Her gaze was pitying and cruel.
"And you," she tsked. "Scholarship student, right? I wonder what the Dean would think about this. Fraternizing with the talent. Isn't that against the code of conduct?"
My blood ran cold. She knew. She knew exactly what leverage she had.
"Jessica, please," I said, stepping out from behind Oakley. "It's not what it looks like. We were just—"
"Save it," she interrupted, waving a hand. "I have eyes, sweetie. You two were practically undressing each other."
She turned to leave.
"Wait," Oakley said, his voice desperate. "Jessica. What do you want?"
She paused at the door, looking back over her shoulder.
"Want? I don't want anything from you, Oakley. You made your choice." She glanced at me with disdain. "Enjoy your little secret. While it lasts."
She walked out, letting the door click shut behind her.
Oakley and I stared at the closed door. The silence that followed was suffocating.
"Fuck," Oakley breathed, running both hands through his hair. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
"She's going to tell," I whispered, panic rising in my throat like bile. "She's going to tell everyone."
"Maybe not," Oakley said, turning to me. He grabbed my shoulders. "She didn't take a picture. It's her word against ours. We deny it. We say she's lying because she's jealous."
"She's the head cheerleader, Oakley! She has social capital. People will believe her."
"Not if we stick to the story," he insisted, his eyes fierce. "We were talking. I was getting equipment. She walked in and misunderstood. That's the story. Okay?"
"Okay," I nodded frantically. "Okay. Deny everything."
"I'll handle her," Oakley promised. "I'll talk to her. I'll find out what she wants. Maybe I can buy her silence. Or scare her."
"Don't scare her," I warned. "That just makes it worse."
"I'll fix it," he said, pulling me into a hug. But his body was rigid with tension. "I promise, Faye. I won't let her ruin this."
I hugged him back, but the invincibility I had felt ten minutes ago was gone. Shattered.
We weren't safe. We were standing on a trap door, and Jessica had just put her hand on the lever.
I spent the rest of the day looking over my shoulder.
Every time someone laughed in the hallway, I thought they were laughing at me. Every time a phone buzzed, I thought it was the email from the Dean.
I couldn't focus in class. I took notes that were just gibberish scribbles.
At 4:00 PM, I had to report to the training room for my shift.
I walked in, bracing myself for a confrontation.
But nothing happened.
The players came in, got taped, made jokes, and left. Oakley came in, got his shoulder treated with professional detachment (we didn't even make eye contact), and left.
No Jessica. No Dean. No whispers.
Maybe she was bluffing? Maybe she just wanted to scare us?
By 6:00 PM, I was starting to breathe again.
"Hey, Sommers," Doc Miller called from his office. "You done with the inventory?"
"Almost," I called back.
"Good. Lock up when you're done. I'm heading out."
"Night, Doc."
I finished counting the rolls of pre-wrap and grabbed my bag.
As I walked out of the arena, my phone buzzed.
Sloane (6:15 PM): Where are you? Come back to the dorm. NOW.
My stomach dropped. Sloane never used caps lock unless it was an emergency.
Me (6:16 PM): On my way. What's wrong?
Sloane (6:17 PM): Just get here. Don't look at social media.
Don't look at social media.
The universal code for "You are currently trending for all the wrong reasons."
I ran to my car.
When I got to the dorm, Sloane was waiting in the hallway. She looked grim. She grabbed my arm and dragged me into our room, slamming the door.
"What is it?" I demanded, breathless. "Did Jessica post something?"
"Not Jessica," Sloane said, handing me her iPad. "It's worse. It's 'The Claw'."
The Claw was the unofficial, anonymous student gossip blog. It was vicious, accurate, and read by everyone on campus.
I looked at the screen.
The headline screamed in bold red letters:
CAPTAIN’S SECRET PLAY: IS THORNE SCORING OFF THE ICE?
Beneath the headline was a blurry photo. It was grainy, taken from a distance, probably with a phone zoom.
It showed two figures in a car. It was dark, but the dashboard lights illuminated their profiles.
It was Oakley and me. In his truck. From the night of the Northern Lights. We were kissing.
It wasn't explicit, but it was undeniable. You could clearly see his profile—the distinct nose, the jawline. And you could see me—my hair, my coat.
The caption read: Sources say Captain Oakley Thorne has a new favorite pastime: private tutoring sessions with a certain Kinesiology student. Is this just extra credit, or a conflict of interest? We wonder what the Dean thinks about staff-student relations...
I dropped the iPad on the bed.
"Oh my god," I whispered.
"Who took that?" Sloane asked. "It looks like they were hiding in the bushes."
"I don't know," I said, shaking. "We were miles away. We were on the ridge."
"Someone followed you," Sloane said darkly. "Someone has been tracking you."
My mind raced. Jessica? No, she had seen us today. This photo was from last week.
The scout? The man in the trench coat?
Or...
My dad has spies everywhere.
Oakley’s voice echoed in my head.
This wasn't Jessica. This wasn't petty high school drama. This was a hit job. Calculated. Timed. Released right before the audit committee met.
"It's his dad," I whispered. "He did this."
"Oakley's dad?" Sloane asked, confused. "Why would he out his own son?"
"To force him to transfer," I realized, the horror dawning on me. "He threatened to create a scandal if Oakley didn't leave. This is the scandal. He's burning me to get to him."
My phone started blowing up. Texts from friends. Notifications from Instagram. And then, the one I was dreading.
An email.
From: Office of the Dean
Subject: Urgent Meeting - Clinical Rotation Review
To: Faye Sommers
Miss Sommers,
Please report to my office tomorrow morning at 8:00 AM regarding allegations of professional misconduct.
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
It was over.
The invincibility was gone. The bubble had burst.
I sank onto the floor, pulling my knees to my chest.
"Faye?" Sloane knelt beside me. "What do we do?"
"Nothing," I said, my voice hollow. "There's nothing to do. He won."
My phone buzzed again.
Oakley (6:30 PM): I saw it. Don't panic. I'm coming to get you.
Oakley (6:31 PM): Do not talk to anyone. I'm on my way.
I looked at the texts. Even now, in the middle of the disaster, he was trying to protect me.
But he couldn't protect me from this.
I texted him back.
Me (6:32 PM): Don't come. Dean emailed me. If you're seen here, it confirms everything.
Me (6:33 PM): Stay away, Oakley. Please.
I turned off my phone.
I sat there in the dark, listening to the silence of the room, knowing that the noise outside was just beginning.
We had thought we were rewriting the story. We thought we could beat the odds.
But we forgot the most important rule of the genre.
The monsters always win in the end.