Chapter 17
Oakley
Time wasn't linear anymore. It was a loop of grey static, punctuated by moments of intense, suffocating silence.
It had been three weeks.
Twenty-one days since I stood on the bridge and ripped my own heart out.
Five hundred and four hours since I had last smelled vanilla.
I was existing. I woke up at 5:00 AM. I ate flavorless oatmeal.
I went to the rink. I skated until my lungs burned and my legs turned to jelly.
I went to class and stared at the whiteboard without seeing it.
I lifted weights until my calluses tore and bled.
I went to bed and stared at the ceiling until exhaustion dragged me under.
I was the perfect Captain. I was the perfect student. I was the perfect Thorne.
And I was completely, utterly dead inside.
"Thorne, you're drifting," Coach Varon barked, his whistle cutting through the cold air of the arena.
I snapped to attention, realizing I was standing at the blue line while the rest of the team was running a breakout drill.
"Sorry, Coach," I mumbled, tapping my stick.
"Get your head in the game, son," Varon said, skating over to me. He lowered his voice, his eyes searching my face with a mixture of concern and frustration. "The Championship is in two days. The scouts are swarming. Your father is flying in tonight. I need you sharp."
"I'm sharp," I lied.
"You're a ghost," Varon corrected bluntly. "You're lighter on the scale. You're slower on the turn. And you look like you haven't slept since the semi-finals."
"I'm fine," I said, the standard response that felt like ash on my tongue. "Just focused."
"Focused?" Varon scoffed. "You're not focused, Oakley. You're grieving. And while I appreciate the sacrifice you made to keep the team—and that girl—safe, you need to snap out of it. Or we're going to lose on Saturday."
I flinched at the mention of that girl.
Faye.
I hadn't seen her. Not once. She had been reassigned to the swim team, which practiced at the aquatic center on the other side of campus. It was as if she had been erased from my world.
Except she wasn't erased. She was everywhere.
I saw her in the library, in the curve of a stranger's neck. I heard her laugh in the cafeteria, only to turn and find it was someone else. I smelled her in my truck, a phantom scent that no amount of detailing could remove.
"I won't let you lose," I promised Varon, my grip on my stick tightening until my knuckles turned white. "I'll get it done."
"See that you do," Varon said, skating away.
I finished practice on autopilot. I showered quickly, keeping my head down, avoiding eye contact with the team. They knew. Everyone knew something was wrong, but no one dared to ask. The "Ice King" persona I had cultivated for years was back in full force, sharper and colder than ever.
Even Jax had stopped trying.
"Hey," Jax said as I packed my bag. He didn't look at me. He was re-taping his shin guards for the third time, a nervous tic. "Team dinner tonight. Pizza at the Lodge. You coming?"
"Can't," I said. "Need to study tape."
"Oak," Jax sighed, finally looking up. His black eye had healed, but he looked tired. "You haven't eaten with us in weeks. The guys miss you. I miss you."
"I'm busy, Jax."
"You're miserable," he countered. "And you're making everyone else miserable. Just come eat a slice of pepperoni and pretend to be human for an hour."
"I'm not human," I snapped, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "I'm the Captain. I have a job to do."
I walked out before he could argue.
I walked out into the snow, into the silence, and drove back to the Lodge. I went straight to my room, locked the door, and turned off the lights.
I sat on the edge of my bed—the bed where we had made love, the bed where she had told me she chose me—and stared out the window at the frozen lake.
I had saved her. She was safe. She had her scholarship. She had her future.
So why did it feel like I had condemned myself to hell?
Saturday. Championship Game.
The atmosphere in the arena was electric. A sell-out crowd. fifteen thousand screaming fans painted in silver and black. The student section was a sea of foam fingers and signs. The band was blasting "Welcome to the Jungle."
It was the biggest night of my life. The culmination of four years of blood, sweat, and sacrifice.
And I felt absolutely nothing.
I sat in the locker room, staring at my skates. The noise from the crowd filtered through the concrete walls as a dull roar. My teammates were hyping each other up, shouting, hitting pads.
"Alright, boys!" Varon shouted, walking into the center of the room. "This is it! Sixty minutes for glory! Sixty minutes to write your names in history! Who are we?"
"TIMBERWOLVES!" the team roared.
I stood up. I put my helmet on. I tapped my gloves together.
I walked out of the tunnel.
The lights were blinding. The noise was a physical wave.
I skated a lap, the ice crisp and fast under my blades. I looked up at the luxury box at center ice.
My father was there. Standing with the University President and the GM of the Detroit Red Wings. He saw me look up. He nodded once. A curt, satisfied gesture.
Good soldier.
I looked away. I scanned the stands. Not the luxury box. The cheap seats. Section 104.
Empty.
Or rather, full of strangers. But the one face I was looking for wasn't there.
Of course she wasn't. Why would she be? I had broken her heart on a bridge and told her she meant nothing to me. She was probably in her dorm, studying, trying to forget I existed.
Pain, sharp and familiar, twisted in my gut. I shoved it down. I locked it away in the box with the memories of my mother and the sound of Faye's laugh.
The puck dropped.
I played like a machine.
That was the only word for it. I didn't feel the hits. I didn't feel the fatigue. I just executed. Pass. Shot. Check. Repeat.
I scored in the first period. A slap shot from the point that was so hard it cracked the goalie's mask.
I didn't celebrate. I just skated back to the bench.
In the second period, I took a stick to the face. Blood poured from my nose. I didn't flinch. I let the trainer plug it with cotton and went right back out for the next shift.
"Thorne is a monster tonight!" the announcer screamed over the PA. "He's possessed!"
Possessed by ghosts.
The game was close. The opposing team—Denver—was fast and disciplined. We traded goals. It was 3-3 going into the final minute of the third period.
I had the puck. I was tired. My legs were heavy.
But I saw the lane.
I cut to the middle, deked the defenseman out of his jockstrap, and found myself alone with the goalie.
Time slowed down.
In that split second, I didn't think about the trophy. I didn't think about the draft.
I thought about the library.
I want to know why you look at me like you're hungry.
I snapped my wrist.
The puck flew. Top corner. Bar down.
The red light flashed. The horn blew. The arena exploded.
We had won.
My teammates swarmed me. I was buried under a pile of sweaty, screaming bodies. Helmets knocked against mine. Gloves patted my head.
"You did it, Cap! You did it!"
I let them pull me up. I let them hoist me onto their shoulders. I held the trophy when they handed it to me. I smiled for the cameras. I shook my father's hand when he came down to the ice.
"Well done," Elias said, gripping my hand firmly. "You played like a Thorne."
"Thanks," I said, my voice hollow.
The confetti rained down, silver and black glitter sticking to my sweaty skin. The flashbulbs popped.
I looked out at the sea of cheering faces. Thousands of people chanting my name.
And I had never felt more alone in my entire life.
The after-party was at the Lodge.
It was the party to end all parties. The kegs were flowing. The music was shaking the foundation. The entire campus seemed to be crammed into our living room.
I lasted twenty minutes.
I accepted the toasts. I drank the beer. I nodded when girls tried to flirt with me.
But the noise was unbearable. It scraped against my nerves like sandpaper.
I slipped away. I retreated to my attic room, locking the heavy door behind me.
The silence was a relief, but it was also a curse.
I walked over to the window, staring out at the darkness. The trophy was sitting on my dresser, gleaming in the moonlight. It looked like a piece of tin. Worthless.
I sat on the edge of the bed and put my head in my hands.
"I won," I whispered to the empty room. "I won. Are you happy now?"
No answer. Just the wind howling outside.
I stood up and started to pace. The adrenaline from the game was fading, replaced by the crushing weight of reality.
The season was over. The goal was achieved. My father was happy. The scouts were impressed. I was going to be the first overall pick.
And I would have to live the rest of my life without her.
I walked over to the closet to hang up my suit jacket.
As I reached for a hanger, my foot kicked something in the back of the closet.
I looked down.
It was a pair of boots. Sorel snow boots. With the fur trim.
She had left them here. That weekend. The weekend of the blizzard when she had stayed over and worn my jersey. She had changed into sneakers for class and forgotten them.
I stared at the boots.
They looked so small. So ordinary.
Slowly, I reached down and picked one up. It was heavy, sturdy. I ran my thumb over the fur trim.
A scent hit me. Faint, fading, but unmistakable.
Vanilla.
The wall I had built—the fortress of ice and discipline and lies—cracked.
A sob ripped from my throat. It was ugly and violent.
I sank to the floor, clutching the boot to my chest.
"Faye," I choked out.
The memories flooded back, no longer held back by the dam.
Faye in the library, challenging me.
Faye in the truck, kissing me under the aurora.
Faye in this room, on this bed, telling me I wasn't a monster.
Faye on the bridge, her eyes dying as I broke her heart.
You're a coward, Oakley.
She was right.
I wasn't a hero. I wasn't a noble martyr sacrificing my happiness for her future.
I was a coward.