Chapter 17 #2
I had let my father dictate my life. I had let his fear—his poisonous, twisted legacy—infect me. I had believed him when he said love was a weakness.
But love wasn't a weakness. It was the only thing that had ever made me strong. Without her, I wasn't playing like a machine; I was playing like a corpse.
And if I went to the NHL like this... if I went to Detroit alone... I would turn into him. I would become cold, bitter, and hollow. I would destroy myself, just like he destroyed my mother.
I looked at the trophy. I looked at the boot.
The choice was suddenly so clear it was blinding.
I could have the career. Or I could have the girl.
But what was the point of the career if I didn't have anyone to share it with? What was the point of glory if I was miserable?
I stood up.
I grabbed my keys.
I didn't care what time it was. I didn't care about the rules. I didn't care about the scouts or my father or the Dean.
I had to fix this.
It might be too late. She might hate me. She might have moved on.
But I had to try.
I ran out of the room, down the back stairs, and out into the night.
I climbed into my truck. The engine roared to life.
I drove toward the dorms.
I wasn't the Captain anymore. I wasn't the Heir.
I was just a wolf hunting for his mate. And this time, I wasn't going to let anyone stand in my way.
Faye
I heard the fireworks from my dorm room.
I was sitting on my bed, surrounded by textbooks I wasn't reading. Sloane was out at the victory party. She had invited me, begged me to come, but I couldn't.
I couldn't watch him celebrate. I couldn't watch him be happy without me.
The sky lit up with bursts of red and gold. The distant roar of the crowd drifted through the window.
He won.
He did it. He got what he wanted. He got the trophy. He saved his legacy.
And I was here. Safe. With my scholarship intact.
I should be relieved. I should be grateful.
But as I watched the colors fade into the darkness, all I felt was a terrible, aching emptiness.
I looked at the anatomy diagram in my lap. The human heart. Four chambers. Valves. Veins. A muscle designed to pump blood.
It looked so simple on paper.
It didn't show how it felt when it broke. It didn't show the physical pain of loving someone who decided you weren't worth the fight.
I'm choosing my future. Without you.
His words still echoed in my head, three weeks later.
I wiped a tear from my cheek.
"Stupid," I whispered. "Stupid girl. You knew. He warned you. He told you he was a monster."
But he wasn't. That was the tragedy. He wasn't a monster. He was a scared boy who thought he had to be one to survive.
A knock on the door startled me.
"Sloane, I told you I'm not going," I called out, wiping my face hastily.
The knock came again. Louder. More urgent.
"Faye."
I froze.
The voice was muffled by the wood, but I would know that gravelly baritone anywhere. Even in my nightmares. Even in my dreams.
Oakley.
I stood up, my heart hammering against my ribs.
What was he doing here? He won. He should be at the party. He should be with the scouts.
"Faye, please," he called again. "Open the door."
I walked to the door. My hand hovered over the knob.
"Go away, Oakley," I said, my voice shaking. "We're done. You made that very clear."
"I lied," he said through the door. "I lied about everything. Please. Just let me see you."
I hesitated.
I should leave it locked. I should protect myself. He had hurt me more than anyone ever had.
But...
I lied.
I unlocked the door.
I opened it.
Oakley stood in the hallway.
He was still wearing his suit from the game, but the tie was gone, the shirt unbuttoned. His hair was wild. He looked exhausted, frantic, and beautiful.
And he was holding... a snow boot?
"Hi," he breathed, staring at me like I was a ghost he was afraid would vanish.
"You're holding my boot," I said dumbly.
"I found it," he said, clutching it to his chest. "In my closet. It smelled like you."
He took a step forward.
"I tried, Faye," he said, his voice cracking. "I tried to be what they wanted. I tried to be the Thorne they built. I won the game. I got the trophy. I did everything right."
He dropped the boot. It landed with a thud.
He reached for my hands. His were shaking.
"And it meant nothing," he whispered. "It meant absolutely nothing without you. I was on the ice, surrounded by thousands of people, and I was completely alone. Because you weren't there."
"Oakley..."
"I'm sorry," he rushed on, desperation pouring off him. "I'm so sorry. I was a coward. I thought I was saving you. My dad... he threatened your scholarship. He threatened to ruin you. I thought if I pushed you away, you'd be safe."
"I know," I whispered. "I knew that night. But you still did it. You still chose to leave."
"I know. And it was the biggest mistake of my life."
He fell to his knees.
Right there in the dorm hallway, the Captain of the Timberwolves, the future NHL star, dropped to his knees in front of me.
He wrapped his arms around my waist and buried his face in my stomach.
"Please," he sobbed. "Please don't hate me. Please give me another chance. I don't care about the scholarship. I'll pay for your school. I'll pay for everything. I don't care about the draft. I'll play in Europe. I'll play on a pond. I don't care. Just... don't let me be alone again."
I looked down at him.
I saw the trembling in his shoulders. I felt the wetness of his tears soaking through my shirt.
The anger I had been holding onto... the hurt... it didn't disappear. But it softened.
Because this wasn't the monster. This was the boy in the closet. And he had finally come out.
I reached down and placed my hands in his hair.
"Stand up, Wolf," I whispered.
He looked up at me. His eyes were red-rimmed, his gold irises swimming with tears.
"Do you hate me?" he asked.
"I tried to," I admitted. "I really tried. But... no. I don't hate you."
"Do you still love me?"
I looked at him. At the scars. At the fear. At the hope.
"Yeah," I sighed, a tear slipping down my own cheek. "I still love you. God help me."
He let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. He stood up and pulled me into his arms, crushing me against him. He kissed me—a frantic, salty, desperate kiss that tasted of repentance and promise.
"I'm going to fix this," he vowed against my lips. "I'm going to fix everything. My father. The Dean. Everything."
"How?" I asked, pulling back slightly. "They still have the power, Oakley."
He looked at me. The fear was gone from his eyes. Replaced by a cold, sharp determination.
"No," he said. "They don't. Because I have something they want. And I'm going to use it."
"What do you have?"
He smirked. A dangerous, familiar smirk.
"I'm the First Overall Pick," he said. "And I'm about to become a free agent."
He kissed my forehead.
"Pack a bag, Mouse. We're going to war."