Chapter 19
Faye
The air in the TD Garden in Boston tasted like overpriced popcorn, floor wax, and the collective anxiety of eighteen thousand people.
It was the National Championship. The Frozen Four. The stage where college legends were made, or where they choked and became trivia answers.
For me, it was something else. It was the finish line of a marathon I hadn’t signed up for but had run anyway.
I stood in the tunnel, wearing the credential that said TEAM STAFF in bold letters. It felt heavy around my neck, a plastic symbol of the war we had fought to keep me here.
Three weeks ago, I had been ready to pack my bags and go back to Ohio. Three weeks ago, I had believed the lie that I was the anchor dragging Oakley Thorne down.
Now?
I looked down at the iPad in my hands, checking the hydration stats for the second line. My hands were steady. My breathing was even.
I wasn't an anchor. I was the sail.
"Nervous?"
I looked up. Jax was standing there, bouncing on his skates, his eyes wide and manic. He was chewing gum so aggressively I thought his jaw might snap.
"For you?" I teased. "Terrified. You look like you drank six Red Bulls."
"Seven," Jax corrected. "But who's counting? What about him? How is he?"
He nodded toward the end of the tunnel, where a solitary figure stood in the shadows, head bowed, stick resting against his forehead.
Oakley.
He was in "The Zone." That strange, silent place he went before a game where the world narrowed down to a sheet of ice and a puck. Usually, it scared me. It reminded me of the photos of his father—cold, detached, lethal.
But now, I knew better.
"He's fine," I said confidently. "He's just breathing."
As if hearing his name, Oakley lifted his head. He turned slowly. Beneath the shadow of his helmet cage, his eyes found mine instantly.
The gold wasn't burning with rage. It wasn't dull with sorrow. It was calm. A steady, warm burn like a hearth fire.
He didn't wave. He didn't smile. He just tapped his chest—right over his heart—twice.
I’m here. We’re here.
I tapped my chest back.
The buzzer sounded. The roar of the crowd swelled as the lights dipped.
"Showtime, boys!" Coach Varon shouted. "Let's go hunting!"
The team stormed out onto the ice, a thunder of skates and cheering. Oakley led them, the 'C' on his chest catching the spotlight.
I watched him go, feeling a swell of pride so fierce it almost brought me to my knees.
"Miss Sommers."
The voice was smooth, cultured, and chilled the air by ten degrees.
I stiffened, turning slowly.
Elias Thorne stood near the entrance of the VIP elevators. He was wearing a cashmere coat that probably cost more than my entire tuition. He looked out of place in the concrete tunnel, like a shark swimming in a community pool.
My first instinct was to run. This was the man who had threatened to ruin my life. The man who had broken his own son to mold him into a weapon.
But I wasn't that girl anymore. I wasn't the scared scholarship student hiding in a broom closet.
I straightened my spine. I clutched my clipboard like a shield, but I didn't step back.
"Mr. Thorne," I said coolly. "You're blocking the exit."
He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He wasn't used to resistance.
"You're persistent," he observed, stepping closer. "I'll give you that. Most girls would have taken the payout and run."
"I'm not most girls," I said. "And I'm not for sale."
"Everyone is for sale, Miss Sommers. It's just a matter of currency." He looked toward the ice, where the national anthem was starting. "You think you've won because he defied me. Because he threatened to quit. It was a bold play, I admit. But the game isn't over."
"It is for you," I said.
He looked back at me, his eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"
"You lost him," I said, my voice shaking slightly but gaining strength with every word. "You spent twenty years trying to turn him into you. You tried to isolate him, control him, scare him. And all you did was push him right into my arms."
I took a step toward him.
"He's not playing for you tonight, Elias. He's not playing for the legacy, or the stock price, or the Thorne name. He's playing for himself. And he's playing for me. And that makes him dangerous in a way you can't even understand."
Elias stared at me. For a moment, I saw the Wolf in him—the flash of amber, the desire to snap and bite. But he held it back. Because he knew.
He knew that if he touched me, Oakley would burn the world down.
"We'll see," Elias said softly. "The pressure of a National Championship breaks weak men. Let's see if your 'love' can keep him upright when the game is on the line."
"Watch," I challenged. "Just watch him."
I turned my back on him—a deliberate, disrespectful move—and walked toward the bench.
I didn't look back. I didn't need to.
The anthem ended. The puck dropped.
And the war began.
Oakley
The game was a blur of motion and violence.
Denver was fast. They hit hard. They played a trap system designed to suffocate creativity and frustrate scorers.
In the past, this would have driven me insane. I would have gotten angry. I would have taken stupid penalties trying to force a play. I would have listened to the voice of my father in my head telling me I was failing.
But tonight, the voice in my head was quiet.
Or rather, it was replaced by a different voice.
You’re the anchor. I’ve got you.
I felt light. My skates carved the ice with precision. I saw the lanes before they opened. I felt the flow of the game like a pulse.
First period: 0-0. A grind.
Second period: 1-1. Jax scored a garbage goal off a rebound. Denver answered with a power-play sniper shot.
Third period. Five minutes left. Tie game.
My legs burned. My lungs were heaving. The sweat was stinging my eyes.
"Thorne! You're up!" Varon shouted.
I hopped over the boards.
The face-off was in our zone. Defensive draw. High pressure.
I lined up against the Denver center. He was big, grinning through a missing tooth.
"Tired, rich boy?" he chirped. "Daddy can't buy you this one."
I didn't respond. I didn't growl. I just looked at the ref's hand.
The puck dropped.
I won it back cleanly to the defense.
Then I moved.
I exploded up the ice, cutting through the neutral zone. The pass from the defenseman hit my tape perfectly.
I crossed the blue line. Two defenders collapsed on me.
Old Oakley would have tried to go through them. Old Oakley would have tried to be the hero.
New Oakley saw the open ice.
I faked the shot. The defenders bit, dropping to block.
I slid a no-look pass across the slot to Miller, who was streaking in alone.
Miller didn't miss.
The net rippled. The horn blasted.
2-1.
The crowd erupted.
I didn't scream. I just skated over to Miller and hugged him.
"Great pass, Cap! Holy shit!"
"Great finish," I said, grinning.
We held the lead. The final seconds ticked down.
5... 4... 3... 2... 1...
Bedlam.
Gloves flew into the air. Sticks clattered to the ice. I was tackled by eighteen sweaty, screaming men.
We had done it.
We were National Champions.
I lay on the ice, staring up at the blinding arena lights, feeling the weight of my teammates on top of me.
I felt... peace.
Total, absolute peace.
I rolled over and pushed myself up. I shook the hand of the Denver captain. I lined up for the handshake.
And then, I looked for her.
She wasn't in the stands. She was on the ice.
Faye was standing near the bench, clutching a towel, tears streaming down her face. She was wearing her oversized team jacket, looking tiny amidst the chaos of the celebration.
I skated toward her.
I didn't care about the cameras. I didn't care about the protocol.
I grabbed her by the waist and lifted her over the boards, pulling her onto the ice. Her sneakers slipped on the surface, and she shrieked, clutching my shoulders.
"Oakley! I'm going to fall!"
"I've got you," I promised.
I kissed her.
It wasn't a polite kiss. It was a claiming. I devoured her right there on center ice, surrounded by confetti and cameras. I tasted her tears and her smile.
"We did it," she sobbed against my mouth. "You did it."
"We," I corrected. "We did it."
I looked up.
Standing in the tunnel, watching us, was my father.
He stood alone. His hands were in his pockets. He looked smaller than I remembered. Older.
He caught my eye. He looked at Faye, clinging to me. He looked at the joy on my face.
He nodded once. A slow, resigned dip of his chin. And then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the arena bowels.
He was gone.
The fear was gone.
I looked back at Faye.
"Let's go," I whispered.
"Go where? The trophy ceremony?"
"After," I said. "Let's go home."
The hotel room was a suite on the top floor of the Ritz-Carlton. It was paid for by the university, meant for the Captain to host interviews.
Instead, Oakley had hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door and double-locked it.
The trophy—the massive, gleaming silver cup—was sitting on the coffee table next to a bucket of melting ice and an empty bottle of champagne.
But neither of them were looking at the trophy.
Faye stood by the window, looking out at the lights of Boston. She was still wearing her team polo shirt and jeans.
Oakley came up behind her. He had showered at the rink, but his hair was still damp, smelling of the hotel's cedar soap. He was wearing grey sweatpants and nothing else.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling deeply.
"You're quiet," he murmured, his voice rumbling against her spine.
"I'm just..." Faye leaned her head back on his shoulder. "I'm processing. It's over. The season. The college career. The secret."
"The secret is definitely over," Oakley chuckled. "I think ESPN got a 4K shot of my tongue in your mouth."
"My mom is going to be so scandalized," Faye laughed softly.
"Your mom is going to love me. I'm charming."
"You're a menace."
He spun her around. His hands rested on her hips, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles against the denim. His eyes were gold, glowing softly in the dim light of the room.
"I feel free," he whispered. The admission was raw. "I've never felt free before, Faye. I've always felt like I was running a race with a gun to my head. Tonight... on the ice... the gun was gone."
"I told you," she said, reaching up to cup his face. "You don't need the fear."
"I needed you," he said. "I need you. That hasn't changed. It's never going to change."
He leaned down and kissed her.
It started slow. A celebration of relief. A confirmation of survival.
But then, the heat kicked in.
The adrenaline from the game, the high of the victory, the sheer biological relief of being safe—it all ignited at once.
Oakley groaned, lifting Faye up. She wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively.
He carried her to the massive king-sized bed and laid her down.
"Mine," he growled, looming over her. "Tell me you're mine."
"I'm yours," Faye breathed, reaching for the waistband of his sweatpants. "Only yours."
He stripped quickly, tossing his pants aside. He was magnificent. Scars and muscle and ink, bathed in the city lights.
He didn't rush this time. He didn't have to. There were no secrets. No broom closets. No ticking clocks.
He moved over her, bracing his weight on his forearms, caging her in.
"I want to see everything," he said, his voice thick with lust. "I want to memorize you."
He undressed her slowly, reverently. He kissed every inch of skin he exposed. He kissed the scar on her knee. He kissed the soft curve of her stomach. He kissed the mark on her shoulder that had faded to a faint shadow.
"I'm going to mark you again," he warned, his eyes dark.
"Do it," she challenged. "Let everyone know."
He sank into her.
It was a slow, deep slide that made both of them gasp.
"God," Oakley hissed, his head falling back. "Faye."
"I know," she whispered, arching into him. "I feel it too."
They moved together in a rhythm that was purely theirs. It wasn't about dominance or submission anymore. It was about equality. It was a conversation without words.
We survived.
We won.
We are free.
Oakley’s hands tangled in her hair, anchoring her as he drove deeper. Faye’s nails dug into his shoulders, grounding him.
"Look at me," he commanded, opening his eyes.
She looked. The connection was intense, overwhelming.
"I love you," he said. He said it clearly, loudly, right as the pleasure began to crest. "I love you, Faye."
"I love you," she cried out.
The climax hit them simultaneously. It was a crashing wave of endorphins and emotion. Oakley buried his face in her neck, shouting her name, while Faye held him tight, feeling the tremors rack his massive body.
They lay there for a long time afterward, tangled in the sheets, hearts gradually slowing.
Oakley rolled onto his side, pulling her against him. He kissed the top of her head.
"So," he said, his voice drowsy and content. "Detroit."
"Detroit," she agreed.
"I was thinking," he said, tracing patterns on her arm. "We have a few months before training camp starts. And you have the summer off before your final semester."
"Yeah?"
"We should go somewhere. Somewhere warm. Somewhere with no ice and no cell service."
"Like a vacation?"
"Like a honeymoon," he said, the word slipping out casually.
Faye froze. She looked up at him.
He was grinning. It was a boyish, hopeful grin.
"Hypothetically," he added quickly. "I mean... unless you want to make it official."
"Oakley Thorne," she laughed, slapping his chest. "Are you proposing to me in a hotel bed after winning the National Championship?"
"I'm strategizing," he said, capturing her hand and kissing the ring finger. "I'm locking down my assets. First overall pick needs a First Lady."
"Ask me again," she whispered, her eyes shining. "Ask me again when we get the dog."
"Deal," he said.
He pulled the duvet up over them, cocooning them in warmth.
"Go to sleep, Champion," she whispered.
"Goodnight, Mouse."
Outside, the city of Boston was still awake, celebrating the victory.
But inside the room, the only victory that mattered was the steady, synchronized beating of two hearts that had fought the world to be together.
And won.