Chapter 17
Max
December in New Hampshire is a masterclass in monochrome. The sky is the color of dirty dishwater. The trees are black skeletons. The ground is a uniform, hard-packed grey ice.
It matched my soul perfectly.
It had been three weeks. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours since I walked out of the apartment and left Imogen crying in the entryway.
I was living in the dorms again. A cramped double room with a sophomore named Kyle who snored like a chainsaw and played League of Legends until 3 AM. The room smelled of Axe body spray and instant ramen. It was loud. It was chaotic.
It was exactly what I deserved.
I sat on the edge of my twin bed, lacing up my skates. My hands moved with mechanical precision. Left loop, over, under, pull tight. Right loop, over, under, pull tight.
My room was spotless. I had organized Kyle’s side of the room while he was in class yesterday because I couldn't stand the mess. He had come back and thanked me, looking at me like I was a benevolent alien.
I wasn't benevolent. I was just trying to control the uncontrollable.
"Big night, Warden," Kyle said, looking up from his computer. "Playoffs. Do or die."
"Just another game," I muttered, grabbing my mask.
"Nah, man," Kyle grinned. "Scouts are gonna be thick as flies on shit. You ready?"
"I'm ready," I said.
I was ready. My stats over the last three weeks were immaculate. Save percentage: .960. Goals against average: 1.2. I was a wall. I was a fortress. I was playing the best hockey of my life.
And I felt absolutely nothing.
I walked out of the dorm, my gear bag heavy on my shoulder. The cold air hit my face, but it didn't wake me up. I hadn't slept through the night in three weeks. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face. I saw the tears. I heard her begging me to stay.
I don't love you.
The lie tasted like acid every time I remembered it.
I walked across campus. I passed the Fine Arts building. I didn't look up at the second-floor windows. I kept my head down, eyes on the grey path.
"Vane!"
I stopped. Jinx jogged up to me, his breath puffing in the air. He looked worried. He had been looking worried for weeks.
"Hey," I said.
"You eat today?" Jinx asked, falling into step beside me.
"Had a protein shake."
"That's liquid, dude. Solids. You need solids." Jinx reached into his pocket and pulled out a granola bar. "Here. Eat."
I took it. I put it in my pocket. "Thanks."
"You look like a zombie," Jinx said bluntly. "A very efficient, very scary zombie. But still. You okay?"
"I'm fine," I said. "Focused."
"Right," Jinx sighed. "Focused. Look, Max... I saw her yesterday."
My heart stopped. It literally stopped beating for a second, then kicked back in with a painful thud.
"Don't," I said.
"She looked bad, man," Jinx continued, ignoring me. "She was in the coffee shop. She looked... small. She wasn't wearing any glitter. She was just... grey."
"Jinx," I warned, my voice low.
"I'm just saying," Jinx held up his hands. "You fixed your stats. You got your letter. Is it worth it? turning her into a ghost?"
"Drop it," I snapped.
I walked faster, leaving him behind.
Is it worth it?
I touched the letter in my jacket pocket. The recommendation letter from Dean Sterling to the Montreal Canadiens. It was signed, sealed, and ready to be handed over tonight.
It was my ticket out. It was my freedom.
So why did it feel like a death sentence?
The Game
The arena was deafening.
Playoff hockey is different. The crowd is louder. The hits are harder. The desperation is palpable.
We were playing UMass. A powerhouse team. Fast. Mean.
I stood in the crease, scraping the ice with my skates. Scrape. Scrape. Smooth out the imperfections.
I looked up at the stands.
Habit. Muscle memory.
I looked at the VIP box. Dean Sterling was there, sipping a drink, looking smug. He saw me looking. He nodded—a curt, approving nod. Good job, soldier. You killed the enemy.
I looked at the student section.
No platinum blonde hair. No jersey with my name on it.
Just a sea of strangers screaming for a man they didn't know.
The puck dropped.
The game began.
I went into the zone. But it wasn't the warm, flowing zone I used to find. It was cold. Calculated.
A shot from the point. Save.
A rebound. Kick.
A deflection. Glove.
I was a machine. I moved without thinking. I didn't feel the bruises when the puck hit my chest protector. I didn't feel the burn in my legs.
First period: 0-0.
Second period: 1-0 Blackwood. Leo scored. He skated past me on the way to the bench. He didn't high-five me. He hadn't spoken to me in three weeks, except to call out plays. He blamed me. He should.
Third period.
UMass was pressing. They were desperate.
Five minutes left.
A breakdown in the neutral zone. A turnover.
A 3-on-0 breakaway. Three UMass players. Just me.
The crowd gasped.
I didn't panic. I didn't feel fear. I just calculated the angles.
The center carried the puck. He passed left. I slid.
The winger passed back. I slid again.
The center shot.
I threw my glove up.
Thwack.
The puck hit the leather webbing. I squeezed it shut.
The whistle blew.
The crowd erupted. It was a standing ovation. People were banging on the glass. VANE! VANE! VANE!
I stood up. I flipped the puck to the ref.
I felt... empty.
We won the game. 2-0.
The buzzer sounded. The team piled onto me. Helmets clacking, gloves facewashing me. They were screaming. We were going to the finals.
"You're a god, Vane!" Miller screamed in my ear.
"Montreal bound, baby!" Jinx shouted, hugging me.
I stood in the center of the huddle, surrounded by my teammates, surrounded by victory.
And I felt like I was drowning.
I looked up at the stands one last time.
Still empty.
She wasn't coming. She was never coming again.
I had won. I had everything I wanted.
And I realized, with a terrifying clarity, that I didn't want any of it without her.
The locker room was a party. Champagne (cheap stuff, smuggled in) was spraying. Music was blasting.
Coach Sullivan came in, grinning. He slapped me on the back.
"Hell of a game, Vane," he said. "The GM is outside. He wants to talk to you. Says he has a contract ready for when the season ends."
"Great," I said. My voice sounded hollow.
"Go shower," Coach said. "Look presentable. This is it, kid. The big leagues."
I walked to the showers.
I stood under the hot water for twenty minutes. I scrubbed my skin until it was red. I tried to wash off the feeling of the Dean's handshake. I tried to wash off the lie.
I got dressed. Suit. Tie.
I reached into my bag to grab my phone.
My hand brushed against something at the bottom of the bag.
Paper.
I frowned. I pulled it out.
It was a piece of heavy, textured art paper. It was crumpled, stained with water and dried carbonara sauce.
I smoothed it out on the bench.
It was the drawing.
The house. The big windows. The skylight in the bedroom.
She must have dropped it that night. Or maybe I had picked it up in a daze before I left. I didn't remember.
I stared at the charcoal lines. The detail was incredible. She had drawn a porch swing. She had drawn a dog sleeping on the steps.
It was a life. A whole life, captured in grey dust.
And I had thrown it away.
"Vane? You coming?" Jinx called from the door. "GM is waiting."
I looked at the drawing. I looked at the door.
A memory flashed in my mind. The storage unit. The rain. Her hands on my face.
You aren't your mother, Max. You aren't this unit. You're the guy who cleared it out.
She was the only one who saw me. Not the goalie. Not the Warden. Me.
And I had treated her like garbage. I had treated her like something to be organized, managed, and discarded.
I was my mother. I was hoarding my fear. I was holding onto my control so tightly that I was suffocating the only good thing in my life.
I stood up.
"No," I said.
Jinx stopped. "What?"
"I'm not coming," I said.
"Dude," Jinx’s eyes went wide. "It's the GM. It's the NHL. You can't just..."
"Watch me," I said.
I grabbed my bag. I shoved the drawing into my pocket, right next to the Dean's letter.
I walked past Jinx.
"Where are you going?" he shouted.
"I have to fix something," I said.
I walked out of the locker room. I walked past the Coach, who was talking to a man in a suit.
"Vane!" Coach yelled. "Where are you going?"
I didn't stop. I didn't answer.
I walked out of the arena.
I broke into a run.
My truck was in the lot. I jumped in. I started the engine.
I drove. Not to the dorms. Not to the apartment.
I drove to the Sorority House.
The Theta House was a massive white colonial that looked like a wedding cake. It had pillars. It had a wreath on the door.
I parked the truck on the lawn. I didn't care.
I ran up the steps. I pounded on the door.
A girl answered. She was wearing pajamas and a face mask.
"Is Imogen here?" I demanded. I was out of breath. My hair was wet. I probably looked insane.
The girl blinked. "Uh... no. She moved out."
My heart stopped. "What?"
"She moved out three days ago," the girl said. "Her dad came. Packed her stuff."
"Where did she go?" I grabbed the doorframe. "Please. I need to find her."
"I think..." the girl hesitated. "I think she went to the train station. She said she was going to New York. Something about galleries."
New York.
She was gone.
I stumbled back down the steps.
I looked at my watch. 11:30 PM.
The last train to New York left at midnight.
I had thirty minutes.
I jumped back in the truck. I floored it.
The roads were icy. The snow was falling harder now. My tires spun, fighting for traction.
Don't be late. Don't be late.
I drove like a maniac. I ran a red light. I drifted around a corner.
I reached the station at 11:55 PM.
I abandoned the truck in the loading zone. I sprinted into the station.
It was an old, echoing building. High ceilings. wooden benches.
It was mostly empty.
I scanned the platform.
There.
Sitting on a bench near Track 2.
She was wearing a long black coat. A red scarf. She had two large pink suitcases next to her.
She was staring at the tracks, her posture slumped. She looked... grey. Jinx was right. The sparkle was gone.
"Imogen!" I screamed.
Her head snapped up.
She saw me.
Her eyes widened. Fear? Hope? Anger?
She stood up. She grabbed the handle of her suitcase.
"Stay away from me!" she yelled, backing up.
"Imogen, wait!" I vaulted over the turnstile. I ran toward her.
"No!" She held up a hand. "You made your choice, Max! You chose the letter! Go away!"
"I ripped it up!" I lied—well, I intended to rip it up. I reached into my pocket. I pulled out the Dean's letter.
I stopped in front of her, breathing hard.
"Look," I said.
I ripped it in half. Then in quarters. I threw the pieces on the floor of the station.
"I don't want it," I said. "I don't want the letter. I don't want the draft. I don't want any of it if it means being without you."
She stared at the confetti of paper on the dirty floor.
"You're lying," she whispered. "You're just... having a panic attack. Go home, Max."
"I am home," I said. I took a step closer. "You're my home, Imogen. Remember? The storage unit? The motel?"
"You said you didn't love me," she choked out, tears spilling over. "You looked me in the eye and said it."
"I lied," I said. "I lied to save you. Your dad... he threatened me. He said he'd cut my scholarship. He said he'd ruin me. He told me to be the villain so you wouldn't fight him."
Her mouth opened slightly. "He... he threatened you?"
"Yes," I said. "And I was a coward. I was scared of being poor again. I was scared of the garbage. So I pushed you away."
I reached into my other pocket. I pulled out the drawing.
I unfolded it. It was wrinkled. It was stained.
"But then I found this," I said, holding it up. "And I realized... I'd rather live in a cardboard box with you than in a mansion without you."
I dropped to my knees. Right there on the platform.
"Please," I begged. "Please, Imogen. Don't get on the train. Come back. We'll figure it out. I'll get a loan. I'll work construction. I don't care. Just... don't leave me."
The train whistle blew. A loud, mournful sound. The headlights cut through the darkness of the tunnel.
Imogen looked at the train. She looked at me, kneeling in the dirt in my suit.
She looked at the ripped letter.
She looked at the drawing.
She took a step toward the train.
My heart shattered.
Then, she stopped.
She turned back.
She dropped her suitcase handle.
She ran to me.
I stood up just in time to catch her as she launched herself into my arms.
"You idiot," she sobbed into my neck. "You absolute, stubborn, terrified idiot."
"I know," I buried my face in her hair. "I know. I'm sorry. I love you."
"I love you too," she cried. "But if you ever lie to me again, I will burn your grey sheets."
"Deal," I promised.
The train arrived. The doors opened. People got off.
We stood there on the platform, holding onto each other like we were the only two people surviving the apocalypse.
The train left without her.
We watched it go.
Then, I picked up her suitcase.
"Let's go home," I said.
"To the dorms?" she asked, wiping her eyes.
"No," I said. "To the apartment. I'm taking it back. And if your dad has a problem with it, he can talk to my new agent."
"You have an agent?"
"I will by morning," I said. "Because I'm Maxwell Vane. And I always make the save."
She smiled. It was small. It was teary. But it was real.
The color was coming back to the world.
And the grey was finally gone.