Chapter 19
Riley
The sun in Seattle wasn't nearly as elusive as Spike had promised.
It poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and turning the sleek, modern furniture into something that felt surprisingly like home.
Or maybe it was just us that made it feel like home.
I sat on the kitchen island, swinging my legs, watching Spike make breakfast. He was wearing nothing but sweatpants, his bare back a landscape of muscle and tattoos that I was now intimately familiar with. He was humming—actually humming—as he flipped pancakes.
"You're cheerful," I noted, stealing a strawberry from the bowl. "For a man who is about to be sued by his own University."
"Let them sue," Spike said, turning to grin at me. He looked lighter. Younger. The haunted look that used to live in his eyes was gone, replaced by a fierce, steady brightness. "My lawyer says we have a defamation case that will make Henderson cry."
"He's a billionaire, Spike. He doesn't cry. He just buys new handkerchiefs."
"Then we'll make him buy a lot of them." He plated a stack of pancakes and slid them in front of me. "Eat. You're feeding two."
I looked down at the pancakes. They were shaped—crudely—like wolves.
"Are these... dire wolves?" I asked, laughing.
"They're abstract art," he defended, leaning over the counter to kiss my forehead. "Eat up, Mouse. We have a big day."
I sighed, the laughter fading slightly. "Right. The meeting."
Jerry, Spike's agent, had called last night. The PR stunt in Ohio had worked—maybe too well. The story was viral. The Runaway Rookie and the Expelled Tutor. It was trending on Twitter. But now, the NHL Commissioner wanted a meeting. And so did the Kraken's ownership group.
We were walking into the lion's den. Again.
"Hey." Spike stopped what he was doing. He walked around the island and stood between my legs, placing his hands on my thighs. His thumbs rubbed soothing circles on my skin. "Look at me."
I looked up. His amber eyes were serious, but warm.
"We aren't going there to beg," he said firmly. "We aren't going there to apologize. We are going there to tell them the terms of my return. And if they don't like it... we walk."
"Spike, it's the NHL," I whispered. "It's your dream."
"No," he corrected, pressing his hand to my stomach, right over the tiny bump that was just starting to show. "This is my dream. You. The pup. The garden. Hockey is just a game I'm good at. If they want me, they take all of me. Including you."
A lump formed in my throat. I wrapped my arms around his neck, burying my face in his chest. He smelled like coffee and safety.
"Okay," I whispered. "We walk."
"We stride," he corrected. "Like we own the place."
The Kraken's headquarters was a fortress of glass and steel in downtown Seattle.
We arrived in the Audi. Spike drove. I sat in the passenger seat, smoothing down my dress. It was a simple navy wrap dress that accommodated the bump but still looked professional.
"Ready?" Spike asked, killing the engine.
"No."
"Good. Fear keeps you sharp." He winked.
He got out and came around to open my door. He took my hand. He didn't let go.
We walked into the lobby. Heads turned. Whispers started.
That's her.
That's the girl.
Is she pregnant?
Spike ignored them all. He walked with his head high, his grip on my hand unyielding. He radiated Alpha energy—not the aggressive, violent kind he used on the ice, but a calm, unshakable dominance that made people step out of his way.
We took the elevator to the top floor.
Jerry met us outside the conference room. He looked frazzled. He was sweating through his suit.
"Spike! Riley!" Jerry hissed, wiping his forehead. "Okay, look. The owners are in there. The GM is in there. They are... unhappy. The video of you ripping the contract? Not a hit with the legal department."
"It was a copy," Spike said casually.
"They don't care! It's the optics, Spike. You look unstable." Jerry looked at me. "And bringing her in here? Is that wise? Maybe she should wait in the lobby."
Spike stopped. He turned to Jerry slowly.
"Riley isn't waiting in the lobby," he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "She is my partner. She is the mother of my child. And she is the reason I am standing here instead of rotting in a prison cell of my own making. She comes in. Or I leave."
Jerry paled. He looked at Spike, then at me. He saw the resolve.
"Okay," Jerry squeaked. "Okay. She comes in. Just... let me do the talking?"
"We'll see," Spike said.
He pushed the double doors open.
The conference room was vast. A long table stretched down the middle, seated with men in expensive suits. At the head of the table sat Mr. Sterling, the owner of the team. A billionaire with white hair and eyes like flint.
The conversation stopped instantly.
Every eye turned to us.
Spike didn't flinch. He walked to the empty chairs at the end of the table. He pulled one out for me. I sat. He sat next to me.
He didn't slouch. He didn't look down. He put his arm on the back of my chair, a clear, possessive claim.
"Gentlemen," Spike said.
"Mr. Thorne," Sterling said. His voice was dry. "You've caused quite a stir."
"I told the truth," Spike replied.
"You embarrassed the organization," the GM snapped. "You walked out on a road trip. You held a press conference without authorization. You publicly accused a University—our feeder school partner—of corruption."
"Because they are corrupt," I spoke up.
The room went silent. They looked at me like a piece of furniture had suddenly started talking.
"Excuse me?" Sterling asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Ironclad Mountain University," I said, my voice shaking slightly but gaining strength as Spike squeezed my shoulder.
"They blackmailed me. They threatened to institutionalize Spike based on his family history if I didn't confess to coercion.
They used his mental health as a weapon to protect their reputation. "
I pulled a folder from my bag.
"This," I said, sliding it across the polished table, "is a timeline.
It includes emails from Henderson Senior threatening to pull funding.
It includes transcripts of my meeting with the Dean where they dictated my confession.
And it includes a sworn affidavit from Vera, the Cheer Captain, who admits to taking the photos on their orders. "
Vera had flipped. Once she realized Spike was gone and the team was tanking without him, she had realized her "win" was hollow. A simple phone call from Spike—promising to leave her out of the lawsuit if she talked—was all it took.
Sterling picked up the folder. He opened it. He read in silence.
The room held its breath.
"This is... serious," Sterling murmured. "If true, this is a violation of NCAA bylaws, not to mention federal labor laws."
"It is true," Spike said. "And we're going public with the evidence. Unless..."
"Unless?" Sterling looked up.
"Unless the Kraken organization supports us," Spike said. "You issue a statement standing by me. You pressure the University to clear Riley's name and reinstate her degree. And you guarantee my contract regardless of the fallout."
The GM scoffed. "You're in no position to make demands, rookie. You walked out."
"I walked out because I was sick," Spike said. "Sick of the lies. Sick of the fear."
He stood up.
"I am the best defenseman in this league," he said. It wasn't arrogance. It was a statement of fact. "You know my stats. You know my impact. Without me, your defense is bottom-tier. With me, you're a contender."
He looked at Sterling.
"But I can't play for you if I'm fighting a war at home. I need this fixed. I need my family safe. If you can't help me do that... then tear up the real contract. I'm done."
He reached for my hand. "Come on, Riley."
We started to turn away.
"Wait."
Sterling stood up. He closed the folder. A slow smile spread across his face.
"You have guts, son," Sterling said. "I'll give you that. And I hate Henderson Senior. Pompous ass owes me money from a golf game in '98."
Sterling looked at his GM.
"Issue the statement," Sterling commanded. "Full support of our player. Condemn the University's actions. And get the legal team on the phone with the NCAA. I want this cleaned up by Friday."
He looked at me.
"Miss Bennett. Or is it Mrs. Thorne soon?"
"Soon," Spike answered for me.
"Good. The Kraken take care of their own. Welcome to the family."
Sterling extended his hand.
Spike took it.
"Thank you, sir," Spike said.
"Don't thank me yet," Sterling warned. "You owe me a Cup. Now get out of here. Go be with your wife."
We walked out of the building into the Seattle rain. But it didn't feel gray anymore. It felt like a cleansing shower.
"Did that just happen?" I asked, looking up at Spike.
"It happened," he grinned. He looked euphoric. "We won."
"You threatened a billionaire," I laughed. "And he liked it."
"Alphas respect Alphas," Spike shrugged. "And he knew I wasn't bluffing. That's the key. I was ready to walk, Riley. For real."
He stopped on the sidewalk. People were rushing past with umbrellas, ignoring us.
"I meant what I said," he told me, his face serious, rain dripping from his hair. "If he had said no... we would have left. We would have gone to the lake."
"I know," I said. "That's why it worked."
I touched his face.
"You're free, Spike. You really are."
"We're free," he corrected.
He kissed me. A deep, wet, joyous kiss in the middle of the sidewalk.
"Let's go home," he whispered. "I have some... unspent adrenaline."
"Oh?" I raised an eyebrow. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"We can call it a celebration," he growled, nipping at my lip. "Or we can call it making up for three months of misery."
"I like the sound of that."
The penthouse was warm when we got back.
We didn't even make it to the bedroom.
As soon as the front door clicked shut, Spike had me up against the wall. His mouth was everywhere—my neck, my jaw, my lips. His hands were frantic, pulling at my dress, needing skin.
"God, Riley," he groaned. "You have no idea. Every day. Every single day I wanted this."
"Me too," I gasped, tearing at his shirt. buttons popped, skittering across the floor. "I missed you so much."
He lifted me up. I wrapped my legs around his waist. He carried me to the living room couch—the expensive Italian leather one—and laid me down.
He stripped me quickly, efficiently. Then he stripped himself.
When he was naked, looming over me, I saw the change in him again. The tension that used to live in his shoulders was gone. The shadows in his eyes were banished. He looked... whole.
"You're beautiful," he whispered, running a hand over my stomach. "You're glowing."
"It's the hormones," I joked weakly.
"It's the love," he corrected.
He kissed my stomach. Right over the bump.
"Hi, pup," he murmured against my skin. "Daddy's here. Daddy's not going anywhere."
My heart melted into a puddle.
He moved up my body, kissing every inch. When he reached my face, his eyes were burning gold.
"I'm going to love you," he promised. "Until the day I die. I'm going to make you so happy you forget every bad thing that ever happened to us."
"Start now," I whispered.
He entered me slowly.
It wasn't like the first time—rough and desperate. It wasn't like the motel—sad and clinging.
This was joyful. It was a celebration of survival.
We moved together in a rhythm that felt like breathing. Deep. Easy. Essential.
"Spike," I sighed, arching into him. "Yes."
"I've got you," he said, interlacing his fingers with mine, pinning my hands to the cushions. "I've got you, Mouse."
We made love as the rain battered the windows, safe in our tower, safe in each other.
When the end came, it was a slow, rolling wave of pleasure that left us both breathless and laughing.
Yes, laughing.
I lay in his arms afterward, giggling as he tried to pull the duvet off the back of the couch to cover us.
"We are ridiculous," I said. "We just negotiated a multi-million dollar contract dispute and now we're naked on a couch at 2 PM."
"It's the best life," Spike said, kissing the top of my head. "The only life."
He pulled me closer, resting his chin on my hair.
"Riley?"
"Hmm?"
"My dad called again."
I stiffened. "When?"
"Yesterday. Before the meeting."
"What did he say?"
"He saw the press conference," Spike said quietly. "He said... he said I was lucky. He said I broke the cycle."
I lifted my head to look at him. "He said that?"
"Yeah. And then he said he wants to meet you. And the baby."
I hesitated. "Do you want that?"
Spike thought for a moment. He looked at the rain. Then he looked at me.
"Maybe one day," he said. "Through glass. Safely. But not yet. Right now... I just want to focus on the family I chose. Not the one I was given."
"Good answer," I said.
"I learned from the best tutor," he smirked.
I punched him lightly on the arm. "Shut up."
"Make me."
I kissed him. And for the rest of the afternoon, the only sounds in the penthouse were the rain, the fire crackling in the hearth, and the quiet, contented sighs of two people who had walked through hell and come out the other side holding hands.
We had won. Not the game. Not the argument.
We had won the war against the narrative that said we were broken.
And we were just getting started.