Chapter 17
Ben
Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours.
That’s how long it had been since I watched Ivy St. James walk out of my bedroom door.
They say time heals all wounds. Whoever "they" are, they clearly never had their heart ripped out of their chest by their own hand. Time didn't heal. It just stretched. It turned minutes into hours, hours into days, dragging out the misery until it felt like I was drowning in slow motion.
I was functioning. Technically.
I woke up at 5 AM. I ate oatmeal (flavorless paste). I went to the rink. I practiced. I went to class. I lifted weights. I went to sleep.
I was a robot. A machine built for hockey and nothing else.
My dad was thrilled. He called me every other day, his voice brimming with pride. "You're focused, Ben. You're sharp. Davids is impressed. The Montreal deal is back on the table."
Coach Sullivan was relieved. The investigation had been quietly dropped after Ivy withdrew from the university housing and moved into a cheap off-campus apartment (paid for by my father’s "grant"). The scandal had fizzled out, replaced by the hype of the Frozen Four.
Everything was perfect. Everything was back on track.
I hated every second of it.
I was currently sitting in the locker room, taping my stick.
Snap. Smooth. Snap. Smooth.
The sound was rhythmic, hypnotic.
Around me, the team was buzzing. We were in Boston. TD Garden. The National Championship game against Minnesota was tonight. This was it. The pinnacle. The dream I had been chasing since I was four years old.
"You good, Cap?"
I looked up. Jax was standing over me. He looked worried. Everyone looked worried around me lately. I hadn't smiled in three weeks. I hadn't made a joke. I hadn't spoken unless it was to call a play.
"I'm fine," I said. My voice sounded rusty.
"You look like a corpse," Jax said bluntly. "A very fit corpse, but still. You haven't eaten anything but protein bars since we left Burlington."
"Fuel is fuel."
"Ben." Jax sat down next to me. He lowered his voice. "We missed her too, you know. The house is... quiet. Weird quiet. Like a library where someone died."
My hand froze on the tape.
"Don't," I warned.
"She's gone, man. She's not coming back. But you're still here. And we need you here. Not just the Butcher. We need Ben."
"Ben is gone," I said, ripping the tape with my teeth. "Ben was a liability. The Butcher wins championships."
I stood up.
"Let's go. Warm-ups in five."
I walked out of the locker room. I didn't look back.
The Game
TD Garden was deafening.
Eighteen thousand people. Bands. Cheers. The lights were blinding.
I skated onto the ice. The cold hit my face, familiar and sharp.
This is my territory, I told myself. This is where I make sense.
But as I circled the defensive zone, my eyes drifted. It was involuntary. A reflex I couldn't kill.
I looked at the stands.
I saw black and gold jerseys. I saw signs. I saw my father in a luxury box, holding a glass of wine.
I didn't see a pink beanie. I didn't see hazel eyes. I didn't see the one person who made the noise stop.
The hollowness in my chest expanded, a black hole swallowing the adrenaline.
She's not here. You sent her away.
The puck dropped.
I played.
I played perfectly. I was a wall. I blocked shots. I cleared the crease. I made crisp, tape-to-tape passes. I didn't hesitate. I didn't feel pain.
In the second period, a Minnesota forward tried to drive the net. I stepped up. I hit him.
It was a clean hit. Shoulder to chest. But it was violent. He flew backward, his helmet popping off, and crashed into the boards with a sound like a gunshot.
The crowd roared.
I stood over him for a second. I felt nothing. No satisfaction. No thrill. Just physics.
"Nice hit, Sterling!" Tank yelled, slapping my shin pads.
I skated away.
Late in the third period, the score was tied 2-2.
Minnesota was on a power play. They were cycling the puck, looking for a lane.
I saw the setup. Their defenseman was winding up for a slap shot from the point.
I stepped into the lane.
I didn't flinch. I didn't turn. I took the shot.
The puck hit me in the ribs. Hard. I felt something crack. The wind was knocked out of me.
I dropped to one knee.
Pain exploded in my side. White-hot. Blinding.
"Get up!" I screamed at myself internally. "Get up!"
I forced myself up. I cleared the puck out of the zone.
The buzzer sounded. End of regulation.
Overtime.
I skated to the bench, clutching my side. Every breath was a knife.
"Sterling! You okay?" Coach was in my face.
"I'm fine," I wheezed. "Ribs. Just a bruise."
"You look pale, son."
"I'm playing," I snarled. "Put me in."
He looked at me. He saw the dead look in my eyes. The look of a man who had nothing left to lose.
"Alright. You're up."
Overtime started. sudden death.
Five minutes in. We had the puck in their zone. Jax had it behind the net.
I saw the opening. The Minnesota defense had collapsed on Jax. The slot was open.
I crept in from the point.
"Jax!" I yelled.
He heard me. He spun and fired a blind pass into the slot.
It was perfect. Right on my tape.
I didn't think. I didn't aim. I just shot.
One-timer.
The puck screamed off my stick. It beat the goalie glove-side. It hit the back bar with a metallic ping.
Goal.
The red light flashed. The horn blasted.
We won.
National Champions.
The team poured off the bench. Gloves flew into the air. Sticks clattered to the ice. I was engulfed in a pile of screaming, sweating bodies.
"WE DID IT! WE DID IT!"
Jax was hugging me, screaming in my ear. Coach was crying again.
I was smiling. I felt my lips curving up. I was shouting.
But inside?
Silence.
The confetti rained down. Gold and black. It stuck to my sweaty face.
Someone handed me the trophy. It was heavy. Cold.
I lifted it over my head. The crowd went insane.
I looked up at the luxury box. My father was clapping. He gave me a thumbs up.
I did it, I thought. I won. I earned it.
And then I looked at the spot in the stands where she should have been.
It was empty.
The trophy felt like lead. The cheers sounded like static. The confetti looked like ash.
I lowered the trophy. I handed it to Jax.
"Take it," I said.
"What? No, you skate a lap! You're the Captain!"
"Take it," I repeated, turning away. "I'm done."
I skated off the ice.
While my team celebrated the greatest moment of our lives, I walked down the tunnel, alone.
The Locker Room
I sat in my stall. I hadn't showered. I was still wearing my gear. My ribs were on fire.
The room was empty. everyone else was still on the ice or doing interviews.
I stared at my phone. It was sitting on the bench next to me.
I had blocked her number. Three weeks ago. Right after I kicked her out. I had blocked her on everything. Text. Insta. Everything.
Because if I saw her name... if I saw one message... I knew I would break.
I picked up the phone.
My thumb hovered over the settings.
Don't do it, the logical part of my brain screamed. You won. You're going to the NHL. Don't blow it now.
But the other part of my brain—the part that had been screaming in agony for twenty-one days—took over.
I unblocked her.
Messages flooded in. Dozens of them. From three weeks ago.
Ivy: Ben, please. Talk to me.
Ivy: I know you're hurting. I know your dad pressured you. We can fix this.
Ivy: I returned the check. I ripped it up. I'm not taking his money.
Ivy: Please just tell me you didn't mean it. Tell me the love wasn't a lie.
And then, one from two weeks ago.
Ivy: I'm leaving. I can't stay here. I can't see you on campus and know you hate me. I got a job in New York. Teaching kids. It's not the company, but it's dance.
And finally, one from tonight. Sent ten minutes ago.
Ivy: I watched the game. That goal was beautiful. You looked... lonely. Congratulations, Captain. You got what you wanted.
I stared at the screen.
You got what you wanted.
Did I?
I looked around the locker room. The champagne was waiting on ice. The trophy would be here in a minute. The scouts were probably lining up outside the door with contracts.
I had the win. I had the legacy. I had my father’s approval.
And I felt like I wanted to die.
I stood up. I started ripping off my gear.
Shoulder pads. Elbow pads. Shin guards. I threw them into the bag.
I stripped off the jersey—the black jersey with STERLING on the back.
I looked at it.
It was just a shirt. Just fabric.
I threw it on the floor.
I grabbed my jeans. I grabbed my hoodie. I shoved my feet into my boots, ignoring the laces.
The door banged open.
My father walked in. He was beaming. He looked like he had just won the lottery.
"Ben! My boy! What a shot! Davids is ecstatic. He wants to talk numbers right now. He's waiting in the lounge."
He walked over to me, arms wide for a hug.
I stepped back.
My father froze. His smile faltered.
"Ben? What's wrong? You won."
"You won," I corrected, my voice quiet but steady. "You won, Dad. You got the trophy. You got the contract. You got the obedient son."
"Don't be dramatic. This is your moment."
"No," I shook my head. "This isn't my moment. This is my nightmare."
I picked up my bag.
"Where are you going?" my father demanded, his voice sharpening. "Davids is waiting."
"Let him wait. I'm not signing anything."
"Benjamin! You walk out that door, you throw it all away! Everything we worked for!"
"Everything you worked for," I snapped.
I walked up to him. I was taller than him now. I hadn't realized that until this moment. I looked down at him.
"You told me once that people leave when they don't have a reason to stay," I said. "Well, you were right. I don't have a reason to stay anymore."
"I am your father!" he shouted, his face turning red. "I gave you everything!"
"You gave me nothing," I whispered. "You gave me expectations. You gave me conditions. You gave me money."
I tapped my chest, right over my heart.
"She gave me this. She gave me back to myself. And I threw her away for you."
Tears pricked my eyes. Hot. Angry.
"I'm done, Dad. I'm done with the game. I'm done with the lies. I'm done with you."
I brushed past him.
"Ben!" he screamed. "If you leave, don't come back! I'll cut you off! You'll have nothing!"
I stopped at the door. I looked back at him. He looked small. Pathetic. A man in a suit in an empty room.
"I already have nothing," I said.
I walked out.
I walked past the team coming down the tunnel with the trophy.
"Cap? Where you going?" Jax yelled.
"New York," I said.
I didn't stop. I walked out of the arena, into the cool Boston night.
I hailed a cab.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
"Do you go to New York City?"
The driver laughed. "That's a four-hour drive, buddy. Cost you a fortune."
I reached into my bag. I pulled out my wallet. I had the cash from the "per diem" the team gave us. It was a lot.
I threw it on the seat.
"Drive," I said.
I leaned my head against the window as the cab pulled away from the stadium, away from the cheers, away from the life I was supposed to want.
I pulled out my phone.
I typed a message to Ivy.
Me: I'm coming.
I didn't know where she lived. I didn't know if she would talk to me. I didn't know if I was too late.
But as the city lights blurred past, for the first time in three weeks, I felt something other than numbness.
I felt fear.
And like I told her once in a motel room... fear makes you present.
I was awake. Finally.
And I was going to get her back. Or I was going to die trying.