Chapter 15
Zoe
The library rooftop was strictly off-limits. The door was alarmed, the stairs were chained, and there was a camera pointed directly at the access panel.
But Rory Thorne didn't care about alarms. And apparently, he knew exactly which wire to cut to kill the camera feed.
"You're a delinquent," I whispered, climbing through the hatch he held open.
"I’m resourceful," he corrected, pulling himself up behind me.
The night air hit us, cold and crisp, but the view was worth the chill. Northridge University was spread out below us like a toy village, the lights of the dorms and the arena twinkling against the snow. Above, the sky was a vast, unbroken canopy of stars.
It was 2:00 AM on a Friday. Nationals were in three days.
I should be sleeping. I should be visualizing my routine.
Instead, I was standing on a roof with the man I loved, feeling more alive than I ever had on the ice.
"Cold?" Rory asked, stepping behind me.
He didn't wait for an answer. He opened his massive coat—a new one, black and heavy—and wrapped it around both of us, encasing me in his warmth and his scent.
"I’m okay," I murmured, leaning back against his chest. I could feel his heart beating steadily against my back.
"Look at that," he said, pointing toward the horizon where the northern lights were just starting to shimmer—faint ribbons of green and violet.
"It’s beautiful."
"It’s energy," he murmured. "Charged particles colliding with the atmosphere. It looks calm from here, but up there? It’s chaos."
"Like us," I said.
He chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated in my spine. "Yeah. Like us."
We stood there in silence for a while, just watching the lights dance. It felt like the eye of the storm. For the past week, we had been careful. We had followed the rules. We hadn't been caught. Even Tyler had been oddly quiet, though Rory said he handled it.
I turned in his arms to face him.
"We made it," I said softly. "Three days until Nationals. You passed your midterms. We didn't get caught."
"Don't jinx it," he warned, though his eyes were warm.
"I’m not jinxing it. I’m celebrating. We proved them wrong, Rory. My dad. Sergei. Everyone who said you were a distraction. You weren't. You were the reason I’m ready."
He looked at me, his expression turning serious. He reached up, his gloved thumb tracing my cheekbone.
"You did the work, Zoe. I just spotted you."
"No," I insisted, grabbing his hand. "You gave me the confidence. You made me feel strong."
"You are strong."
He leaned down and kissed me. It was a slow, deep kiss, full of promise. His lips were cold, his breath warm. I melted into him, forgetting about the roof, the cold, the risk.
"What happens after?" I asked when we broke apart, breathless.
"After Nationals?"
"After everything. After you get drafted. After I graduate."
Rory looked out at the campus.
"I talked to my agent today," he said quietly.
My heart skipped a beat. "And?"
"Detroit is serious. They want to sign me right out of college. Entry-level contract. But there’s a condition."
"What condition?"
"They want me in their development camp in June. In Michigan."
Michigan. That wasn't far. But it wasn't here.
"And you?" I asked. "What about you?"
"I told them I’d think about it."
"Rory! You can't think about it. It’s the NHL. It’s your dream."
"My dream has changed," he said, looking back at me. "Michigan is great. But… there are rinks in Minnesota too. The Wild are interested. Not as much money, maybe. But close to home."
"Home?"
"Close to you," he clarified. "You have another year of school. I’m not leaving you here alone with your father."
"You'd turn down Detroit for me?"
"I’d turn down the moon for you, Zoe."
The words hung in the cold air, heavier than the snow, brighter than the aurora.
I stared at him. This man—this "monster"—was willing to compromise his career just to stay in the same zip code as me.
"You're insane," I whispered, tears stinging my eyes.
"I’m mated," he shrugged. "Priorities shift."
"I love you," I said.
I had said it before, in the dark, in the heat of passion. But saying it here, under the open sky, felt different. It felt like a shout.
"I know," he smiled crookedly. "I love you too. Which is why I have a surprise."
He reached into his pocket.
My breath hitched. Was he… was he proposing? We were twenty-two. It was too soon.
He pulled out a key.
It wasn't a ring. It was a simple silver key on a plain ring.
"What is this?"
"I rented a cabin," he said. "For next weekend. After Nationals. Up north. Just us. Two days. No phones. No coaches. No dads."
"A cabin?"
"It has a fireplace," he said, his eyes darkening. "And a very big bed. And no neighbors for miles."
"Rory…"
"I want to take you away," he said intensely. "I want to celebrate properly. I want to wake up next to you and not have to check the time. I want to make breakfast for you naked."
I laughed, a wet, happy sound. "You cook?"
"I make eggs. And toast. It’s a limited menu, but the service is excellent."
I took the key. It felt heavy and cold in my palm. It felt like a ticket to freedom.
"Yes," I said. "Yes. A thousand times yes."
He grinned, picking me up and spinning me around. I shrieked, clutching his shoulders as the world blurred into a kaleidoscope of stars and snow and Rory.
He set me down, but kept his arms around me.
"We're going to be okay, Zoe," he promised, pressing his forehead to mine. "We're going to win Nationals. I’m going to the NHL. And we're going to figure it out. Together."
"Together," I echoed.
For that moment, standing on the roof of the world, I believed him. I believed that love was enough. I believed that the storm had passed.
We climbed down from the roof, drunk on hope and cold air.
We walked back to the dorms, hand in hand, not caring who saw us in the dark.
He kissed me goodnight at the service entrance of South Hall.
"Dream of me," he whispered.
"Always."
I watched him walk away, his silhouette broad and strong against the snow.
I went up to my room. Mia was asleep.
I crawled into bed, clutching the key in my hand. I fell asleep with a smile on my face, dreaming of a cabin in the woods and a future that felt terrifyingly, wonderfully real.
Saturday Morning. 9:00 AM.
The bubble didn't pop. It exploded.
I woke up to my phone vibrating off the nightstand. It wasn't a text. It was a call.
My father.
I groaned, rolling over. It was Saturday. Why was he calling this early? Probably to give me a pre-Nationals lecture about focus and legacy.
I picked up. "Hi, Dad."
"Come to my office," he said.
His voice was terrifying. It wasn't angry. It was dead. Flat. Cold.
"Dad? What’s wrong?"
"Now, Zoe. Do not stop for coffee. Do not talk to anyone. Just come."
Click.
I stared at the phone. My stomach churned.
"What is it?" Mia mumbled from her bed.
"My dad. He sounded… wrong."
I got dressed quickly. I put on jeans and a sweater. I didn't bother with makeup. I grabbed my coat and ran out the door.
The walk to the Administration Building was a blur. The campus was quiet, sleepy. But I felt like I was walking through a minefield.
I reached the Dean’s office. The secretary wasn't there yet. The door to his inner office was closed.
I knocked.
"Enter."
I opened the door.
My father was sitting behind his massive mahogany desk. He was wearing a suit, immaculate as always. But his face was grey. He looked ten years older than he had last week.
And he wasn't alone.
Coach Gantry was there, standing by the window, looking furious.
And sitting in one of the guest chairs, slumped forward with his head in his hands, was Rory.
My heart stopped.
"Rory?" I whispered.
He looked up.
His eyes were red-rimmed. His jaw was clenched so hard I thought his teeth would shatter. But it was the look in his eyes that killed me.
It wasn't love. It wasn't hope.
It was apology. Pure, devastating apology.
"Sit down, Zoe," my father said.
I didn't sit. I walked over to Rory. I put my hand on his shoulder. He flinched away from my touch.
"What happened?" I demanded, looking from Rory to my father.
My father picked up a tablet from his desk. He turned it around and slid it toward me.
"Watch."
I looked at the screen.
It was a video. Grainy, shaky, shot from a phone.
It showed a street at night. The football house.
In the video, Rory was holding someone by the throat. He was lifting him off the ground. His eyes—even in the grainy footage—were glowing bright gold. He was snarling.
“You think you can threaten my mate?” The audio was clear. “You think you can threaten my mate?”
Then Jax tackled him. The video ended.
I stared at the screen. My blood turned to ice.
"This was sent to the entire Athletic Department board this morning," my father said quietly. "Along with a file of photos. You and Mr. Thorne. In a truck. In the library. In the equipment room."
He tossed a manila folder onto the desk. It slid open, revealing a photo of us on the roof last night. Kissing.
Tyler. It had been Tyler. He had been tracking us. He had been waiting for the kill shot.
"Dad," I started, my voice trembling. "I can explain—"
"Explain what?" my father roared, slamming his hand on the desk. "That you lied to me? That you have been sneaking around with a violent animal? That you let him mark you?"
He pointed a shaking finger at Rory.
"This… this creature assaulted a student. On camera. He threatened him. He claimed you as a 'mate'. Do you know what that means, Zoe? In the eyes of the board? It means he is unstable. It means he is dangerous."
"He was protecting me!" I shouted. "Tyler was blackmailing us! He provoked him!"
"It doesn't matter!" Coach Gantry barked from the window. "Look at the video, Zoe! He’s flashing! He’s shifting in public! The NCAA has strict rules about 'biological anomalies'. If this gets out, the whole program is dead. The secret is out."
"We can fix this," I pleaded, looking at Rory. "Rory, tell them. Tell them Tyler threatened us."
Rory didn't speak. He just stared at the floor.
"Mr. Thorne has already been informed of the consequences," my father said coldly.
"Consequences?"
"Expulsion," my father said. "Immediate expulsion. Loss of scholarship. And a restraining order barring him from campus."
"No!" I screamed. "You can't! He’s supposed to go to the NHL! You're ruining his life!"
"He ruined his own life when he put his hands on a student," my father said. "And when he put his hands on you."
My father stood up. He walked around the desk.
"But there is a choice," he said softly.
I looked at him. "What choice?"
"I can bury the video," my father said. "I can make it disappear. I can tell the board it was a deepfake. A prank."
"Do it," I begged. "Please, Dad. Do it."
"On one condition," he said.
He looked at Rory.
"Mr. Thorne leaves. Today. He withdraws from the university voluntarily. He cites 'personal reasons'. He goes back to wherever he came from. And he never, ever contacts you again."
"If he does that," my father continued, looking at me, "I will not press charges. I will not release his file to the NHL. He can still get drafted. He can still have a career. Just not here. And not with you."
I stared at my father. It was a deal with the devil.
"And if we refuse?" I whispered.
"Then I release the video to the police," my father said simply. "He goes to jail for assault. His career is over. The secret of the wolves is exposed. And you… you go to law school. Because I will cut you off so fast your head will spin."
I looked at Rory.
He stood up slowly. He looked at me.
"Rory," I cried, grabbing his hands. "Don't do it. We can fight this. We can—"
"Zoe," he said. His voice was dead. "Stop."
"No! We have a plan! The cabin! The future!"
"There is no future," he said. He pulled his hands away from mine. "Not if I’m in jail. Not if I drag you down with me."
He looked at my father.
"I’ll go," Rory said.
"No!" I screamed, grabbing his shirt. "You can't! You promised! You said you were the anchor!"
"I am," he whispered, looking down at me. His eyes were swimming with tears, but his face was set in stone. "And sometimes, the anchor has to cut the line to save the ship."
He leaned down. For a second, I thought he was going to kiss me.
Instead, he whispered in my ear.
"I love you. That’s why I’m leaving. Win Nationals, Zoe. Fly."
He pulled away. He walked to the door.
"Rory!" I screamed, falling to my knees. "Rory, please!"
He didn't look back.
He walked out the door.
My father sat back down at his desk. He picked up the phone.
"Security? Escort Mr. Thorne off the premises. Ensure he packs his bags."
I knelt on the carpet, staring at the closed door.
The bubble hadn't just exploded.
My world had ended.
And I was the only one left in the wreckage.