Chapter 20
Rory
The Ice Box was shaking.
I stood in the tunnel, listening to the noise. It was the National Championship game. Northridge vs. Boston University. The arena was sold out. Fifty thousand screaming fans, a sea of midnight blue jerseys, thunder sticks deafening the air.
Five months ago, this noise would have terrified me. It would have triggered the Wolf, made the gold bleed into my eyes, made me want to tear someone apart.
Five months ago, I was a ticking time bomb waiting to explode.
I looked down at my hands. I flexed them inside my gloves. Steady. Strong. Calm.
"You good, Thorne?"
Jax slapped my shoulder pad. He was vibrating with caffeine and goalie-anxiety.
"I’m good," I said, and for the first time in my life, I wasn't lying.
"Good. Because if we win this, I’m drinking champagne out of the Cup. And then I’m drinking champagne out of your Cup. It’s going to be unhygienic and glorious."
I laughed. "Stay away from my Cup, Miller."
The team filed out onto the ice.
The roar was physical. It hit me in the chest.
I skated a lap, feeling the cold air in my lungs. I looked up at the rafters. The Championship banners from years past hung there, dusty and solemn.
Then I looked at the glass behind the visiting team's bench.
Section C. Row 4. Seat 12.
Zoe.
She was there. She was wearing my blue jersey—the one she had stolen, the one that was now officially hers. She had paired it with jeans and boots, and her blonde hair was loose around her shoulders. She was holding a sign that said #66 IS MY MVP.
Next to her sat Mia, holding a sign that said JAX IS OKAY I GUESS.
And next to Mia...
Dean Carmichael.
Zoe’s father was sitting there. He wasn't smiling—let’s not get crazy—but he was wearing a Northridge scarf. And when he caught my eye, he didn't glare. He gave a curt, professional nod.
The Truce of the Century.
It hadn't been easy. There had been awkward dinners.
There had been tense conversations about "boundaries" and "career paths.
" But Zoe had held the line. She had refused to let him bully us. And eventually, he had realized that if he wanted to be part of the National Champion Figure Skater’s life, he had to accept the National Champion Defenseman who came with the package.
I nodded back.
Then I looked at Zoe.
She smiled. It was the smile that had saved me. The smile that had pulled me out of the darkness of the murder cabin and dragged me back into the light.
She tapped her chest, right over her heart.
I’m here.
I tapped my chest back.
I’m yours.
The referee blew the whistle.
"Let's go to war, boys!" the Captain shouted.
We lined up for the faceoff.
I lowered my center of gravity. I dug my edges into the ice.
I wasn't playing for the scouts today. I wasn't playing for the Dean. I wasn't even playing to silence the ghosts of my father.
I was playing for the sheer, unadulterated joy of it.
The puck dropped.
The game was a grinder.
Boston was fast. They hit hard. They played dirty.
In the second period, their winger caught me with a high stick behind the net. It cut my lip. I tasted copper.
The old Rory would have snapped. The old Rory would have dropped the gloves and pounded the guy until the refs dragged me off.
But as I wiped the blood away, I looked up at the stands. I saw Zoe flinch. I saw her grip the railing.
I remembered the promise. The anchor keeps the ship from crashing.
I skated away.
I drew the penalty. We scored on the power play.
1-0 Northridge.
"That’s discipline, Thorne!" Coach Gantry shouted from the bench, looking like he wanted to kiss me. "That’s NHL discipline!"
I just drank my water and winked at Jax.
Third period. Two minutes left.
Boston pulled their goalie. They were swarming our zone, six attackers against our five. They were desperate.
The puck came loose in the corner.
It was a scramble. Bodies flying. Sticks hacking.
I saw the lane.
I dove.
I blocked the shot with my body. The puck hit my shin pad with a sickening thud, right on the bone where there was no padding.
Pain exploded up my leg.
I gritted my teeth. I scrambled up on one leg.
I chipped the puck out of the zone.
It slid down the ice. Slow. Agonizingly slow.
The Boston defenseman chased it. But he was too late.
The puck crossed the goal line.
Empty netter.
2-0.
The buzzer sounded.
Pandemonium.
Gloves flew into the air. Helmets rained down like hail. Jax tackled me. The rest of the team piled on.
We were a tangled mess of humanity and joy on the ice.
"We did it!" Jax screamed in my ear. "We're legends! We're gods!"
"We're champions," I corrected, shoving his sweaty face away.
I stood up. My leg was throbbing, but I didn't care.
I skated through the sea of confetti falling from the rafters.
I didn't go to the trophy presentation first. I skated to the glass.
Zoe was there. She had run down to the front row.
She was crying. Happy tears. Mascara running down her cheeks.
She slammed her hands against the glass.
I pulled off my glove. I pressed my hand against hers through the Plexiglass.
"You did it!" she mouthed.
"We did it," I mouthed back.
I looked at her.
Six months ago, I had almost eaten her in a dark hallway. I had told her to run. I had told her I was a monster.
Now, she was looking at me like I was a hero.
Maybe I was both. Maybe that was okay.
I leaned my forehead against the glass.
"I love you," I said aloud. She couldn't hear me over the roar of the crowd, but she knew. She read my lips.
"I love you," she said back.
The team captain skated over with the Cup.
"Thorne! Get over here! Lift the damn thing!"
I looked at Zoe. She pointed at the Cup. Go.
I skated back to center ice.
I lifted the trophy over my head. It was heavy. It was beautiful.
But as I skated a victory lap, listening to fifty thousand people scream my name, I knew one thing for certain.
The best prize wasn't the silver cup in my hands.
It was the girl in the blue jersey waiting for me in the tunnel.
One Month Later. Graduation.
The quad was a sea of black robes and mortarboards.
It was hot. The sun beat down on the graduates, turning the synthetic fabric of the gowns into personal saunas.
I sat in the row reserved for the College of Kinesiology. I was sweating. My tie felt like a noose.
But I was smiling.
I looked to my left.
Zoe sat three seats down. She was graduating with honors—Magna Cum Laude in Physics.
She caught me looking. She smirked and subtly flashed me a thumbs-up.
She looked beautiful in the robe. She made the shapeless black sack look like couture.
I looked at the stage.
Dean Carmichael was at the podium. He was giving a speech about "Legacy" and "Future Leaders."
"Today," he droned, "you leave the safety of this campus to enter the arena of life. You will face challenges. You will face adversity. But you are Northridge Wolves. You are built to survive."
He looked out at the crowd. His eyes lingered on the Kinesiology section. On me.
He paused.
"Some of you," he added, "have overcome more than others. Some of you have fought battles we cannot see. And to you, I say… well done."
It was the closest thing to an apology—or a blessing—I was ever going to get.
I nodded. Message received, old man.
They started calling names.
"Zoe Elizabeth Carmichael."
Zoe walked across the stage. She shook her father’s hand. He didn't just shake it; he pulled her in for a hug. It was stiff, awkward, but real.
The crowd cheered. I whistled—a loud, piercing wolf-whistle that made the Dean flinch. Zoe laughed on stage.
Then it was my turn.
"Roark Elias Thorne."
I walked up the steps.
My leg was fully healed. My walk was steady.
I reached the center of the stage.
I shook the Dean’s hand.
His grip was firm.
"Congratulations, Mr. Thorne," he said quietly.
"Thank you, Dean."
"Take care of her," he muttered, leaning in so the microphone wouldn't pick it up. "In Detroit. It’s a cold city."
"I’ll keep her warm," I promised.
He nodded. "I know you will."
I took my diploma.
I looked out at the crowd.
I saw my mom. She had driven down from the border. She was sitting in the back, wiping her eyes. She looked older, tired, but happy.
I held up the diploma to her.
I broke the cycle, Mom. I made it.
I walked off the stage.
Zoe was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
We didn't care about decorum. We didn't care about the ceremony.
I grabbed her. She jumped into my arms, her robe billowing around us.
I kissed her.
Caps flew into the air. People cheered.
"We did it," she whispered against my lips. "We survived."
"We thrived," I corrected.
"So," she said, pulling back, her hands resting on my shoulders. "What now?"
"Now?" I grinned. "Now we pack the truck. Detroit is waiting."
"And the cabin?"
"Weekends. Holidays. Whenever we need to escape."
"Sounds perfect."
We walked back to our seats, hand in hand.
The ceremony ended. The music swelled.
We walked out of the quad together.
We walked past the library where we had kissed on the roof. We walked past the arena where we had fallen in love. We walked past the dorms where we had hidden.
We left it all behind.
We walked toward the parking lot where my truck was waiting, packed with boxes, hockey sticks, and figure skates.
The engine rumbled to life.
As we drove away from Northridge University, watching the campus fade in the rearview mirror, I reached across the console.
Zoe’s hand met mine.
She squeezed.
"Ready for the next period?" she asked.
"Always," I said. "As long as you're on my line."
I shifted gears. I pressed the gas.
And we drove into the future, leaving the ghosts in the dust.
We didn't stop until we hit the state line.
We pulled over at a scenic overlook. The sun was setting, painting the sky in streaks of purple and gold—Northridge colors, ironically.
We sat on the tailgate of the truck, eating burgers we had picked up at a drive-thru.
"Can you believe it?" Zoe asked, swinging her legs. "Four years ago, I was terrified of failing Physics. Now I have a degree."
"Four years ago, I was terrified of myself," I said quietly.
I looked at her.
"Zoe."
"Yeah?"
"I have something for you."
"Another wolf tooth?" she teased, touching the silver necklace she never took off.
"Better."
I reached into my pocket.
I pulled out a small velvet box.
Zoe stopped chewing. She put her burger down on the tailgate.
"Rory," she breathed.
"I know," I said. "It’s early. We're young. We have careers to build. But…"
I opened the box.
It wasn't a diamond. It was a sapphire—deep, midnight blue—set in silver. The band was etched with tiny wolf prints and skate blades.
"It’s a promise ring," I said. "Or an engagement ring. Or whatever you want to call it. It’s just… me. Telling you that I’m not going anywhere. That the anchor is set."
Zoe stared at the ring. Tears filled her eyes.
"It’s blue," she whispered. "Like the jersey."
"Like the night we met," I said. "Like the ice."
I took her hand.
"Zoe Carmichael. Will you be my mate? My wife? My partner in crime?"
"Yes," she said. "Yes. Yes. Yes."
I slid the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly.
She threw her arms around my neck, tackling me backward into the truck bed. We landed on a pile of sleeping bags, laughing.
"You're stuck with me now, Thorne," she warned, hovering over me. "No take-backs. No returns."
"I threw away the receipt," I promised.
She kissed me.
It was a slow, sweet kiss. The kind of kiss that promised decades of mornings, arguments over burnt toast, and quiet nights by the fire.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you."
We lay there in the back of the truck, watching the stars come out one by one.
The Wolf inside me was quiet. He was content.
He had his pack.
And for the first time in my life, looking at the endless sky above us, I didn't see a cage. I saw infinite possibility.
"Hey, Rory?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you think there are ice rinks in Detroit?"
I laughed.
"Princess," I said, pulling her close. "I’ll build you one."
And I meant it.
The engine of the truck clicked as it cooled. The wind whispered through the pines.
We were just two kids in a truck, heading into the unknown.
But we weren't afraid.
Because we were the Storm and the Anchor.
And nothing could sink us now.