Chapter 13
Ezra
There are places in the world that exist outside of time. My penthouse was a fortress, a construct of glass and steel designed to keep the world out, but it wasn't timeless. It was governed by clocks, by schedules, by the rising and setting of the sun over the city I was supposed to one day own.
But this place… this was different.
Amara was asleep in the passenger seat.
She was curled up, her knees drawn to her chest, her head resting against the window. She was wearing my hoodie—the grey one she had claimed as her own—and her breath fogged the glass in rhythmic, ghostly puffs.
I watched her.
I had been watching her for an hour.
The fear was back. Not the sharp, adrenaline-spiked fear of the game, or the cold, heavy dread of my father. This was a slow, creeping terror that settled in my marrow.
I love her.
I had said it. I had meant it. And now, the reality of what that meant was terrifying me.
Because I was Ezra Sterling. I was built to break things, or to fix them, or to leverage them. I wasn't built to keep them.
“You’re staring,” she mumbled.
She didn't open her eyes. She shifted, pulling the hood up over her messy hair.
“I’m thinking,” I said quietly.
“Thinking loudly,” she murmured. She cracked one eye open. It was dark, sleepy, and filled with a warmth that made my chest ache. “What time is it?”
“Late. Early. Two.”
She groaned, stretching her legs out as much as the footwell allowed. “Why are we at the lake? Did you kidnap me again?”
“I needed to drive,” I said. “And you fell asleep before we hit the highway.”
“I have a vitamin D deficiency,” she joked weakly. “Or maybe an iron deficiency. Being your fake-real girlfriend is exhausting work.”
She sat up, rubbing her face. She looked out at the dark water.
“It’s creepy out here. Like a scene from a true crime podcast. ‘And then he drove her to the lake…’”
“It’s quiet,” I corrected.
“It’s too quiet,” she said. She turned in her seat to face me, tucking one leg under her. “What’s going on, Ezra? You’ve been… vibrating since dinner. And not the good kind.”
I looked at the steering wheel. I traced the leather stitching with my thumb.
“Do you remember when you asked me about the ledger?” I asked.
“Yeah. The book of doom.”
“I lied to you,” I said.
Silence filled the car. Amara didn't speak. She didn't gasp. She just waited. That was the thing about her—she knew when to push and when to let the silence do the work.
“I told you my father keeps a ledger of my value,” I continued, my voice low. “That’s true. But I didn't tell you why he started it.”
I looked up at her. Her face was shadowed, but I could see the intent focus in her eyes.
“It wasn't because he’s a cold-hearted businessman. Or… not just that.”
I took a deep breath. The air in the car felt thin.
“My mother,” I said. The word felt foreign on my tongue. I hadn't spoken about her in ten years. Not really. Not like this. “She was bipolar. Undiagnosed for a long time. She was… chaotic. Beautiful. Manic.”
Amara didn't move. She just watched me.
“My father loved her,” I said. “In his way. He tried to control her chaos with money. With vacations. With doctors. But she couldn't be controlled.”
I looked out at the black water.
“When I was seven, she took me driving. Like this. middle of the night. She said we were going to see the ocean. We lived in Chicago. There is no ocean in Chicago.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“She drove fast. Erratic. Laughing the whole time. She said the rules of the road didn't apply to us because we were special. We were magic.”
I gripped the steering wheel tighter.
“We hit a patch of ice. The car spun. We went into a ditch. It wasn't… it wasn't a bad crash. The car was totaled, but we were okay. Physically.”
I looked back at Amara.
“But when the police came… she fought them. She was screaming. She was frantic. They had to restrain her. And I just stood there, in the snow, watching them take her away in handcuffs because she wouldn't stop screaming that the stars were falling.”
Amara reached out. She placed her hand over mine on the wheel. Her skin was warm.
“Ezra,” she whispered.
“My father came to get me at the station,” I said. “He didn't yell. He didn't hug me. He just looked at me. And he said, ‘This is the cost of emotion, Ezra. This is what happens when you let feelings drive the car.’”
I closed my eyes. I could still see the fluorescent lights of the police station. I could still smell the stale coffee and fear.
“That was the night he started the ledger,” I said. “He sat me down the next morning. He opened a notebook. And he wrote: Incident 1: Lack of Control. Cost: $45,000 (Car) + Reputation Damage.”
I opened my eyes and looked at her.
“He taught me that chaos is expensive. That emotion is a liability. That if I wanted to survive—if I didn't want to end up like her—I had to be in control. Always.”
I pulled my hand out from under hers. I ran it through my hair.
“That’s why I’m like this, Amara. That’s why I have protocols. That’s why I count everything. Because I’m terrified that if I stop counting… if I let go of the wheel… I’m going to end up in a ditch screaming at the stars.”
Amara was silent.
I waited for the pity. I waited for her to tell me that my father was abusive (he was) or that I needed therapy (I did).
But she didn't say any of that.
She unbuckled her seatbelt. She climbed over the center console.
It was awkward in the small sports car. Her knee hit the gear shift. Her elbow knocked the rearview mirror. But she didn't stop until she was straddling my lap, her face inches from mine.
She framed my face with her hands. Her thumbs brushed my cheekbones.
“You’re not her,” she whispered fiercely.
“I have her blood,” I said. “I have her temper.”
“You have her passion,” Amara corrected. “But you have your own mind, Ezra. You’re not a carbon copy of a tragedy.”
She leaned her forehead against mine.
“And you’re not your father, either. You don't see people as assets. You see them. You saw me when everyone else saw a spoiled brat. You saw the talent in my sketches when I wanted to burn them.”
She kissed the corner of my eye. Then the other one.
“You’re not broken,” she murmured. “You’re just… heavy. You’ve been carrying two people’s baggage for twenty years.”
“It feels heavy,” I admitted. My voice broke.
“Let me carry some of it,” she said. “That’s what the team is for, right? You carry my tuition anxiety. I carry your existential dread. Fair trade.”
I let out a shaky laugh. I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her closer.
“You’re getting the short end of that deal,” I said.
“I don’t know,” she said, pulling back to look at me. A small, mischievous smile played on her lips. “You have a really nice car. And a penthouse. And you’re excellent in bed. I think the trade value is holding steady.”
I looked at her. Really looked at her.
In the dim blue light, she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Not because of her face, but because of her acceptance. She had looked into the darkest corner of my history and hadn't flinched.
“I love you,” I whispered.
“I know,” she said softly. “I love you too. Even the part of you that keeps a spreadsheet of his sock inventory.”
I chuckled. The tension in my chest loosened, just a fraction.
“It’s not an inventory. It’s a rotation schedule.”
“Nerd.”
She kissed me.
It started slow. Soft. A comfort. A validation.
But then, the heat flared.
It always did with us. It was combustible.
My hands slid up her back, under the hoodie. Her skin was warm, soft. I felt the dip of her spine.
“Ezra,” she breathed against my mouth.
“Yeah?”
“Take me home.”
“Home?”
“To the penthouse. To our bed.”
Our bed.
The words hit me. It wasn't my bed anymore. It was ours.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
We didn't sleep immediately when we got back.
We made love. Slow, deep, silent. It wasn't about friction or dominance tonight. It was about connection. It was about proving to each other that we were real, that we were solid, that we weren't going to disappear into a ditch.
Afterward, we lay in the tangle of black sheets, the city lights filtering through the curtains.
Amara was tracing patterns on my chest.
“Ezra?”
“Mmm?”
“What happens next?”
I opened my eyes. I looked at the ceiling mirror.
“Next?”
“After graduation,” she said. “After the draft. Assuming you don't get liquidated.”
I was quiet for a moment. I hadn't let myself think past the draft. The draft was the finish line of the current ledger.
“I go where the team is,” I said. “Chicago. New York. Boston.”
“And me?” she asked quietly.
I turned my head to look at her.
“You come with me,” I said. It wasn't a question.
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
“I have a year left of school,” she reminded me. “And then… I need to be in a city with fashion. New York or Paris or Milan.”
“Chicago has fashion,” I said quickly. “And New York… the Rangers are interested. If I go to New York…”
“We could get a loft in SoHo,” she whispered, her eyes lighting up. “With big windows for my studio. And a kitchen where you can color-code the spices.”
“And a dog,” I added.
She blinked. “A dog?”
“Yeah. Something big. A Great Dane. Or a German Shepherd. Something that sheds everywhere just to annoy me.”
She laughed. “You want a dog that annoys you?”
“I want a dog that reminds me that life is messy,” I said. “And that it’s okay.”
She propped herself up on her elbow, looking down at me.
“You’ve really thought about this.”
“I’m a strategist, Amara. I run simulations.”
“And in your simulations… we make it?”
I reached up and touched her cheek.
“In every simulation,” I said seriously, “you’re there. The location changes. The team changes. But you… you’re the constant.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“That’s a good simulation,” she whispered.
She lay back down, snuggling into my side.
“Let’s go to New York,” she mumbled sleepily. “I look good in black. And you look good in… well, you look good in anything.”
“New York,” I agreed.
I closed my eyes.
For the first time in my life, the future didn't look like a ledger of potential losses. It looked like a loft in SoHo with a dog and a messy, brilliant girl who loved me.
I drifted off to sleep, holding her tight.
And for the first time in twenty years, I didn't dream of the car crash. I dreamed of the ocean.
The Next Day
Happiness is a dangerous drug because it makes you blind.
I walked into the locker room the next morning feeling invincible. My knee barely hurt. The scouts were gone. My father was pacified. Amara loved me.
I was humming. Actually humming.
“Sterling,” Leo’s voice cut through the air like a whip.
I stopped.
Leo was standing by his locker. He wasn't dressed for practice. He was wearing jeans and a hoodie, holding a duffel bag.
And he was holding a piece of paper.
My stomach dropped.
The room went silent. The other guys looked down, sensing the violence in the air.
“Vane,” I said, keeping my voice even. “What’s up?”
Leo walked toward me. He shoved the paper into my chest.
“You signed it,” he said. His voice was shaking with rage. “You actually made her sign it.”
I looked down.
It was a copy of the NDA. The contract.
Amara Vane agrees to the terms of the arrangement…
Behavioral clauses…
Financial penalties…
“Where did you get this?” I asked quietly.
“It was in her bag,” Leo spat. “I went to the penthouse this morning to talk to her. To apologize for being a jerk. The door was unlocked. Her bag was on the counter. This was sticking out.”
He stepped closer, getting right in my face.
“I told her you bought her,” Leo snarled. “I told her you owned her. But I didn't think you literally drew up a bill of sale.”
“It’s not what you think,” I said. “It’s to protect her tuition. It’s to get my father off our backs.”
“Protect her?” Leo laughed. It was a ugly sound. “Read clause 4, Sterling. Go ahead. Read it.”
I looked at the paper.
Clause 4: In the event of a relationship termination initiated by Ms. Vane prior to the end of the academic year, all tuition payments will be considered a loan, repayable immediately with 15% interest.
I froze.
I hadn't read the final draft. I had told the lawyers to draw it up. I had told Amara it was standard.
“I didn't know,” I whispered. “I didn't put that in there.”
“You signed it!” Leo yelled. He shoved me. Hard.
I stumbled back.
“She sold herself to you because she was desperate,” Leo said. “And you… you locked her in a cage.”
He turned to the rest of the room.
“Everyone look at the Captain!” he shouted. “Look at the guy who treats women like property!”
He turned back to me.
“I’m done, Sterling. I’m not playing with you. And if you think Amara is going to stay with you when she realizes you trapped her… you’re delusional.”
He threw the paper on the floor.
“Stay away from my sister.”
He stormed out of the locker room.
I stood there, staring at the paper on the floor.
Repayable immediately with 15% interest.
My father had added it. Of course he had. He wanted leverage. He wanted to make sure she couldn't leave.
And I had handed her the pen.
I looked up. The team was staring at me. Miller looked disappointed. The rookies looked scared.
The happiness evaporated. The future—the loft, the dog, the ocean—dissolved into smoke.
The ledger was back. And I was deep in the red.