Chapter 2
Sofia
I stood in the center of my walk-in closet, staring at rows of color-coded silk, cashmere, and structured denim. My armor.
If I wore the vintage Chanel blazer, I was saying, I am sophisticated and unbothered. If I wore the oversized Balenciaga hoodie, I was saying, I am trendy and aloof. If I wore the red dress, I was asking for attention I didn’t know how to handle.
My hands were shaking. Just a little. A subtle tremor in my fingers that I tried to hide by gripping the hanger of a navy cashmere sweater until my knuckles turned white.
"You're doing it again," a voice drawled from the doorway.
I jumped, dropping the sweater. Mia leaned against the doorframe, a mug of black coffee in one hand and a terrifyingly thick textbook on Constitutional Law in the other.
Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun, her glasses perched on the end of her nose.
She looked like she had already billed twenty hours before breakfast.
"Doing what?" I asked, bending down to retrieve the cashmere, smoothing the fabric obsessively.
" spiraling," Mia said, taking a sip of coffee. "You’ve been staring at that sweater for ten minutes. It’s navy blue, Sof. It’s neutral. It says nothing other than 'I am warm.' Put it on and tell me what happened last night."
I turned away from her, pulling the sweater over my head. It was soft against my skin, a fleeting comfort. I paired it with skinny jeans that cost more than a Honda Civic and ankle boots that actually had traction—a lesson learned the hard way.
"I told you," I said, my voice muffled as I adjusted my hair in the full-length mirror. "I spun out. The G-Wagon is currently at a shop in Bennington being looked at by a mechanic named 'Skeet' or something equally horrifying. I had to get a ride back."
"With who?" Mia pressed. She walked into the closet—it was the size of a small bedroom—and sat on the velvet ottoman in the center.
"Some... local," I lied.
It was a terrible lie. I was a terrible liar. My face always got hot.
Mia raised an eyebrow. "A local? You hate locals. You think they all judge you. Was he hot?"
My stomach did a traitorous little flip.
Was he hot? That was the question of the century. Liam Vanner wasn't "hot" in the way the boys in the Business School were hot. He didn't have a perfectly coiffed blowout or a smile that practiced false modesty.
He was... geologic. He was a tectonic plate shift in human form. He was huge, silent, and radiated a kind of kinetic anger that made the air around him feel heavy.
And the way he had looked at me. Like I was a problem he needed to solve. Like I was a child playing dress-up.
"He was rude," I said sharply, turning to face her. "He was an absolute jerk. He called me 'Princess' in a tone that should be illegal, he manhandled me out of the snow, and when I tried to pay him—generously, I might add—he looked at me like I had offered him a bag of radioactive waste."
"He turned down money?" Mia lowered her mug, intrigued. "Okay, now I’m listening. Who turns down the Thorne treasury?"
"He said..." I swallowed, the memory of his thumb on my pulse point making my skin prickle. "He said he didn't want my charity. He said he wanted me to get out of his truck."
Mia smirked. "So, he has pride. And he touched you? 'Manhandled,' you said?"
"He carried me," I admitted, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Because of the boots. He just... picked me up. Like a bag of groceries. I didn't even have to jump. He just lifted me."
I crossed my arms, hugging myself. That was the part I couldn't shake. The absolute, unyielding security of his grip. For twenty seconds, amidst the howling wind and the terrifying snow, I hadn't been scared. I had felt completely, utterly safe. And that terrified me more than the crash.
I had spent my entire life building walls. I used money, attitude, and fashion to keep people at a distance where they couldn't see that I was actually incredibly lonely. But Liam Vanner had walked right through my walls like they were made of tissue paper.
"What was his name?" Mia asked.
"Liam," I said. "Liam Vanner. He's the goalie."
Mia choked on her coffee. She coughed, sputtering, and set the mug down on the ottoman.
"Liam Vanner? The Wall?" She looked at me with wide eyes. "Sofia. You didn't. He is literally the most intense human being on this campus. He hasn't smiled since freshman year. Rumor has it he eats pucks for breakfast."
"He drives a truck that smells like a garage," I said, wrinkling my nose. "And he hates me. He knows who my dad is."
"Everyone knows who your dad is," Mia pointed out. "But Liam... Liam is on a crusade against the bourgeoisie. He’s like a sexy, brooding Marxist with a catching glove. If you offered him cash, you basically confirmed every bias he has against you."
"I was trying to be nice!" I cried, throwing my hands up. "That's how you say thank you! You give people things! I don't know how to... bake cookies!"
My phone buzzed on the vanity. It was a sharp, aggressive vibration that cut through the conversation.
I looked at the screen.
Daddy
My heart plummeted into my stomach. It wasn't a text. It was a summons.
Come to the Athletic Complex. Now. Office.
"Is it him?" Mia asked, seeing the blood drain from my face.
I nodded. "He knows about the car."
"Good luck," Mia said, picking up her book. "Remember, admit nothing, deny everything, and cry if you have to. It usually works on Marcus."
"Not anymore," I whispered. "I think I ran out of tears last fiscal quarter."
The Blackwood University Athletic Complex was a monument to testosterone and donor money. It was a sprawling fortress of glass and steel, housing the hockey arena, the football stadium, and enough weight rooms to build an army.
I walked through the main atrium, the click-clack of my boots echoing on the polished terrazzo floor. I kept my chin high, my sunglasses on, and my face frozen in a mask of bored indifference.
Inside, I was hyperventilating.
I passed the trophy case. The Thorne Cup—named after my grandfather—sat in the center, gleaming under the lights. It was a reminder that this entire university, this entire town, practically belonged to my bloodline.
And yet, I felt like a trespasser.
I took the elevator up to the executive suite. The secretary, a terrified woman named Janice, waved me through without making eye contact.
I pushed open the heavy oak doors to my father's office.
Marcus Thorne was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the snow-covered practice fields. He was wearing a suit that cost more than Liam Vanner’s truck, and he smelled like Davidoff cigars and disappointment.
"Sit," he said without turning around.
I sat in one of the leather chairs. It was cold.
"The G-Wagon is a total loss," he said. His voice was calm. That was always worse. "The chassis is bent. The axle is snapped. It is a one-hundred-and-eighty-thousand-dollar paperweight."
"I hit ice, Daddy," I said, twisting the diamond ring on my right hand. "The roads weren't plowed. It was an accident."
He turned then. His eyes were dark, like mine, but hard. He didn't look concerned. He didn't ask if I was hurt. He looked... annoyed. Like I was a stock that was underperforming.
"It is always an accident with you, Sofia," he said, walking to his desk. "The car in the Hamptons. The credit card bill in Paris. The incident with the paparazzi in Miami. You are twenty-one years old, and you move through the world like a tornado of expense."
"I'm getting good grades," I argued weakly. "I have a 3.8 in Marketing."
"Marketing," he scoffed. "You're learning how to spend money, not how to make it. You have no concept of value. You think you can just throw cash at problems until they go away."
I flinched. Keep your money, Sofia. Liam’s voice echoed in my head.
"I tried to handle it," I said.
"You handled it by destroying an asset," he corrected. "And I am done."
The air left the room.
"Done?" I whispered. "What do you mean?"
"I froze your accounts this morning," he said, picking up a pen and tapping it against the mahogany desk. "The cards are dead. The allowance is suspended."
Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at my throat. "Daddy, I have rent. I have... things."
"Your rent is paid through the semester," he said. "Your tuition is covered. You have a meal plan. You won't starve. But if you want spending money? If you want to buy another purse or replace your boots? You will earn it."
He pressed a button on his intercom. "Janice, send in the contract."
Janice scurried in, dropped a piece of paper on the desk, and fled.
My father slid the paper toward me.
Student Manager Agreement: Blackwood Kodiaks.
I stared at the words. "You want me to... work for the team?"
"Not for me," he said. "For the team. You need to understand the product we sell. You need to understand the grit. You will report to Coach Miller and the Equipment Manager. You will do inventory. You will coordinate travel logistics. You will manage the facility maintenance schedules."
"You want me to be a janitor?" I asked, horrified.
"I want you to be useful," he snapped. "Sign it, Sofia. Or drop out and find your own way in the world. Those are the options."
I looked at his face. He wasn't bluffing. This was it. The safety net was gone.
I picked up the pen. My hand shook, but I signed my name. Sofia Elena Thorne.
"Good," he said, snatching the paper back. "Report to the locker room immediately. They have inventory to do before practice starts."
"Now?" I asked.
"Now," he said, turning back to the window. "Dismissed."
Walking into the "Hive"—the locker room complex beneath the arena—felt like walking into the belly of a beast.
The air changed as soon as I descended the stairs. It got humid. The pristine, sterile smell of the upstairs offices was replaced by a thick, aggressive cocktail of scents. Rubber flooring. Cold dampness. And the undeniable, musky tang of male sweat.
It was repulsive. It was primal.