Chapter 4
Sofia
My alarm had gone off with the shrill enthusiasm of a pop song I used to like but now wanted to murder. I lay in bed for three full minutes, staring at the ceiling of my apartment, questioning every life choice that had led me to this moment.
The silk sheets were warm. The air outside the duvet was freezing.
Game on, Goalie.
My own internal voice mocked me. I had sent that text. I had thrown down the gauntlet. And now, I had to back it up.
I threw the covers off with a groan and stumbled into the bathroom. My reflection was tragic. Puffy eyes, wild hair. I splashed ice-cold water on my face, gasping as the shock hit my system.
"You are Sofia Thorne," I whispered to the mirror, gripping the marble edge of the sink. "You do not quit. You do not fail. And you certainly do not let a man who wears flannel as a personality trait intimidate you."
I dressed with military precision. No skirts today. No heels. I pulled on black Lululemon leggings that cost a fortune but felt like butter, a thermal turtleneck, and a sleek, waterproof North Face parka. I pulled my hair back into a tight, no-nonsense braid.
I looked like I was going to a yoga retreat for assassins. It was perfect.
I grabbed a travel mug of espresso—black, two shots—and headed out into the dark.
The campus was a ghost town. The gothic buildings loomed like silent sentinels against the pre-dawn sky. The snow from yesterday had frozen into a crunchy, treacherous crust. The wind bit at my exposed cheeks, but I kept my head down, marching toward the Athletic Complex.
I wasn't just doing this to annoy Liam. Okay, maybe 40% was to annoy him. But the other 60% was pure, unadulterated fear. My father wasn't bluffing. I had checked my bank account app before bed. Access Denied. The words were burned into my retinas.
If I failed at this "Student Manager" thing, I was done. No degree. No apartment. No future. I would be the laughingstock of the East Coast socialite scene—the Thorne heiress who couldn't even manage a towel inventory.
I swiped my new keycard at the side entrance of the arena. The light turned green with a cheerful beep.
I slipped inside.
The silence of the arena was heavy. It felt like a church before mass, vast and expectant. The air was different here—colder, sharper, smelling of Zamboni fumes and old rubber.
I walked softly down the concrete tunnel, the sound of my sneakers swallowed by the hum of the ventilation system.
Then I heard it.
Thwack.
Scrape.
Thwack.
The sounds were violent, rhythmic.
I reached the opening of the tunnel and stopped, staying in the shadows.
The main arena lights were off, leaving only the security floods and the reflection of the ice to illuminate the cavernous space.
Liam was there.
He was alone in the crease, a solitary figure in bulky armor. He wasn't running drills. He was at war.
He had set up a machine at the blue line, one that fired pucks at random intervals. It was set to high speed.
He moved with a speed that defied physics for a man his size. Drop to the butterfly. Up. Gloved save. Blocker save. Kick save.
He was a blur of motion, a machine made of muscle and instinct. But it wasn't graceful. It was angry.
He was grunting with every movement, a guttural sound of exertion that echoed off the empty seats. He wasn't just blocking shots; he was attacking them.
I watched, mesmerized. I had seen games before, obviously. I had sat in the owner's box with a glass of champagne, cheering when the light turned red. But from up there, the players looked like game pieces.
From down here, thirty feet away, he looked terrifying.
The machine ran out of pucks. Silence crashed back into the room.
Liam didn't move. He stayed on his knees in the crease, his chest heaving. Even from here, I could see the rise and fall of his shoulders. He hung his head, his goalie mask staring down at the scarred ice.
Then, he did something that made my breath hitch.
He ripped his mask off and threw it.
It skittered across the ice, banging against the boards with a loud clatter.
He ran a gloved hand through his sweat-drenched hair and let out a roar. It wasn't a cheer. It was a scream of frustration, raw and ragged.
"Fuck!"
The word tore through the silence.
He collapsed forward, bracing his hands on his thighs. And then I saw it. A subtle shift in his weight. He was favoring his left leg. He shifted, wincing, his hand going instinctively to his left knee.
He stayed like that for a long time, just breathing, the condensation clouding in the air around him.
I should have left. I should have turned around, walked out, and pretended I never saw the invincible Liam Vanner look so broken.
But I couldn't move.
His phone, which was sitting on top of the net, lit up. The screen was bright in the dim arena.
He reached up, grabbed it, and tapped the screen. He put it on speaker, tossing it onto the ice in front of him as he started to unbuckle his leg pads.
"Hey, Liam."
The voice was female, young. His sister?
"I know you said not to call, but Mom... she’s bad today. The pharmacy won't refill the prescription without the co-pay, and the guy from the landlord was here again. He posted a notice on the door. Liam, I’m scared. I don't know what to tell them."
Liam stopped unbuckling his pads. He sat there on the ice, legs splayed, staring at the phone like it was a bomb.
"I’ll fix it," he said to the phone, his voice rough. "Tell the landlord the check is in the mail. It's a lie, but it buys three days. I get paid on Friday from the shop."
"We need three hundred for the meds," the girl whispered.
Liam closed his eyes. I saw his jaw clench, the muscle feathering beneath the stubble. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I'll get it," he said. "I'll figure it out, Chloe. Just... lock the door. Do your homework. I've got it."
"Okay. I love you, Li."
"Love you too, bug."
The call ended.
Liam sat in the silence, staring at the black screen.
My heart was twisting in my chest. It was a physical ache. I knew he was on scholarship. I knew he wasn't wealthy like the rest of the student body. But this... this was a level of desperation I had never touched.
Three hundred dollars. That was a dinner. That was a pair of shoes. That was nothing to me.
But to him, it was an avalanche.
He groaned, shifting his weight to stand up. As he put pressure on his left leg, his knee buckled.
"Ah, shit."
He hissed through his teeth, grabbing the crossbar of the net to keep from falling. He stood there on one leg, his face contorted in pain, sweat dripping off his nose.
He was hurt. He was broke. And he was completely alone.
I didn't think. I just moved.
I stepped out of the shadows and walked toward the gate.
"You need ice," I said. My voice was steady, surprisingly loud in the quiet rink.
Liam’s head snapped up. His eyes found me instantly.
For a second, there was panic. Pure, unadulterated panic that he had been seen. Then, the walls slammed down. His face hardened into stone.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he barked.
I opened the gate and stepped onto the rubber matting. "I work here, remember? Inventory."
"At five in the morning?" he sneered. "Don't lie to me, Sofia."
"Okay, I won't lie," I said, walking toward the bench where he had dumped his gear bag. "I came here to annoy you. I came here to prove that I could handle your schedule. But right now, I'm here because you can barely stand up."
"I'm fine," he growled, letting go of the net and forcing himself to stand on both legs. I saw the tremor in his thigh. "Get out."
"No."
I reached his bag and rifled through it until I found a roll of heavy-duty tape and a towel.
"You're not fine," I said, turning to face him. "You're hurt. And based on the conversation I just overheard—sorry, by the way—you can't afford to be hurt. Because if you're hurt, you can't play. And if you can't play, the scouts leave. And if the scouts leave..."
I let the sentence hang, echoing the words he had said to Jaxson days ago.
Liam’s face went white, then red. He pushed off the net and skated toward the gate, his movements choppy and pained. He stepped off the ice, towering over me. He smelled like violence and old sweat, but underneath it, I could smell the fear.
"You heard that?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
"I heard enough," I said, holding my ground. "I heard that you need money. And I see that you need a knee brace."
"You tell anyone," he stepped closer, backing me against the cinderblock wall of the tunnel. "You tell anyone about my knee or my family, and I will destroy you, Sofia. I swear to God."
He was close. So close. His chest was heaving against my parka. His eyes were wild.
"I'm not going to tell anyone," I said softly.
I reached out. It was a gamble. A massive risk.
I placed my hand on his chest. Right over the logo of his practice jersey.
He flinched like I had burned him, but he didn't pull away.
"I'm not going to tell," I repeated, looking up into his stormy eyes. "Because that doesn't help me. And believe it or not, Liam, I'm not the villain in this story."
He stared at me, his breathing slowing down, syncing with mine. The anger was draining out of him, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that made him look five years older.
"Then what do you want?" he whispered. "Why are you still here?"
"Because I need help too," I said.
I took his hand—the one that was clenched into a fist at his side—and uncurled his fingers. I pressed the roll of tape into his palm.
"Come to the hydro room," I said. "Let's ice the knee. And then... we need to talk."
The hydrotherapy room was warm, humid, and smelled faintly of chlorine and eucalyptus. It was a stark contrast to the rink.
Liam sat on the edge of the stainless steel tub, his legs dangling in the water. He had stripped off his gear, wearing only his compression shorts.
I tried not to look. I failed.