Chapter 7
Liam
Saturday night in a college town is a ritual. It’s loud, it’s chaotic, and it usually smells like cheap beer and regret. But tonight was different. Tonight, the ritual wasn't about surviving a frat party or avoiding a fistfight at The Tav.
Tonight, I was driving two hours south to Albany for an away game against Union College. And in the passenger seat of The Beast—my rusted, rattling sanctuary—sat Sofia Thorne.
She was asleep.
Her head was lolling against the window, cushioned by a travel pillow that was definitely silk and probably cost more than my tires. Her mouth was slightly open. She was snoring. Not a dainty, princess snore. A genuine, honest-to-god snore.
I glanced over at her, keeping one hand on the wheel as the snow-lined highway blurred past. A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. I didn’t fight it. There was no one here to see The Wall crack.
This was... domestic.
It shouldn't be. She was my boss (technically). She was my partner in a bizarre academic-fraud-for-cash scheme (legally questionable). And she was the daughter of the man who owned my jersey.
But right now, she was just the girl who had spent the last hour singing along to Taylor Swift, arguing with me about the nutritional value of gas station beef jerky, and then passing out mid-sentence.
I reached over and turned the heater down a notch. She hated being cold, but she was starting to sweat in that ridiculous oversized parka.
My phone buzzed in the cup holder. A text from Jaxson.
Jax (Winger): Bus just pulled into the arena. Where are you? Coach is asking.
Me: Five minutes out. Had to stop for 'logistics'.
Jax (Winger): Does 'logistics' involve the Heiress and a detour? ;)
I ignored him.
I wasn't taking the team bus because Sofia "needed to inspect the travel protocols independently," and I had "volunteered" to drive her since her car was still a crumpled accordion of German engineering.
It was a flimsy excuse. Coach Miller had eyed me suspiciously when I suggested it, but he had just grunted and said, "Don't be late."
I wasn't late. I was never late.
I took the exit for the arena, the familiar knot of pre-game tension tightening in my stomach. But usually, that tension was cold and isolating. Today, it felt... lighter.
I pulled into the player lot, parking next to the massive Blackwood team bus. I killed the engine.
Silence filled the cab, save for the ticking of the cooling metal.
"Sofia," I said softly.
She didn't move.
"Sofia. We're here."
She groaned, shifting. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and sleepy. She looked disoriented, then her gaze landed on me.
"Are we dead?" she mumbled.
"No. We're in Albany. Which is close," I deadpanned.
She sat up, rubbing her face. Her hair was a mess. A smudge of mascara was under her left eye. She looked beautiful.
"My neck hurts," she complained, stretching. "Your truck has terrible suspension."
"It's a truck, not a cloud," I said, unbuckling my seatbelt. "Come on. Game face. You have logistics to manage."
She yawned, unclicking her belt. "Right. Logistics. Counting towels. Yelling at the Union equipment manager for giving us the small locker room. My favorite."
She looked at me then, her expression sharpening. "You ready?"
She wasn't asking if I was ready to walk inside. She was asking if I was ready to play. She knew about the knee. She knew about the pressure.
"Always," I lied.
"Liar," she whispered. She reached out and patted my thigh. It was a casual gesture, quick and firm, but it burned through my jeans. "You're going to be great. Just... don't die. I have a lot of money riding on you."
"You betting on games now?"
"Emotional investment," she corrected, grabbing her bag. "Let's go."
Walking into the arena with Sofia by my side felt like walking into battle with a secret weapon.
Usually, I kept my head down, headphones on, ignoring everyone. But Sofia was a force of nature. She marched next to me, clipboard in hand, barking orders into her phone about the post-game meal catering.
We entered the visitors' locker room. The team was already there, half-dressed, music blasting. The smell of Deep Heat and anxiety hit us.
"Vanner!" Carter yelled. "Finally. We thought you eloped."
"Shut up, Carter," I said, dropping my bag at my stall.
Sofia didn't flinch. She walked into the center of the room.
"Listen up!" she shouted. Her voice wasn't deep, but it cut through the noise. "Catering is set for 10:00 PM at the hotel. If anyone is late to the bus, you're walking. And Carter, put some pants on. Nobody needs to see that."
The room went silent. Then, laughter.
"Yes, ma'am," Carter saluted, grinning.
I watched her. She was commanding the room. A week ago, they would have ignored her. Now, they were listening. Because she was confident. And because they knew she was with me.
She caught my eye across the room. She winked. A tiny, almost imperceptible flutter of her lashes.
I got this, the wink said.
I know, my look replied.
I turned to my stall and started the ritual.
The game was a grinder. Union was a heavy hitting team, big on checking and low on finesse. They played dirty in the corners and screened the goalie every chance they got.
My knee was screaming by the second period. Every time I dropped into the butterfly, a spike of fire shot up my thigh. But I shoved it down. I compartmentalized. Pain is information. Not a command.
We were up 2-1 with two minutes left in the third.
They pulled their goalie. Six attackers.
The puck was in our zone. Chaos. Bodies flying everywhere. I couldn't see the puck.
"Screen!" I roared, trying to look around a massive Union defenseman.
A shot came from the point. I saw it late.
I threw my body to the left. My bad knee hit the ice hard.
Crack.
The sound was internal, a pop that made me nauseous. But the puck hit my chest protector and dropped. I covered it with my glove.
Whistle.
"Great save, Vanner!" Jaxson yelled, smacking my pads with his stick.
I couldn't stand up.
Panic, cold and absolute, flooded my chest. Get up. You have to get up. If you stay down, they know.
I gritted my teeth so hard I thought they would shatter. I forced my leg to move. I pushed up.
I stood.
It was agony. But I stood.
The buzzer sounded. Game over. We won.
The team swarmed me. I accepted the helmet taps, the shoves. I smiled. I kept the mask on.
I skated to the bench, moving stiffly.
Sofia was standing by the tunnel. She wasn't cheering. She was watching my left leg. Her face was pale. She knew.
She met me at the gate.
"You okay?" she whispered, grabbing my jersey to steady me as I stepped off the ice.
"Fine," I grunted.
"You're limping."
"I'm fine, Sofia. Back off."
I brushed past her, heading for the locker room. I needed to get the gear off before the adrenaline faded and I collapsed.
Post-game was a blur. Shower. Ice. Ibuprofen. The bus ride to the hotel.
I skipped the team dinner. I told Coach I was tired and wanted to watch tape. He bought it because I'm me.
I was lying on the bed in my hotel room, staring at the ceiling, my leg elevated on three pillows. The ice bag had melted into a lukewarm puddle.
A knock at the door.
I knew who it was.
"Go away, Jaxson," I called out. "I'm not going to the bar."
"It's not Jaxson," a female voice replied. "And if you don't open this door, I'm going to use the master key card I stole from the front desk."
I sighed. I dragged myself off the bed, hopping on my right leg, and opened the door.
Sofia stood there. She was holding a pizza box and a bag of ice.
"Delivery," she said.
She pushed past me into the room.
"I didn't order pizza," I said, closing the door.
"No, but you haven't eaten since noon," she said, setting the box on the desk. "And you're hurt. So sit down."
She pointed to the bed.
I sat. "I'm not that hurt."
"Liam," she said, turning to face me. "I watched you. You could barely skate off. Take off the sweatpants."
"Excuse me?"
"Take them off. I need to see the knee."
"You're not a doctor, Sofia."
"No, but I have Google and a bag of ice. Pants. Off."
I stared at her. She was serious. Her arms were crossed, her expression fierce.
I sighed again. I lay back and shimmied the sweatpants down. I was wearing compression shorts underneath.
She hissed when she saw it.
My knee was the size of a grapefruit. Swollen, angry, purple.
"Oh my god," she whispered, walking over to the bed. She sat on the edge, her fingers hovering over the injury. "Liam. This is bad."
"It's just fluid," I said. "It'll go down."
"It's not going down if you keep playing on it," she said. She opened the bag of fresh ice and arranged it gently over the swelling. "You need an MRI."
"Can't afford it," I said bluntly. "Insurance co-pay is fifty bucks I don't have until next week."
She looked at me, eyes wide. "Fifty dollars? Liam, I will give you fifty dollars right now."
"No," I said. "We have a deal. No charity."
"This isn't charity! This is your leg! You want to go pro? You can't go pro on one leg!"
"I'll figure it out," I snapped. "Just... drop it."
She glared at me, but she didn't push. She knew when to retreat.
"Fine," she said. "Pizza."
She grabbed a slice and handed it to me. "Pepperoni and jalape?o. Jax told me it's your order."
I took it. "Thanks."
We ate in silence for a while. The only sound was the TV playing SportsCenter on mute.
"You played amazing," she said after her second slice. "That save at the end? Incredible."
"Lucky," I corrected.
"Talent," she insisted. "I heard the Union scouts talking. They said you're a freak of nature."
"Freak is accurate," I muttered.
She laughed. It was a soft sound. She wiped her hands on a napkin and leaned back against the headboard, stretching her legs out next to mine.
"So," she said, looking at the ceiling. "What happens next? After graduation?"
"If I get drafted, I go to camp," I said. "If I don't... I find a job. Maybe coaching. Maybe the auto shop."
"You'll get drafted," she said confidently. "What about you? What's the plan for the Heiress?"