Chapter 11
Liam
They say you can't be two places at once. Physics, or whatever. But for the last week, I had been existing in two completely different realities.
Reality A: The Ice Box. The Arena. The Grind. Here, I was Liam Vanner, the stoic captain, the scholarship kid with the questionable knee and the laser focus on the NHL draft. I was grumpy. I was disciplined. I ate chicken and rice, watched game tape, and iced my knee until the skin turned numb.
Reality B: Sofia.
Reality B was a fever dream. It was waking up at 4:00 AM not to an alarm, but to soft hands tracing the scars on my chest. It was the smell of vanilla perfume clinging to my hoodie.
It was sneaking into the back entrance of the Kensington Apartments like a thief, dodging the doorman to spend three hours in a bed that felt like sleeping on a cloud.
It was exhausting. It was reckless.
And it was the happiest I had ever been in my life.
"You're smiling," Jaxson said, poking me in the ribs with his hockey stick. "Stop it. It's creeping me out. You look like a serial killer who just found a particularly sharp knife."
We were in the locker room, gearing up for Tuesday practice. The room smelled of its usual cocktail of sweat and desperation, but today, underneath the funk, I swore I could still smell Sofia on my skin.
"I'm not smiling," I grunted, forcing my face back into neutral. "I'm grimacing. My knee hurts."
"Your knee always hurts," Jaxson dismissed, sitting on the bench to lace his skates. "But seriously, man. You've been... weird. You didn't yell at the freshmen for playing music yesterday. You actually tipped the pizza guy. And I saw you watching a TikTok. Voluntarily."
"I'm broadening my horizons," I muttered, pulling my chest protector over my head.
"Is it the Heiress?" Jaxson wiggled his eyebrows. "I know you guys are doing the 'Student Manager Bonding' thing, but... are you bonding bonding?"
My heart stuttered. Jaxson was an idiot, but he was an observant idiot. He was a winger; he noticed patterns.
"She's helping me with my Ethics paper," I lied smoothly. "And in exchange, I'm teaching her not to trip over the blue line."
"Right," Jaxson drawled, clearly not buying it. "Because nothing says 'academic tutoring' like the hickey on your neck you've been trying to hide with that turtleneck for two days."
I instinctively slapped a hand over the spot on my collarbone where Sofia had bitten me last night.
"Bug bite," I said.
"In February? In Vermont?" Jaxson laughed. "Okay, Cap. Whatever you say. Just be careful. Marcus Thorne has eyes everywhere. If he finds out you're dipping your pen in the company ink, he'll trade you to a rec league in Alaska."
The warning landed. The smile vanished completely.
"Let's go," I snapped, grabbing my mask. "Practice starts in five."
Sneaking around was an art form. And surprisingly, Sofia was better at it than I was.
She treated our clandestine relationship like a covert military operation. She had created a system of codes.
Inventory Check meant "My roommate is gone, come over."
Logistics Meeting meant "Meet me in the Archive."
Uniform Inspection meant "I'm naked and bored."
Today, my phone buzzed with Logistics Meeting: 1400 Hours.
At 2:00 PM, I walked into the basement of the Arts Building. The costume archive was silent, dusty, and dim.
I found her in the back, near the Renaissance section. She was sitting on a trunk filled with prop swords, sketching in her notebook.
She looked up when she heard my boots on the concrete. Her face lit up. It was a transformation—from focused student to something softer, warmer.
"Hey," she whispered.
"Hey," I replied.
I closed the distance in three strides. I didn't say anything else. I just grabbed her waist, lifted her off the trunk, and pinned her against the nearest rack of velvet cloaks.
She wrapped her legs around my waist instantly, burying her face in my neck.
"Hi," she breathed against my skin.
"Hi," I groaned, kissing her hair. "God, I missed you."
"It's been four hours, Liam."
"Four hours too long."
I captured her mouth. The kiss was hungry, bordering on desperate. It was always like this when we reunited—a frantic need to re-establish the connection, to prove that Reality B was actually real.
Her hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer. I gripped her thighs, holding her up, relishing the weight of her.
"How's the knee?" she asked between kisses.
"Fine," I lied. It wasn't fine. It was throbbing. But holding her made the pain recede into the background noise.
"Liar," she murmured, biting my lip. "I saw you limping across the quad."
"I have a swagger," I corrected. "It's part of the brand."
She laughed, pulling back to look at me. Her eyes were bright, dancing.
"You're in a good mood," she observed. "Did you pass the Ethics quiz?"
"B-plus," I said proudly. "Thanks to your flashcards."
"See?" She smoothed the collar of my flannel shirt. "You're not a dumb jock. You're a scholar."
"I'm a genius," I agreed. "I managed to convince the prettiest girl on campus to make out with me in a basement."
"Flattery will get you everywhere," she smirked.
"I'm counting on it."
I kissed her again, slower this time. My hand slid up her back, under her sweater. Her skin was warm, soft. I traced the line of her spine.
"We have to be quick," she whispered against my lips. "I have a marketing seminar in twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes is plenty of time," I growled.
"Liam!" She swatted my chest, but she was smiling. "Behave. We're in a place of learning."
"I'm learning," I said, nipping at her jawline. "I'm learning anatomy."
She shivered. "You're terrible."
"You love it."
"I do," she admitted softly. "I really do."
We didn't go all the way—too risky, too little time. But we spent fifteen minutes touching, kissing, whispering things we couldn't say in the daylight.
When we finally broke apart, we were both flushed, breathless, and messy.
"You have lipstick on your neck," she pointed out, wiping at a smudge on my jaw with her thumb.
"Battle scars," I said.
"Fix it," she ordered. "Or Jaxson will have a field day."
"He already suspects," I warned her, straightening my shirt. "He saw the mark you left on Monday."
Sofia froze. "The hickey? Did you tell him?"
"No. I told him it was a bug bite. He didn't believe me, but he dropped it."
"We have to be more careful," she said, her voice dropping. The playful vibe evaporated, replaced by the tension that always lurked at the edges of us. "If word gets back to my dad..."
"I know," I said. I stepped back, putting physical distance between us. It was the only way to think clearly. "We're careful. We're ghosts."
"Ghosts," she repeated. She looked sad for a second.
"Hey," I said, reaching out to squeeze her hand. "Just for a little while longer. Until the season ends."
"Yeah," she forced a smile. "Until the season ends."
She grabbed her bag. "I go first. Wait five minutes."
"Yes, ma'am."
She walked toward the door. At the threshold, she turned back. She blew me a kiss.
I caught it, pretending to put it in my pocket.
It was cheesy. It was stupid.
I loved it.
Two days later, the bubble almost burst.
We were in the library again. The glass study room. It was our designated "safe zone" because it looked like work.
We were actually studying this time. Finals were looming, and if I didn't maintain a 2.5 GPA, I was ineligible for the playoffs.
Sofia was quizzing me on supply chain economics. I was staring at her mouth.
"Liam," she snapped her fingers. "Focus. What is the primary driver of elasticity in a luxury market?"
"Uh... brand loyalty?" I guessed.
"scarcity," she corrected. "If everyone can have it, nobody wants it."
"Like you," I murmured.
She looked up, startled. "What?"
"Scarcity," I said, leaning across the table. "You're a luxury good, Sofia. You keep yourself scarce. That's why everyone wants you."
"That is a terrible analogy," she said, though she blushed. "I am a person, not a handbag."
"You're my person," I said.
I reached across the table and grabbed her hand. I interlaced our fingers.
It was a small gesture. Innocent.
Except we weren't alone.
The door to the study room opened.
We ripped our hands apart instantly. Sofia grabbed her pen. I grabbed my water bottle.
It was Coach Miller.
My heart stopped. Actually stopped. I felt the blood drain from my face.
Coach Miller stood in the doorway, looking from me to Sofia. He was holding a stack of papers. He looked... confused.
"Vanner," he said. "Ms. Thorne. Working late?"
"Studying," I said quickly. My voice was an octave too high. "Economics. Sofia is... tutoring me."
"Tutoring," Coach repeated. He looked at the textbook on the table. Then he looked at Sofia, who was staring intently at her notebook like it contained the secrets of the universe.
"Is there a problem, Coach?" I asked, trying to summon The Wall.
"No problem," Coach said slowly. "Just... checking the academic logs. Saw you signed out a room. Wanted to make sure you were actually studying and not... wasting time."
The subtext was clear. Don't screw this up.
"We're studying, Coach," Sofia said, looking up. Her voice was steady, composed. The Heiress mask was back in place. "Liam was just explaining the concept of opportunity cost. He's surprisingly graspable on the subject."
Coach looked at her. He nodded.
"Good," he said. "Keep it up. We need you eligible, Vanner. And Ms. Thorne... your father is looking for the travel itinerary for the Dartmouth game."
"I emailed it to him an hour ago," she said smoothly.
"Right," Coach said. "Good night."
He backed out of the room. The door clicked shut.
We didn't move for ten seconds.
Then, Sofia slumped forward, putting her head on the table.
"Oh my god," she whispered. "I think I'm going to throw up."
"He knows," I said, running a hand through my hair. "He definitely suspects."
"He didn't say anything," she argued, lifting her head. "If he knew, he would have dragged you out by your ear. He's probably just... checking."