Chapter 15
Liam
They say ignorance is bliss. But they're wrong. Ignorance is just a timer ticking down to a bomb you can't see.
I was sitting on the edge of my mattress, staring at the space heater glowing orange in the corner. My leg was propped up on three pillows. The swelling had gone down enough that I could see the definition of my kneecap again. A small victory.
But the real victory was sitting cross-legged next to me, wearing my gray hoodie and eating popcorn out of a plastic bowl.
Sofia.
She had come back.
After the "scare" with the photo and the rumors, after she ran out of here looking like she was going to face a firing squad, she had come back.
She told me she handled it. She told me she spun a story to Mia, convinced her the photo was just a "medical assist," and that the rumors were dying down. She told me her dad was none the wiser.
I believed her because I wanted to. Because the alternative—losing her—was unacceptable.
"Stop staring at me," she mumbled around a mouthful of popcorn. "It's creepy."
"I'm appreciating the view," I said, reaching out to tuck a loose curl behind her ear. "You look good in gray. Better than me."
"Everything looks better on me," she countered, tossing a kernel at my chest. "It's the genetics."
I caught her hand, pulling her closer. She resisted for a second, then melted, leaning into me.
"Are we really okay?" I asked quietly. "With the rumors? With your dad?"
She stiffened slightly against my side. Just a micro-flinch. If I hadn't been obsessively cataloging her body language for weeks, I wouldn't have noticed.
"We're fine," she said. Her voice was steady. "I told you. I handled it. My dad is... occupied with the playoffs. He's not looking at gossip blogs."
"And the team?"
"Jaxson thinks we're just 'study buddies' with benefits," she shrugged. "Which is technically true. You did get an A on that paper."
"A-minus," I corrected. "Don't get cocky."
She laughed, turning her face up to mine. "I'm always cocky, Vanner. It's part of the charm."
I kissed her. It was slow, lazy. The kind of kiss you share when you have nowhere to be and nothing to hide. Or so I thought.
"I have a surprise," she whispered against my lips.
"Is it more ice cream?"
"Better."
She pulled away and reached for her bag. She pulled out a thick envelope. It was cream-colored, heavy stock. Expensive.
She handed it to me.
"What's this?"
"Open it."
I opened the envelope. Inside was a brochure. And a letter.
University of Chicago - Master of Business Administration.
Congratulations, Sofia Thorne...
I stared at the letter. Then at her.
"Chicago?" I asked.
She bit her lip, looking nervous. "I applied months ago. Before... everything. But I got in. And the program starts in the fall."
"But... Paris?" I asked. "Your dad's company?"
"I deferred Paris," she said quickly. "I told my dad I wanted to get my MBA first. He agreed. He thinks it adds value to the brand."
"So you're moving to Chicago?"
"Yes," she said. She took a deep breath. "And... the Blackhawks scout? Salinger? He's based in Chicago. Their training camp is there."
The pieces clicked into place.
"You picked Chicago because of me?" I asked, my voice hushed.
"I picked Chicago because it's a great school," she said defensively. "And... because maybe I checked which NHL teams had the best rehab facilities. And maybe I realized that if you sign with them, or even just get an invite to camp... we could be in the same city."
My heart swelled so big I thought it would crack my ribs.
She wasn't just planning a weekend. She was planning a life.
"Sofia," I whispered. "You're crazy."
"Strategic," she corrected. "I'm strategic."
"You're amazing."
I pulled her into my lap, mindful of the leg. She straddled my hips, wrapping her arms around my neck.
"We can do this," she said, her eyes shining. "You do your rehab here. You graduate. I move in August. You come out for camp in September. We get an apartment. Something with heat. And a doorman."
"And a dog," I reminded her.
"And a dog," she agreed. "A Golden Retriever named 'Puck'. Or something equally stupid."
"I love it," I said. "I love the plan."
"I love you," she said.
It was the first time she had said it without prompted fear or adrenaline. It was just a fact. A simple, undeniable truth hanging in the air between us.
"I love you too," I said. "So much."
We kissed again. Deeply. Desperately.
"Make love to me," she whispered. "Right now."
"My leg—"
"I'll be careful," she promised. "I just need to feel you. I need to know this is real."
"It's real," I swore.
And for the next hour, it was.
We moved slowly, carefully. It wasn't the frantic, explosive passion of the first time. It was tender. It was knowing.
I memorized the curve of her spine. She memorized the scars on my shoulder.
We talked in whispers. About Chicago. About apartments. About how we would decorate.
"No beige," she insisted, gasping as I kissed her neck. "I hate beige."
"Black and gold," I teased, moving inside her. "Team colors."
"Tacky," she moaned. "Navy. Navy and cream."
"Deal," I agreed.
When we finished, we lay tangled in the sheets, sweating and smiling.
The space heater hummed. The snow fell outside.
I felt... complete.
I had no contract. I had a busted knee. I had debt.
But I had a plan. And I had her.
"I'm going to make you coffee," she said, untangling herself from my limbs. She kissed my chest and sat up, reaching for my hoodie again.
"You spoil me," I said lazily, watching her walk to the kitchenette.
"Someone has to," she called back. "Since you refuse to buy decent beans."
She started the coffee maker. The smell of brewing coffee filled the small room.
My phone buzzed on the bedside table.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again. And again. A rapid-fire succession of vibrations that signaled panic.
I groaned, reaching for it.
"Who is it?" Sofia asked, pouring coffee into two mugs.
"Probably Jaxson," I said. "Asking if I'm alive."
I unlocked the screen.
It wasn't Jaxson.
It was an email notification. From the Dean of Students.
Subject: Notice of Disciplinary Hearing - Immediate Suspension.
My stomach dropped. The blood drained from my face.
I sat up, ignoring the pain in my leg.
I opened the email.
Mr. Vanner,
This email serves as official notice that your enrollment at Blackwood University has been suspended effective immediately, pending a hearing regarding violations of the Student Athlete Code of Conduct and Academic Integrity Policy.
Specifically, the administration has received credible evidence regarding unauthorized assistance on your Ethics midterm paper submitted on February 14th.
Furthermore, your athletic scholarship is under review due to reported violations of the Fraternization Clause in your contract.
Please report to the Dean's office Monday at 9:00 AM.
I stared at the words.
Academic Integrity.
Unauthorized assistance.
Fraternization.
They knew.
They knew about the paper. They knew about us.
"Liam?" Sofia’s voice came from the kitchenette. She sounded worried. "What's wrong? You went white."
I couldn't speak. I held up the phone.
She walked over, setting the mugs down on the table. She took the phone from my hand.
She read the email.
Her hand started to shake.
"No," she whispered. "No. This... this can't be happening."
"They know about the paper," I rasped. "Sofia. You wrote the outline. They know."
"How?" she asked, her eyes wide with terror. "How could they know? We were careful. We used your laptop. I never sent the file."
"Someone talked," I said. "Or someone saw."
My phone buzzed again. A text from Jaxson.
Jax (Winger): Dude. Check Twitter. It's bad.
I grabbed the phone back. I opened Twitter.
I didn't have to search. It was trending locally.
#BlackwoodScandal
I clicked the hashtag.
The top post was from an account called @BlackwoodConfidential.
It was a thread.
Tweet 1: Looks like the Wall has crumbled. Sources say Captain Liam Vanner has been getting a little 'extra credit' from the owner's daughter. #BlackwoodHockey
Tweet 2: [Attached Photo]
The photo.
It wasn't the one from the tunnel.
It was a photo of us in the library. The glass room.
But it was zoomed in. High definition.
It showed the paper on the table. And it showed Sofia’s handwriting on the notepad next to my laptop. The distinctive, looping script of the Heiress.
And... it showed our hands. Under the table. Interlaced.
The caption: Tutor or Lover? Or both? Daddy Thorne won't be happy.
Tweet 3: Rumor has it Vanner is getting cut. Bye bye scholarship. Hope the hookup was worth it.
I stared at the screen. My world was disintegrating pixel by pixel.
"Who took this?" I whispered. "Who was watching us?"
Sofia was staring at the photo over my shoulder. She was trembling violently.
"Brad," she choked out. "Brad Pensington. He was in the library that night. He walked by. I remember... I remember seeing him."
"Brad," I repeated. The guy I embarrassed at the gala. The guy who wanted Sofia.
He had waited. He had gathered evidence. And he had dropped the bomb right when it would hurt the most.
"Liam," Sofia said, grabbing my arm. "We can fix this. I'll go to my dad. I'll tell him it's not true. I'll tell him I was just tutoring you."
"Your handwriting is on the notes, Sofia!" I shouted, pulling away. "And we're holding hands! It's over. They have proof."
"My dad can make it go away," she insisted. "He owns the school basically. I'll beg him. I'll tell him—"
The door to my apartment banged open.
We both jumped.
Standing in the doorway was not the Dean. Not Jaxson.
It was Marcus Thorne.
He was wearing a black wool coat, snow dusting the shoulders. He looked like the Grim Reaper.
Behind him stood two massive security guards.
"Daddy?" Sofia whispered.
Marcus stepped into the room. He looked around the shabby apartment with a sneer of disgust. Then his eyes landed on me.
I was sitting on a mattress on the floor, shirtless, wearing sweatpants. My leg was wrapped.
He looked at Sofia. She was wearing my hoodie. Her hair was messy. Her lips were swollen.
There was no denying it. No spinning it.
"Get your things, Sofia," Marcus said. His voice was terrifyingly quiet.
"Daddy, please," Sofia stepped forward, putting herself between me and him. "It's not what it looks like. We were just—"
"Do not lie to me!" Marcus roared. The sound filled the small room, shaking the walls.
He pointed a gloved finger at me.
"You," he spat. "I gave you a chance. I gave you a scholarship. I gave you a future. And you repay me by corrupting my daughter and cheating your way through my university?"
"I didn't corrupt her," I said, struggling to stand up. My knee screamed, but I ignored it. I stood on one leg, facing him. "We fell in love. And she helped me study. That's it."
"Love," Marcus scoffed. "You are a parasite, Vanner. You latched onto her because you knew your knee was a ticking time bomb. You wanted insurance."
"That's not true!" Sofia screamed. "He loves me!"
"He loves your money!" Marcus yelled back. "And now he has cost you everything."
He turned to the guards.
"Get her out of here."
The guards stepped forward.
"No!" Sofia grabbed my arm. "I'm not leaving! I'm staying with him!"
"You are leaving," Marcus said coldly. "Or I call the police and have him arrested for fraud. The academic dishonesty is enough to press charges for scholarship theft. Do you want to see him in handcuffs, Sofia? Or just unemployed?"
Sofia froze. She looked at me. Her eyes were wide, panicked pools.
"Liam?" she whispered.
I looked at Marcus Thorne. I saw the checkmate in his eyes. He held all the cards.
If she stayed, he would destroy me. Jail. Lawsuits. Ruin.
If she left... I lost her. But I lived.
"Go," I said. My voice was dead.
"Liam, no," she sobbed.
"Go, Sofia," I said harsher. "He's right. It's over."
"You don't mean that," she pleaded. "Tell me you don't mean that."
I looked at her. I memorized her face. The way she looked in my hoodie. The way she had looked an hour ago, planning our life in Chicago.
I had to break her heart to save her. Again. But this time, it was final.
"I mean it," I lied. "Go to Chicago. Go to Paris. Just go."
She stared at me. The light in her eyes died.
"Okay," she whispered.
She stepped back. The guards grabbed her arms, guiding her toward the door.
She looked back at me one last time.
"I loved you," she said. Past tense.
Then she was gone.
Marcus Thorne looked at me one last time.
"You have twenty-four hours to vacate the campus," he said. "If I see you near my daughter again, I will bury you so deep no one will ever find you."
He turned and walked out, leaving the door open to the snow.
I stood there on one leg, shivering in the cold air.
The brochure for the University of Chicago was still on the mattress.
I picked it up.
I crumpled it in my fist.
Then I threw it into the space heater.
I watched it burn. The edges curled, turned black, and turned to ash.
Just like everything else.