Chapter 16
Liam
The Dean’s office looked exactly like a courtroom, only with better carpeting and more pretension.
I sat in a leather chair that cost more than my first three cars combined. My left leg was throbbing under the brace, a steady, rhythmic pulse of pain that kept me grounded in the nightmare.
Across the desk sat Dean Harrison. He was a small man with thin glasses and a face that suggested he enjoyed denying financial aid applications.
To his right sat Marcus Thorne.
Thorne wasn't looking at me. He was inspecting his cuticles, radiating a silent, lethal boredom.
"Mr. Vanner," Dean Harrison began, adjusting his glasses.
"We have reviewed the evidence. The photograph is...
compelling. The handwriting analysis confirms Ms. Thorne's involvement in your coursework.
And the timeline of your... association...
aligns with a significant drop in your academic independence. "
"I wrote the paper," I said. My voice was raspy. I hadn't slept in twenty-four hours. "She proofread it. That's allowed."
"She outlined it," Harrison corrected, tapping a printout of the leaked photo. "And the nature of your relationship—as documented by half the student body on social media—suggests a conflict of interest that violates the Student Athlete Code of Conduct, Section 4, Paragraph B."
"Section 4, Paragraph B," I repeated. "The 'Don't sleep with the donor's daughter' clause."
"Inappropriate conduct unbecoming of a Blackwood representative," Harrison said primly.
"Let's cut the chase, Dean," Marcus Thorne spoke up. His voice was deep, smooth, and cold. He finally looked at me. "Mr. Vanner knows the score. He gambled. He lost."
Thorne leaned forward, placing his hands on the mahogany desk.
"Here are your options, son. Option A: We proceed with the hearing. I present the evidence. You are expelled for academic fraud. Your scholarship is revoked retroactively, meaning you owe the university $120,000 in tuition. And I press charges for fraud."
I felt the blood drain from my face. $120,000. It was an impossible number. It was a life sentence of debt.
"Option B," Thorne continued, a shark-like smile touching his lips. "You withdraw. Voluntarily. Today. You sign a non-disclosure agreement stating that you are leaving for 'personal health reasons' related to your injury. You leave Blackwood. You leave Burlington."
"And Sofia?" I asked.
Thorne’s eyes narrowed.
"Sofia is going to Chicago," he said. "She starts her MBA in the fall. Until then, she is going to Paris to work for the European division. She leaves tomorrow morning."
"Tomorrow?" I choked out.
"Tomorrow," Thorne confirmed. "And here is the kicker, Vanner.
If you take Option B... I will pay for your rehab.
I will cover the surgery costs. And I will make a call to a friend of mine in the ECHL.
The Utah Grizzlies. They need a backup goalie.
It's not the NHL, but it's a paycheck. And it's a chance to play. "
I stared at him.
He was buying me off. He was paying me to disappear.
"And if I refuse?" I asked. "If I tell Sofia what you're doing?"
"If you tell her," Thorne said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "I will cut her off completely. No trust fund. No MBA tuition. No Paris job. She will be destitute, Vanner. Do you want that for her? Do you want her living in that garage with you, counting pennies for ramen?"
He paused, letting the image sink in.
"She's a Thorne," he said. "She needs the life I provide. You can't give her that. You can only drag her down into the gutter with you. If you love her... really love her... you'll let her go."
I looked at the window. It was snowing again.
If you love her, let her go.
It was the oldest cliché in the book. But clichés exist because they're true.
I thought about Sofia in the costume archive, wrapping herself in mink. I thought about her planning the apartment in Chicago. Navy and cream.
She had dreams. Big, expensive dreams.
I had a broken knee and a mountain of debt.
I wasn't the hero of this story. I was the anchor. And if I didn't cut the line, I was going to drown her.
"Where do I sign?" I asked.
Thorne slid a stack of papers across the desk. He uncapped a Montblanc pen and set it down.
I picked up the pen. My hand was shaking.
I signed my name. Liam James Vanner.
With each stroke of the pen, I felt a piece of my soul wither and die.
"Smart choice," Thorne said, taking the papers back. "You have until midnight to vacate the apartment. Your truck is in the lot. Don't come back."
I stood up. I grabbed my crutches.
"One condition," I said.
Thorne raised an eyebrow. "You're not in a position to bargain."
"I need to say goodbye," I said. "To her. In person."
"Absolutely not," Thorne said.
"If you don't let me," I said, leaning on the crutches, looking him in the eye, "I will go to the press. I will tell them everything. The blackmail. The threats. The academic setup. I'll burn this whole university down."
Thorne studied me. He saw the desperation in my eyes. He saw that I had nothing left to lose.
"Fine," he said. "She's at the apartment packing. You have ten minutes. Make it clean. Make it final. If she tries to follow you... the deal is off."
"She won't follow me," I promised. "I'll make sure of it."
The drive to the Kensington was a blur. I didn't feel the cold. I didn't feel the pain in my knee. I felt numb. A cold, gray static filled my brain.
I parked The Beast in the loading zone. I hobbled past the doorman, who looked at me with pity. He knew. Everyone knew.
I took the elevator to the penthouse.
I rehearsed the speech in my head.
I never loved you.
It was just a game.
I used you.
Lies. All of it. But they were necessary lies. They were the scalpel I needed to sever the connection so she could heal.
I knocked on the door.
It opened instantly.
Sofia stood there.
She looked like she had been crying for hours. Her eyes were red and puffy. She was wearing a cashmere sweater and jeans, standing amidst a sea of open suitcases.
"Liam!"
She threw herself at me.
I braced myself on the crutches, letting her impact hit my chest.
"Oh my god," she sobbed, burying her face in my neck. "You came back. Daddy said... he said you were gone. He said you took a deal."
I stood there, stiff as a board. I didn't hug her back. I couldn't. If I wrapped my arms around her, I would never let go.
"Sofia," I said. My voice was cold. Robotically cold.
She pulled back, sensing the difference. She looked up at my face.
"Liam?" she whispered. "What's wrong?"
"I took the deal," I said.
She blinked. "What?"
"I signed the papers," I said. "I withdrew from Blackwood. I'm leaving for Utah tonight."
"Utah?" she asked, confused. "Why Utah?"
"The Grizzlies," I said. "Your dad got me a spot. It's a paycheck. It's a start."
"But... Chicago?" she asked. "We had a plan. You were going to rehab here. We were going to..."
"That was a fantasy, Sofia," I said, stepping back, putting distance between us. "Chicago isn't happening. I can't afford Chicago. I can't afford you."
"I don't care about the money!" she cried. "We can make it work! I'll get a job! I'll—"
"Stop," I cut her off. "Just stop."
I looked at her. I forced my face into a mask of boredom. Of irritation.
"Look around you," I said, gesturing to the penthouse. "Look at the clothes. The view. This is who you are, Sofia. You're a Thorne. You need this. You need the brand. You need the validation."
"I need you!" she shouted.
"No, you don't," I said. "You needed a rebellion. You needed to piss off your dad. You needed a project. And I was perfect for that. The broken, poor goalie from the wrong side of the tracks. It was fun, right? Playing 'My Fair Lady' with the mechanic?"
She recoiled as if I had slapped her.
"Is that what you think?" she whispered. "That you were a project?"
"Weren't I?" I challenged. "You fixed my grades. You fixed my wardrobe. You fixed my knee. You love fixing things, Sofia. But I'm not a car you can restore. I'm just broken."
"I love you," she said, tears streaming down her face. "Liam, look at me. I love you."
"I know," I said. "And that's the problem."
I took a breath. This was it. The kill shot.
"I don't love you," I lied.
The silence that followed was deafening. It sucked the air out of the room.
Sofia stared at me. Her mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. Her eyes searched mine, desperate to find the lie.
I kept my gaze steady. Slate gray. Cold. The Wall.
"I tried," I said, shrugging. "I really did. You're great, Sofia. You're beautiful. The sex was... incredible. But love? Real love? I don't think I'm capable of it. Not with you. Not in this world."
"You're lying," she whispered. Her voice broke.
"I'm not," I said. "I used you. Your dad was right. I needed the grades to stay eligible. I needed the money from the purse to pay my bills. I saw an opportunity, and I took it. I'm sorry."
"You... you sold the purse for your mom," she argued, grabbing my shirt. "You cried in the hospital! You told me about your dad! You can't fake that!"
"I can fake anything to survive," I said, peeling her fingers off my chest. "It's what I do."
I dropped her hand.
"Go to Paris, Sofia," I said. "Forget about me. Find some rich guy who can buy you the mastiff and the big house. Be happy."
"Get out," she whispered.
"Sofia—"
"GET OUT!" she screamed. She grabbed a vase from the entry table—a crystal thing that probably cost a thousand dollars—and threw it.
It smashed against the wall inches from my head, shattering into a million pieces.
"GET OUT! I HATE YOU!"
"Good," I said softly. "Hate me. It's easier."
I turned around. I hobbled to the door.
My heart was beating so hard it hurt. Every step away from her felt like tearing a limb off.
I opened the door.
"Liam," she called out. Her voice was small, broken.
I paused. I didn't look back.
"Did you ever really see me?" she asked. "Or was I just a mark?"
I closed my eyes. Tears leaked out, hot and fast.
I saw you, I thought. I saw everything. I saw the fire and the fear and the beauty. You were the only thing I ever saw.
"Goodbye, Princess," I said.
I walked out. I closed the door.
I listened.
From inside the apartment, a wail of pure anguish erupted. It was a sound I would hear in my nightmares for the rest of my life.
I leaned against the wall in the hallway, sliding down until I hit the floor. I buried my face in my hands and let the silent sobs shake my body.
I had done it. I had saved her.
And in doing so, I had destroyed us both.
I drove west.
I didn't go back to the apartment to pack. I didn't have anything worth taking anyway. My hockey bag was in the truck. My clothes were on my back.
I drove until the Vermont mountains faded in the rearview mirror. I drove until the snow turned to rain, then back to snow as I hit the highway toward the Midwest.
Utah was two thousand miles away.
I had a gas card Marcus Thorne had given me. I had an envelope with $5,000 cash on the passenger seat—my "severance package."
I felt like Judas.
Every mile put distance between me and Sofia, but the pain didn't fade. It just settled deeper, becoming a permanent part of my anatomy, like the metal screws in my knee.
I stopped at a rest stop in Ohio at 3:00 AM.
I sat in the truck, eating a cold sandwich, staring at the darkness.
I pulled out my phone.
I opened the photo gallery.
I had one picture of us. A selfie she had taken in the hospital. She was grinning, holding up a peace sign, and I was looking at her like she was the sun.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then, I hit delete.
I took out the SIM card. I snapped it in half.
I tossed the phone into the trash can outside the truck.
I got back in. I turned the key. The Beast roared to life, faithful and broken, just like me.
I put it in gear and drove into the night.
Blackwood was gone. Sofia was gone.
Liam Vanner was dead.
There was only the Goalie now. And he had a job to do.