Chapter 17
Elijah
Victory tastes like ash.
I stood at center ice in the TD Garden, the trophy—a massive silver cup that weighed thirty pounds—hoisted over my head. Confetti rained down in a blizzard of black and silver, sticking to my sweaty face, getting in my eyes.
The noise was deafening. Twenty thousand people screaming. My teammates were tackling each other, crying, hugging. Jax was currently trying to climb the glass to high-five a drunk fan.
It was the moment every hockey player dreams of. The National Championship. The pinnacle.
I felt... nothing.
Actually, that’s a lie. I felt a dull, persistent throbbing in my right hand, and a yawning, terrifying emptiness in the center of my chest where my heart used to be.
"Smile, Cap!" a photographer shouted, flashing a camera in my face.
I bared my teeth. It wasn't a smile. It was a grimace of endurance.
My father was on the ice. He was wearing a trench coat, looking regal and smug. He walked toward me, stepping over the discarded gloves and helmets.
"You did it," Cyrus said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "You delivered."
"I did my job," I said, handing the trophy to a sophomore who looked like he might faint from joy.
"The Chicago GM is in the locker room," Cyrus continued, his voice low. "He wants to talk contract. Tonight. He’s impressed, Elijah. The way you handled the distraction... the way you refocused... it showed maturity."
Maturity.
Is that what we called it? Is ripping your soul out and replacing it with ambition maturity?
"I need a shower," I said, shrugging off his hand.
"Don't be long," Cyrus warned. "This is your moment. Don't waste it."
I walked off the ice. I walked down the tunnel. The noise faded behind me, becoming a distant roar.
I walked into the locker room. It was chaos. Champagne was spraying everywhere. Music was blasting.
I went straight to my stall. I sat down. I put my head in my hands.
"Vance! We did it, baby!"
Jax slid onto the bench next to me, soaking wet with champagne and sweat. He threw an arm around me.
"We are legends!" Jax screamed. "Legends forever!"
I looked at him. His eyes were bright, manic with joy. He was happy. Purely, uncomplicatedly happy.
I envied him so much I wanted to hit him.
"Yeah," I said. "Legends."
"Hey," Jax said, his smile faltering slightly. "You okay? You look like you’re at a funeral."
"I’m tired, Jax."
"It’s over, man," Jax said, lowering his voice. "The season. The pressure. The girl. It’s all over. You won."
The girl.
The word was a physical blow.
"Don't talk about her," I rasped.
"Elijah..."
"I said don't."
I stood up. I started stripping off my gear. I needed to get the armor off. It felt heavy. It felt like a cage.
I threw my jersey into the laundry bin. Vance 19.
The last time I saw that jersey, Angela was wearing it. She was standing in the tunnel, her eyes wide with fear for me. She had looked so beautiful. So mine.
And now?
Now she was gone. Vanished. Her phone number was disconnected. Her social media was dark. The penthouse was empty, scrubbed clean of her presence by a professional cleaning crew my father had hired the morning after she left.
It was like she never existed.
Except for the ghost.
The ghost followed me everywhere. It sat in the passenger seat of my car. It slept on the other side of my bed. It stood in the kitchen while I drank my coffee.
I love you, the ghost whispered.
You were just a means to an end, the text message screamed.
Which one was real?
I stepped into the shower. I turned the water on hot. Scalding. I wanted to burn the numbness away.
But the water just ran over me, and I remained cold.
The party that night was at a hotel ballroom in Boston. It was an official team function, which meant donors, alumni, and parents.
I wore a suit. I held a glass of scotch. I shook hands.
"Congratulations, Elijah."
"Incredible game."
"Chicago is lucky to have you."
I was a robot. Thank you. Yes. It was a team effort.
I scanned the room. I didn't mean to. It was a reflex. I was looking for curly hair. I was looking for a green silk dress. I was looking for a sarcastic smile.
She wasn't there. Of course she wasn't there.
She was somewhere else. Spending my father’s money. Maybe she was laughing. Maybe she was dancing. Maybe she was with someone else.
The thought made me grip my glass so hard I thought it might shatter.
"Elijah."
I turned.
A man was standing there. Older. Thick build. Intense eyes.
Markham. The General Manager of the Chicago Blackhawks.
"Mr. Markham," I said, extending my left hand. My right was back in a brace, hidden in my pocket.
"Impressive performance tonight, son," Markham said. "Three points in a championship game. And you laid out their captain in the first period. Sets a tone."
"Thank you."
"We’ve been watching you closely," Markham said. "The talent is undeniable. But we had concerns. About your focus. Your... off-ice situation."
He paused, studying me.
"I spoke to your father," Markham continued. "He assured me the problem has been eliminated. That you’re fully committed to the game."
"I am," I said. The lie tasted like bile.
"Good. Because we have the third overall pick. And we need a center who isn't afraid to make the hard choices. Who puts the team above everything."
He smiled. It was a shark’s smile.
"Welcome to the big leagues, Elijah. We’ll be in touch."
He walked away.
I stood there, surrounded by luxury and success, and realized something terrifying.
This was it. This was my life now.
Cold handshakes. Transactional relationships. Winning at all costs.
I was my father.
I looked across the room. Cyrus was holding court near the bar, laughing with the Dean. He looked triumphant. He had won. He had manipulated his son, paid off a girl, and secured the legacy.
I hated him.
But more than that, I hated myself. Because I had let him do it. I had believed the worst of her. I had let her walk out that door without a fight.
I’m my father’s daughter. I always take the cash.
Why did she say that?
It sounded scripted. It sounded like something a villain says in a bad movie.
Angela wasn't a villain. She was the girl who cried when she told me about her dad’s arrest. She was the girl who built a snowman to test my hand mobility. She was the girl who danced in an empty theater and told me she loved me with tears in her eyes.
People don't change overnight.
Unless...
Unless she was forced to.
A thought struck me. A wild, desperate, impossible thought.
What if she didn't take the money for herself?
What if she took it to save me?
I remembered the conversation in the penthouse. My father threatening to expose the "scandal." The Dean talking about expulsion.
If she stayed, I lost everything. If she left... I got this. The trophy. The contract.
She sacrificed herself.
The realization hit me like a slapshot to the chest. I staggered back, bumping into a waiter.
"Whoa, easy there, champ," the waiter said, steadying me.
"I have to go," I muttered.
I turned and ran. I ran out of the ballroom. I ran through the lobby. I ran out onto the street in Boston.
I pulled out my phone.
I dialed Jax.
"Yo, Cap! Where are you? We’re heading to a club!"
"Jax," I gasped. "I need you to do something for me. Right now."
"Uh... okay? You sound crazy."
"I need you to call your dad."
"My dad? Why?"
"Your dad is on the hospital board at Sterling Medical," I said, my mind racing. "I need him to check something. I need him to check the accounts for Teresa Moretti. Angela’s mom."
"Dude," Jax sighed. "You have to let it go. She took the cash and bailed."
"Just do it!" I screamed into the phone. "Call him. Wake him up. I don't care. Find out who paid her bills two weeks ago. Find out if it was a check from Cyrus Vance or a wire transfer from Angela Moretti."
There was silence on the line.
"Okay," Jax said softly. "Okay, Elijah. Give me ten minutes."
I hung up.
I stood on the sidewalk, shivering in my suit.
Please let me be right. Please let her be the hero.
Because if she was the hero... then I was the villain who let her burn.
Ten minutes later, my phone rang.
"Well?" I demanded.
"It was a wire transfer," Jax said. His voice was subdued. "From an account in Angela’s name. It cleared the day after she left. Three hundred thousand dollars. Paid in full."
The phone slipped from my hand.
She didn't take the money to run away. She took it to pay for her mother’s life. And she took it to save my career.
She loved me. She loved me enough to let me hate her.
I fell to my knees on the Boston sidewalk. I didn't care who saw. I didn't care about the suit.
I howled. A sound of pure, unadulterated grief.
I had won the championship. I had won the draft.
And I had lost the only thing that made any of it matter.
I stood up.
I knew what I had to do.
I hailed a cab.
"Logan Airport," I said.
"You flying out tonight?" the driver asked.
"I’m finding someone," I said. "And I’m not coming back until I do."
"Where to?"
"Salt Lake City," I said.
Why Salt Lake? Because that night in the car, when we were talking about the future, she had mentioned a friend from dance camp who lived there. It was a long shot. It was a needle in a haystack.
But I was the Iceman. I didn't miss.
I would find her. I would beg. I would grovel. I would burn my father’s empire to the ground if that’s what it took to get her back.
I wasn't a Vance anymore.
I was Angela Moretti’s man. And I was coming to claim what was mine.
Angela
The diner was quiet.
It was 4:00 AM. My shift was almost over. My feet ached. My heart ached.
The TV was replaying the championship game highlights. I couldn't watch. I kept my back to the screen, scrubbing the coffee maker.
"Moretti!" the manager, Rick, yelled from the office. "Phone for you!"
I froze. No one knew I was here. No one knew this number.
"Who is it?" I called back.
"Says it’s the hospital. Something about your mom."
My blood ran cold.
I dropped the rag and ran to the office. I grabbed the receiver.
"Hello? Is she okay?"
"Miss Moretti?" A kind female voice. "This is Nurse Helen from Sterling Medical. I’m calling with an update on your mother."
"Is she... did the surgery go wrong?"
"No, honey. The surgery hasn't happened yet. But we have a donor match."
I gasped. "A match? Really?"
"Yes. A perfect match. We need to schedule the transplant immediately. But... we need you to sign the consent forms in person. Can you get here?"
"I’m... I’m in Utah," I stammered. "I can't... I don't have a car."
"We can fax them," the nurse said. "But Angela... there’s something else."
"What?"
"A young man was here earlier. Asking about you. Asking about the payment."
My heart stopped.
"A young man?"
"Tall. Scary looking. Broken hand. He looked... frantic."
Elijah.
He had gone to the hospital. He had figured it out.
"What did you tell him?" I whispered.
"I couldn't tell him anything due to HIPAA," the nurse said. "But... he left a message. In case you called."
"What’s the message?"
"He said: Tell her I know. Tell her I’m coming. Tell her the contract isn't over until I say it’s over."
I dropped the phone.
He knew.
He wasn't angry. He was hunting.
And Elijah Vance never lost a hunt.
I looked out the window of the diner office. The sun was starting to rise over the mountains.
I should run. I should disappear again.
But my legs wouldn't move.
Because deep down, in the part of my heart that I hadn't managed to kill... I didn't want to run.
I wanted to be caught.