Chapter 20
Elijah
The ice at the United Center in Chicago is different from the ice in Colorado. It’s harder. Faster. It has a history that bleeds up through the frozen water—six Stanley Cups, legends skating these same lines, ghosts in the rafters.
It was September. Rookie Camp.
The arena was mostly empty, save for the coaching staff, the training camp invitees, and a handful of reporters looking for a preseason story.
I sat on the bench, my skates resting on the rubber mat. I was wearing a red practice jersey with the Indian Head logo on the chest. VANCE was taped on the back of my helmet.
I looked down at my hands.
My right hand—the one that had been a swollen, purple mess for half of last season—was healed. There was a faint scar across the knuckles where the skin had split, a permanent reminder of the glass I punched in the penthouse. But the bone was solid. The grip was strong.
I flexed my fingers. No pain.
"Hey, Rookie," a voice called out.
I looked up. It was Kane. Patrick Kane. A legend. He was skating by, spinning a puck on his stick like it was a yo-yo.
"You gonna stare at your hands all day, or are you gonna play?" he chirped, grinning.
I stood up, the adrenaline surging. "I’m ready."
"Good. Let’s see what that first-round money bought us."
I hopped over the boards. My blades hit the ice with a satisfying crunch.
I skated a lap. The wind hit my face. The smell of the rink—cold air, rubber, sweat—filled my lungs.
It used to smell like pressure. It used to smell like my father’s expectations.
Now? It just smelled like hockey.
I looked up at the empty stands, specifically Section 108, Row 5.
She was there.
Angela was sitting with her knees pulled up to her chest, wearing a Blackhawks beanie and an oversized sweatshirt that definitely belonged to me. She had a textbook open on her lap—she was finishing her degree online while auditioning for companies in the city—but she wasn't reading.
She was watching me.
I tapped my stick on the ice twice. I see you.
She smiled. Even from fifty yards away, I saw it. It was the smile that had saved my life. She gave me a small wave, then went back to her book.
I turned back to the play.
Let’s work.
Angela
Life in Chicago was loud.
The "L" train rattled past our apartment window every twenty minutes. The wind howled through the concrete canyons of the Loop. The fans were intense, passionate, and loud.
But inside our apartment—the one with the hardwood floors and the view of the lake—it was quiet.
It was a Saturday night. Elijah had the evening off after a grueling week of camp. We were in the kitchen. He was making pasta (he had gotten surprisingly good at it, though he still insisted on measuring the protein content of the sauce). I was sitting on the counter, drinking wine.
"So," Elijah said, chopping garlic with surgical precision. "Markham pulled me aside today."
"Oh god," I said, putting my glass down. "Is it bad? Did you punch someone?"
"No punches thrown," he smirked. "He said I made the opening night roster. Second line center."
I screamed.
I launched myself off the counter and tackled him. He caught me easily, dropping the knife (safely) and wrapping his arms around my waist, spinning me around.
"You made the team!" I yelled into his neck. "You’re an NHL player! Officially!"
"Officially," he agreed, laughing. "And the signing bonus cleared."
"We’re rich!"
"We were already rich," he reminded me dryly. "But now it’s my money. Not Cyrus’s."
That was the sweetest part. Every dollar in our bank account—and there were a lot of them—was earned. It came from sweat, ice, and blood. Not inheritance. Not manipulation.
"I’m so proud of you," I whispered, pulling back to look at him.
He looked different than he had six months ago. The stress lines around his eyes were gone. He smiled more. He laughed at bad jokes. The "Iceman" was still there on the ice, but at home, he was just Elijah.
"I have news too," I said, biting my lip.
He set me down on the counter, stepping between my legs. His favorite spot.
"Tell me."
"The Joffrey called."
His eyes widened. "And?"
"They offered me a spot in the Corps de Ballet for the Nutcracker season. It’s temporary... but it’s a foot in the door."
"Angela," he breathed. "That’s incredible."
"It’s just the Corps," I said quickly. "I’m basically a glorified snowflake. But—"
"But you’re a professional ballerina," he finished. "You’re doing it. You’re actually doing it."
He kissed me. It tasted like garlic and victory.
"We’re a power couple," he murmured against my lips. "An NHL center and a Joffrey ballerina. We’re going to run this city."
"We have to survive the winter first," I teased. "I heard it gets cold."
"I’ll keep you warm," he promised, his hands sliding under my shirt. "I have methods."
"I bet you do."
The pasta was forgotten. The wine was forgotten.
We celebrated on the kitchen floor of our first real home, surrounded by the noise of the city and the silence of our love.
Elijah
Opening Night.
The United Center was packed. Twenty-two thousand fans wearing red. The roar during the anthem was deafening—a tradition in Chicago where they cheer through the whole song. It vibrated in your bones.
I stood on the blue line. The lights were bright. The TV cameras were rolling.
I looked at the opposing team—the Detroit Red Wings.
I looked at my teammates. Kane. Toews. Keith. Legends. And now, me. Vance.
I took a deep breath.
Six months ago, I was ready to quit. I was ready to walk away because the pressure was crushing me. I thought I had to choose between the game and the girl.
I looked up at the luxury suite. Box 24.
Angela was there. She was wearing my jersey—the new one, with the NHL shield on the collar. Next to her was Jax (who had flown in for the game) and Chloe (who was currently eating all the free shrimp).
And next to them... was Teresa Moretti.
Angela’s mom.
She looked frail, but she was standing. Her color was good. The transplant had been a success. She was smiling, waving a red towel.
I felt a lump in my throat.
That was the victory. Not the contract. Not the fame. That.
The family we built. The lives we saved.
The anthem ended. The puck was ready to drop.
I skated to the face-off circle.
The ref held the puck.
I leaned in. I looked at the Red Wings center. I looked at his eyes. I saw nerves.
I smirked.
I got this.
The puck dropped.
I won the draw. Clean. Back to the defense.
The game was on.
I played like a man possessed. I felt light. I felt fast. The weight of the Vance legacy was gone. I wasn't playing for my father anymore. I wasn't playing to prove I wasn't broken.
I was playing because I loved it.
Midway through the second period, I got the puck in the neutral zone. I saw a gap.
I accelerated. I split the defense. I was in alone on the goalie.
Heel to toe. Head up.
I faked a shot. The goalie bit. I dragged the puck to my backhand and roofed it.
The red light went on. The horn blared. Chelsea Dagger started playing.
My first NHL goal.
The crowd erupted.
My teammates swarmed me. I was buried in a pile of red jerseys and gloves.
"Welcome to the show, kid!" someone yelled.
I skated to the bench, high-fiving the line.
I looked up at the box.
Angela was jumping up and down, hugging her mom. She was screaming. I couldn't hear her over the crowd, but I knew what she was saying.
I love you.
I pointed at her. A subtle gesture. Just a finger raised to the glass.
She saw it. She blew me a kiss.
I sat on the bench, catching my breath.
I thought about the boy I was in Chapter 1. The boy in the tuxedo, standing in the penthouse, looking down at the world and feeling nothing but cold control. The boy who thought emotions were a liability.
I looked at my hands. They were sweating. My heart was pounding. I felt joy, exhaustion, pride, and love.
I was a mess of emotions. And I loved it.
I was finally alive.
Angela
After the game, the hallway outside the locker room was a zoo.
Reporters, family, agents.
I waited by the wall, holding my mom’s arm.
"He was amazing, Angie," Mom said, her eyes shining. "He looked so fast."
"He is fast," I said, beaming.
The door opened. Elijah walked out.
He was wearing a sharp navy suit (some things never change), his hair wet from the shower, a small cut on his chin. He looked tired but happy.
He saw us. His face lit up.
He walked straight to us, ignoring the reporters shouting his name.
"Mrs. Moretti," he said, leaning down to hug my mom gently. "You made it."
"I wouldn't miss it," she said, patting his cheek. "You were wonderful, Elijah."
"Thank you."
He turned to me.
"Hi," he said softly.
"Hi, NHL star," I teased.
"Did you see it?"
"The goal? Yeah, I think a few people saw it."
He laughed. He grabbed my hand and pulled me close. He didn't care who was watching. He kissed me.
It was a lingering, sweet kiss. A promise.
"Party at the apartment?" Jax yelled, coming out of the locker room with Chloe in tow. "I bought champagne!"
"Cheap champagne," Chloe clarified. "But lots of it."
"We’ll be there," Elijah said.
He turned back to me.
"Ready to go home?" he asked.
"Always," I said.
We walked out of the arena. The night air was cold—Chicago winter was coming—but I wasn't cold. I had Elijah’s jacket over my shoulders. I had his hand in mine.
We walked toward the car, leaving the noise of the game behind.
I looked at him.
"You know," I said. "This is just the beginning. The season is long. There will be road trips. Injuries. Slumps."
"I know," he said. "But we have a good game plan."
"What’s the plan?"
He stopped. He pulled me into his arms under a streetlamp. Snow had started to fall—light, dusting flakes.
"The plan," he whispered, "is that we fight. We fight the world. We fight the distance. We fight the chaos. But we never, ever fight each other."
"I like that plan," I said.
"And," he added, a mischievous glint in his eye. "We make sure to utilize the six-jet shower as often as possible."
I laughed. "Priorities."
"Exactly."
He kissed me again, deeper this time.
"I love you, Angela Moretti."
"I love you, Elijah Vance."
The snow fell around us, turning the city into a snow globe. It was perfect. It was messy. It was real.
We got in the car. We drove home.
And as we merged onto the highway, the city lights blurring past, I knew that no matter what happened next—wins, losses, trades, injuries—we were going to be okay.
Because the Iceman had melted. And underneath, he had a heart of gold.