Chapter 8
Michelle
The smell of a hockey arena is primal. It’s a cocktail of zamboni fumes, stale popcorn, damp wool, and the nervous sweat of four thousand people screaming for blood.
I sat in the friends-and-family section, row four, directly behind the Blackwood bench. It was the best seat in the house, or the worst, depending on how much anxiety you wanted to inject directly into your veins.
I was wearing a Blackwood jersey. Not just any jersey. His jersey.
Number 24. STERLING.
It was too big. The sleeves came down to my knuckles, and the hem hit my mid-thigh over my leggings. I had stolen it from the laundry pile this morning while Greg was doing his pre-game visualization ritual (which involved staring at a wall for twenty minutes).
"You look like a bobblehead," Chloe shouted over the deafening roar of the crowd. She was sitting next to me, bundled in a scarf that covered everything but her eyes.
"Shut up," I shouted back, gripping the railing in front of me. "It's called support."
"It's called branding," she corrected. "You're literally wearing his name. You're tagged livestock."
I ignored her. My eyes were fixed on the ice.
The warm-ups were over. The zamboni had done its laps. The ice was a pristine, gleaming sheet of violence waiting to happen.
The lights dimmed. A spotlight hit the tunnel entrance. The student section—the "Blackwood Pack"—erupted into a howl that vibrated in my chest.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN," the announcer boomed, his voice echoing like a god. "PLEASE WELCOME YOUR BLACKWOOD brUISERS!"
They skated out.
It was like watching a thunderstorm roll in. A blur of black and grey uniforms, blades cutting the ice with a terrifying shrrrk-shrrrk sound. They were huge. Padded, helmeted, anonymous gladiators.
But I knew which one was him.
I would know him anywhere. It was the way he moved. Efficient. Grounded. He didn't skate with the flashy, bouncing energy of the freshmen. He glided. He patrolled.
Number 24 led the line. The Captain.
He skated a lap, his stick tapping the shin pads of his teammates. Encouraging. Commanding.
He stopped at the blue line for the anthem. He took off his helmet.
The spotlight caught him. His hair was slicked back with sweat. His face was a mask of stone. His jaw was set so hard I could see the muscle twitch from fifty feet away.
He looked terrifying.
He looked lonely.
My heart squeezed. I knew what he was thinking. Control the game. Protect the goal. Don't let the roof fall down.
As the anthem ended, he put his helmet back on. He turned toward the bench.
And then, he did it.
He looked up.
He didn't scan the crowd. He didn't search. His head snapped directly to row four, seat twelve. Like he had radar.
Through the cage of his helmet, I saw his eyes lock onto me. He saw the jersey.
He went still for a fraction of a second.
Then, he tapped his gloved fist against his heart. Once. Just a quick thud against the logo on his chest.
It wasn't for the crowd. It was for me.
I see you.
I felt the heat rush to my face, burning despite the chill of the arena. I pressed my hand to my chest, mirroring him.
He turned and skated to the face-off circle.
"Oh my God," Chloe said, grabbing my arm. "Did he just? Was that? Michelle, that was basically a marriage proposal in hockey language."
"It was a signal," I whispered, my voice shaky. "Just a signal."
"You are so screwed," Chloe declared.
The puck dropped.
And the war began.
Hockey on TV is fast. Hockey in person, at ice level, is violence.
It was Blackwood vs. Harvard. The rivalry was old, bitter, and bloody.
Within three minutes, I understood why Greg played defense.
The Harvard forwards were fast. They swarmed like wasps. Carter Thorne—the guy from the gala, looking smug even with a mouthguard in—was leading the charge. He was flashy, arrogant, and dangerous.
But Greg was the wall.
Every time Thorne tried to cross the blue line, Greg was there. He didn't just stop him; he erased him. He used his body to angle Thorne into the boards, pinning him, stripping the puck with surgical precision.
It was beautiful. It was brutal.
The sound of the hits made me flinch every time. CRACK. THUD. Bodies slamming into plexiglass. Sticks hacking at wrists.
"Kill him, Sterling!" a drunk student screamed from behind me.
I gripped the railing until my knuckles turned white.
"Be careful," I whispered. "Just be careful."
The first period ended 0-0. A defensive stalemate.
The second period was worse. The frustration was mounting. The hits were getting late. The refs were losing control.
Thorne was getting desperate. I could see it. He was chirping at Greg constantly, slashing at the back of his legs when the ref wasn't looking.
Greg didn't react. He didn't retaliate. He just kept playing his game. Cold. Disciplined.
But I could see the tension in his shoulders. I knew the wolf was pacing.
Then, it happened.
Ten minutes into the third period. Still 0-0.
Greg had the puck behind his own net. He was looking up ice, waiting for his forwards to get open for a breakout pass.
He was vulnerable. His head was up.
Thorne came out of nowhere.
He didn't play the puck. He didn't even try to stop. He accelerated.
He hit Greg from the blind side. High. His shoulder drove directly into Greg's head.
The sound was sickening. A wet, heavy CRACK that silenced the entire arena.
Greg went down.
He didn't brace himself. He just… crumpled. He hit the ice hard, sliding into the corner. He didn't move.
"NO!" I screamed.
I was on my feet before I realized I had moved. My hand flew to my mouth.
The crowd gasped. Then, chaos.
Beef dropped his stick and charged Thorne. Gloves flew off. A brawl erupted at center ice.
I didn't watch the fight. I couldn't take my eyes off the corner.
The trainer was running onto the ice.
"Get up," I begged. "Please, Greg. Get up."
He lay there. Face down. Still.
My vision blurred. The world narrowed to that black jersey on the white ice.
The ice cracks. That's what he had said. Life is fragile.
Panic, cold and suffocating, clawed at my throat. I felt like I was going to throw up.
"He's okay," Chloe said, gripping my hand. Her grip was painful. "He's tough. He's fine."
"He's not moving, Chloe!" I sobbed.
A minute passed. An eternity.
Then, a twitch. His leg moved.
He rolled over onto his back. He reached up and touched his head.
The trainer was talking to him. Greg tried to sit up. The trainer pushed him back down.
They talked for another minute.
Then, Greg pushed the trainer's hands away. He rolled onto his knees. He stood up.
He swayed. Just for a second.
The crowd erupted into applause. Relief washed over me so strong my knees buckled. I sat back down hard.
Greg shook his head, like he was trying to clear water from his ears. He looked angry.
He skated toward the bench. Not the locker room. The bench.
"He's staying in?" Chloe asked, incredulous. "He just got concussed!"
"He's stubborn," I said, wiping my tears. "He's an idiot."
I watched him argue with the coach. Miller was pointing to the locker room. Greg was shaking his head, pointing at the scoreboard.
0-0. 5 minutes left.
He sat down on the bench. He drank water. He glared at the ice.
He didn't look back at me this time. He was locked in.
The game restarted. Thorne had been ejected—a major penalty. Five minutes of power play for Blackwood.
Greg didn't go out for the first shift. Or the second.
But with two minutes left, he stood up.
He vaulted over the boards.
The crowd roared.
I held my breath. He looked steady. But I knew him. I knew he was hurting.
The puck came to him at the point. He faked a shot. The defender bit. Greg stepped around him. He had a lane.
He wound up. A slap shot.
The power behind it was terrifying. The stick flexed until it looked like it would snap.
BOOM.
The puck was a blur. It beat the goalie high glove side. It hit the back of the net with a satisfying PING.
The red light flashed. The horn blasted.
Goal.
Greg didn't celebrate. He didn't raise his arms. He just turned and skated toward his teammates, who were mobbing him.
He looked exhausted.
Blackwood won 1-0.
As the team celebrated, Greg skated toward the exit. He stopped near the glass, right in front of where I was sitting.
He looked up. His eyes were glassy. There was a bruise already forming on his jaw where the helmet strap had dug in.
He looked at me. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
I'm still standing. The roof didn't fall.
Then he disappeared down the tunnel.
I grabbed my purse.
"Where are you going?" Chloe asked.
"To find him," I said. "Before he collapses."
The area outside the locker room was a chaotic holding pen for parents, girlfriends, and scouts.
I ignored them all. I walked straight to the security guard who manned the door to the player tunnel.
"Family only, miss," he grunted.
"I'm his fiancée," I lied, flashing the jersey. "He's hurt. Let me in."
Maybe it was the jersey. Maybe it was the sheer panic in my eyes. Maybe it was the lingering aura of my father's money.
He stepped aside.
I ran down the concrete corridor. It smelled of deep heat and sweat.
The locker room door was open. I could hear shouting, music, celebration.
But I saw him before I got there.
He was sitting on a folding chair in the hallway, away from the noise. He was still in his gear, skates on, head in his hands.
The trainer was standing over him, holding a pen light.
"Greg," I breathed.
He looked up. The movement was slow. He winced.
"Michelle," he rasped.
I ran to him. I fell to my knees on the dirty concrete floor, not caring about my leggings. My hands hovered over him, terrified to touch.
"Are you okay? How many fingers? What day is it?"
"Tuesday," he mumbled. "Wait. Saturday."
"He's got a mild concussion," the trainer said, looking weary. "He shouldn't have played the last five minutes. But try telling him that."
"I scored," Greg said defensively.
"You're an idiot," I said, tears springing to my eyes again. I reached out and touched his cheek, careful of the bruise. "You scared me to death, Greg. I thought you were dead."