Chapter 11
Michelle
For the first time in my life, I understood what people meant when they said they were "glowing."
It wasn't a metaphor. It was a physical sensation. My skin felt... brighter. My blood hummed with a low, happy frequency. The perpetually grey Maine sky seemed a shade lighter, almost hopeful.
I sat in the Blackwood University student center, a cup of overpriced latte in my hands, a smile on my face that I couldn't seem to wipe off.
"You look disgusting," Chloe said from across the table.
She was visiting for the weekend, ostensibly to use Blackwood’s law library, but really to make sure I hadn't been murdered by a hockey player. She was surrounded by a fortress of textbooks, looking severe and lawyerly in a black turtleneck.
"I feel disgusting," I lied, taking a sip of my coffee. "Disgustingly happy."
"It's unnatural," Chloe said, narrowing her eyes at me. "You're usually a creature of chaos and expensive grievances. For the past two days, you've been humming. You hummed in the shower this morning. Do you know who hums? People in cults and people who are getting laid."
I choked on my latte.
"I am not in a cult," I sputtered, wiping my mouth with a napkin.
"So that leaves option B." Chloe leaned forward, her expression turning from suspicious to predatory. "You did it. You slept with the Gavel."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I said, trying to arrange my face into a mask of innocent confusion.
It didn't work. My cheeks were on fire.
"Oh, you are the worst liar on the planet, Vane," Chloe cackled. "Your face is a billboard of guilt and good sex. Spill. Every detail. Was he... Gavel-like?"
I thought about the night before. The way Greg had held me down, his voice a low growl in my ear. The way he had taken me apart and put me back together, stronger than before.
"He's... thorough," I managed to say, my voice coming out breathy.
"Thorough," Chloe repeated, savoring the word. "I like that. Does he have a brother? A cousin? A morally ambiguous but equally large teammate?"
"Chloe!"
"What? I'm a busy woman. I need to outsource my due diligence."
I shook my head, but I was still smiling.
It had been a week since the party. A week since Greg and I had crossed the line. A week of living in a secret, hedonistic bubble inside the testosterone-filled walls of the Ice Box.
Our new arrangement was a thrilling, terrifying game of espionage.
By day, we were roommates. We bickered over the thermostat. We sat on opposite ends of the couch. We maintained the illusion of professional animosity.
But by night...
By night, I would wait until the house was quiet, until the last video game was shut off, until Beef’s snores started rattling the walls. Then I would slip out of my room.
I would creep down the hall to the heavy black door. It was always unlocked.
And the moment that door closed behind me, the world fell away. There was no Victor Vane. There were no scouts. There was no team.
There was only Greg.
His room was our sanctuary. It was where the Captain disappeared and the man emerged. The man who liked to sleep on the left side of the bed. The man who stole the covers. The man who looked at me like I was the only thing in the universe that made sense.
"So what's the plan?" Chloe asked, pulling me from my reverie. "Are you guys... a thing? Are you going to go public? Because I need to know if I should start researching cohabitation agreements."
"No," I said quickly. "No, we're not public. We can't be."
I explained the delicate ecosystem of our situation. My father's threats. Greg's position on the team. The contract.
Chloe listened, her lawyer-brain processing the data.
"So he's risking his NHL shot for you," she summarized. "And you're risking your inheritance for him. That's... deeply unhealthy and wildly romantic. I approve."
"We're being careful," I insisted. "It's a secret. No one knows."
"Someone always knows, Michelle," Chloe said darkly. "Secrets have a shelf life. Especially when you're walking around looking like you just swallowed the sun."
I waved her off, but her words lingered.
Secrets have a shelf life.
I looked around the crowded student center. For a moment, it felt like everyone was watching us. Like they could see the invisible string that tied me to Greg, pulling me taut every second we were apart.
"I have to go," I said, grabbing my bag. "I have to... study."
"Right," Chloe smirked. "Study. Is that what the kids are calling it these days? Tell the Gavel I said hi."
I fled, my cheeks burning.
I wasn't going to study. I was going to the one place I knew I could see him without breaking the rules.
The rink.
I sat in my usual spot—row four, seat twelve.
The team was on the ice, running drills. It was a Tuesday afternoon. The arena was empty save for me, the coaches, and a handful of janitors.
The sound was different without a crowd. I could hear everything. The scrape of blades. The sharp thwack of pucks hitting sticks. The shouts of the players.
And Greg's voice.
It cut through the chaos. Low. Commanding.
"Johnson, head up! Keep your feet moving!"
"Beef, challenge the shooter! Don't sit back!"
He was the conductor of this violent orchestra. He saw everything. He anticipated everything.
I watched him. That's mine.
The thought was fierce, possessive. It wasn't about ownership. It was about knowledge. I knew the man under the helmet. I knew about the tattoo. I knew about his brother. I knew the way he groaned when I bit his shoulder.
He skated backward, a smooth, powerful glide, keeping the play in front of him. He was poetry in motion. He was a god of winter.
He broke up a 2-on-1 rush, stripping the puck with a perfect stick lift. He turned up ice, saw an open man, and fired a pass that was tape-to-tape from sixty feet away.
It was effortless. It was brilliant.
I leaned forward, my chin on my hands, completely mesmerized.
He never looked at me. Not once. He was working. He was the Captain.
But I knew he knew I was there. I could feel it. A low-level hum between us.
Coach Miller blew the whistle. "Okay, bring it in! Power play unit, on the line!"
Greg skated to the bench, grabbing a water bottle. He squirted it into his mouth, then over his head.
He leaned against the boards, his back to me. He was breathing hard.
Then, so casually that no one would notice unless they were looking for it, he reached back and tapped the number 24 on his jersey. Twice.
My heart did a little flip.
It was our signal. I see you. You're here. I'm okay.
I smiled.
The bubble. It was real. It was our secret world, operating in plain sight.
Practice ended. The players filed off the ice, a loud, clattering herd of sweaty men.
I waited.
I checked my phone. I pretended to be reading emails.
Five minutes later, I got a text.
Greg: Equipment room. Now.
My stomach swooped.
The equipment room. It was our spot. Our secret meeting place.
I stood up and walked casually toward the concourse exit. I glanced around. The coaches were in their office. The janitors were on the far side of the arena.
I slipped down the "Authorized Personnel Only" hallway.
The door to the equipment room was propped open a crack.
I slipped inside.
The room smelled of leather, sharpened steel, and him. It was dimly lit, rows of skates and helmets lining the walls.
The door clicked shut behind me.
Greg was there. He was still in his under-gear—the padded compression pants and shirt that hugged every muscle. His hair was wet with sweat.
He backed me against the door.
"Hi," he said, his voice a low growl.
"Hi," I breathed.
He put his hands on either side of my head, trapping me. He leaned in and kissed me.
It was a hungry, desperate kiss. It tasted of Gatorade and exertion.
"I saw you," he murmured against my mouth. "Up there. Looking like you owned the place."
"I own you," I corrected, my hands finding his waist.
"Yeah, you do," he groaned.
He kissed me again, deeper this time. His body pressed against mine, hard and warm. I could feel the ridges of his abs through the thin fabric of his shirt.
He slid his hand down my back, cupping my ass, pulling me tight against his erection.
"Greg," I gasped. "Someone could walk in."
"Let them," he said, moving his mouth to my neck. "I don't care. I've been thinking about this for two hours. Watching you watch me."
He bit my neck, just hard enough to make me see stars.
I arched my back, giving him better access. My hands fumbled with the waistband of his pants.
"Here?" I asked, my voice shaky. "Now?"
"Right here. Right now."
He lifted me, and I wrapped my legs around his waist. He walked us to the skate-sharpening machine in the corner of the room. It was a heavy, steel table. He sat me on it.
The cold metal was a shock against my skin through my jeans.
He knelt between my legs. He looked up at me, his eyes dark with lust.
"You're so beautiful," he rasped. "So fucking beautiful."
He started to unbutton my jeans.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
We froze.
"Cap? You in there? Coach is looking for you."
It was Johnson. One of the defensemen.
Greg let out a string of curses under his breath. He rested his forehead against my knee for a second.
"Yeah!" Greg called out, his voice miraculously steady. "Just grabbing my spare stick. Be right out."
"Okay, man. Hurry up. He looks pissed."
Footsteps retreated down the hall.
Greg stood up slowly. The moment was shattered.
"Damn it," he hissed.
"It's okay," I said, my heart still hammering. I quickly re-buttoned my jeans. "We can... later."
"I know." He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "But I wanted you now."
"I know." I hopped off the table and straightened my sweater. "Go. Before he sends a search party."
Greg looked at me. The hunger was still in his eyes, but it was mixed with the familiar weight of responsibility.
"Tonight," he promised. "My room. 11 PM. Don't be late."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
He leaned in and gave me one last, hard kiss.
"Go out the back," he ordered. "I'll go out the front."
I nodded.
I waited until I heard him open the door and walk away. Then I slipped out the emergency exit, my body humming with a frustrated energy.
The bubble had been breached. The real world was knocking.
That night, I was getting ready.
I had just showered. I was standing in front of my closet in a towel, trying to decide what to wear. Lingerie? One of his t-shirts? Nothing?
My phone rang.
It wasn't Greg.
It was my father.
My blood ran cold. He never called. He texted. He emailed. A phone call meant one of two things: someone was dead, or I was in deep, deep trouble.
I took a breath and answered.
"Hi, Dad."
"Michelle." His voice was clipped, impatient. "I just got off the phone with your mother."
My mother. My stomach twisted into a knot. I hadn't spoken to her in six months.
"Is she okay?"
"She's fine," he said dismissively. "She's getting married again. Some Italian count with a crumbling villa and no money. She needs a loan. Which, of course, I have to provide."
"Oh," I said. "Well. Good for her."
"That's not the point," he snapped. "The point is, the wedding is in two weeks. In Lake Como. She wants you to be there. Apparently, the count's son is your age. He's a polo player. It would be a good 'strategic alliance'."
"A strategic alliance?" I repeated, horrified. "Dad, I'm not a country to be bartered. I'm not going."
"You are going," he said. "The flight is booked. You leave next Friday. You'll miss a week of classes, but I'll have my office clear it with the Dean. Consider it a family obligation."
"I have a life here!" I argued. "I have projects. I have..."
I almost said I have him.
"You have a trust fund that is contingent on your cooperation," he said coldly. "And you have a hockey player who is one phone call away from losing his shot at the NHL. Don't test me, Michelle. You know I don't bluff."
The threat hung in the air, thick and poisonous.
"You will go to Italy," he continued. "You will smile for the pictures. You will be charming to the polo player. And you will forget about the Neanderthal in the hockey house. Is that understood?"
I stood there, gripping the phone. The room felt like it was tilting.
Lake Como. A week away. A week away from Greg. A week of being paraded around like a show pony.
"Michelle?"
"Yes, Dad," I whispered. My voice was hollow. "Understood."
"Good. My assistant will send the itinerary."
He hung up.
I stood there for a long time, the dial tone buzzing in my ear.
The bubble hadn't just been breached. My father had just taken a pin and popped it.
I looked at the clock. It was 10:50 PM.
Greg was waiting for me.
I dropped the phone on my bed. I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. I didn't bother with lingerie.
I walked to the mirror and looked at myself. The glow was gone. My face was pale. The happy, humming frequency in my blood had flatlined.
Secrets have a shelf life.
Chloe was right.
And mine had just expired.
I walked out of my room and down the hall to the heavy black door. I didn't sneak. I didn't creep. I walked like a prisoner on her way to the gallows.
I opened the door.
Greg was lying on the bed, reading. He looked up when I came in. He smiled.
The smile died when he saw my face.
"What's wrong?" he asked, sitting up immediately. "Michelle, what happened?"
I closed the door. I locked it.
I walked to the bed and sat down.
"We have a problem," I said, my voice shaking. "A real one this time."
And I told him everything.