Chapter 12
Greg
The office of Coach Miller smelled of old coffee, stale cigar smoke, and disappointment. It was a smell I had spent four years avoiding.
I sat in the hard wooden chair opposite his desk. My hands were resting on my thighs, loose and relaxed. It was a lie. My shoulders were tight enough to snap a violin string.
Miller didn’t look at me. He was staring at a tablet screen, tapping it with a thick, calloused finger. He played a video clip. Paused it. Rewound it. Played it again.
I knew the clip. It was from yesterday's practice.
"Tell me what you see, Sterling," Miller said, his voice deceptively mild.
I leaned forward. On the screen, the pixelated version of me was skating backward, defending a 2-on-1 drill. The forward dumped the puck. I pivoted.
But I pivoted a fraction of a second too late. My edge caught. I stumbled. The forward blew past me and scored.
"I lost my edge," I said. "Bad ice."
"Bad ice?" Miller snorted. He finally looked up. His eyes were hard, flinty. "That ice is pristine. You didn't lose your edge, son. You lost your focus."
He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking ominously.
"I got a call this morning," Miller continued. "From Boston. The scout. He's worried."
My stomach dropped. "Worried about what? My stats are solid. We're winning."
"He's worried because he heard you've got a... situation. A living situation. A roommate who wears expensive clothes and causes expensive problems."
I didn't flinch. I had practiced this face in the mirror. The Gavel face.
"My living situation doesn't affect my game, Coach."
"Doesn't it?" Miller tapped the screen again. "That pivot? That wasn't a slip. That was hesitation. That was your brain being somewhere else. And in the NHL, hesitation is a one-way ticket to the minor leagues."
He stood up and walked to the window overlooking the rink.
"Listen to me, Greg. You are the best defensive prospect I have ever coached. You have the size, the IQ, the discipline. But you are at a crossroads. The next three weeks are crucial. The playoffs. The final scouting reports. If you drift now... if you let yourself get soft..."
He turned back to me.
"I can't save you from yourself. And I can't save you from Victor Vane if he decides to pull the plug on his end of the deal."
"Vane won't pull the plug," I said. "He needs me to make the NHL. It makes him look good. 'The Blackwood Donor who built a star'."
"Maybe," Miller said. "Or maybe he's a petty man who cares more about controlling his daughter than your career. Don't gamble your future on his benevolence."
He sat back down.
"Get your head right, Sterling. Fix your focus. Or I bench you for the playoffs. I don't care who you are. I don't care if you're the Captain. If you're a liability, you sit."
"Understood," I said, standing up.
"Dismissed."
I walked out of the office. The hallway was empty.
My hands were shaking.
Liability.
The word echoed in my head.
I had built my entire life around being an asset. Around being the rock. The wall.
And now, for the first time, the wall was cracking.
And I knew exactly why.
I didn't go back to the house. I couldn't face her. Not yet.
Not when I could still smell her perfume on my hoodie. Not when the memory of her crying in my room last night was playing on a loop in my head.
Lake Como. Two weeks. A strategic alliance.
She was leaving. Her father was shipping her off to marry some polo player.
And I was supposed to be focusing on hockey?
I went to the weight room.
It was empty. Good.
I loaded the squat rack. Four plates. Heavy.
I put my headphones on. Johnny Cash. God's Gonna Cut You Down.
I got under the bar. The weight settled across my shoulders, familiar and crushing.
Down.
My legs burned. My core tightened.
Up.
This was control. This was simple. Gravity didn't have feelings. Gravity didn't have a father who treated people like pawns. Gravity just pushed down, and you pushed back.
I did five sets. Then I moved to the bench press. Then deadlifts.
I punished my body until my muscles were screaming, until the sweat was dripping into my eyes, until my hands were raw.
But it didn't work.
Usually, the gym cleared my head. Usually, the pain pushed everything else out.
Today, all I could think about was the date on the calendar. Friday.
Four days.
Four days until she got on a plane.
And Coach Miller's voice. If you drift now...
I racked the final set of deadlifts with a deafening crash. The metal plates rattled.
I leaned against the bar, gasping for air.
My phone buzzed on the bench.
Michelle: Hey. Where are you? I made cookies. They’re burnt, but edible. I need a distraction from the 'Packing List of Doom'.
I stared at the screen.
A distraction.
That’s what she was. That’s what everyone kept telling me.
I typed a reply.
Me: Still at the gym. Watching film after. Don't wait up.
I hit send.
It was a lie. I wasn't watching film. I was hiding.
I threw the phone into my bag.
I sat there in the empty gym, the silence pressing in on me.
I had to choose.
My career. The dream I had been chasing since I was four years old. The promise I made to my brother's memory.
Or the girl.
The girl who made me laugh. The girl who made me feel. The girl who was currently burning cookies in my kitchen just to make me smile.
And the sickening realization was... I didn't know how to choose.
Because losing either of them felt like dying.
I stayed at the arena until 10:00 PM.
I watched film until my eyes blurred. I memorized every shift of the Harvard game. I analyzed every mistake. I forced myself into the box.
Robot Mode.
No feelings. No distractions. Just inputs and outputs.
When I finally drove home, the house was dark.
I walked in. The smell of burnt sugar lingered in the air.
There was a plate on the counter. Four blackened, misshapen cookies. And a note.
For the Gladiator. Eat them or I'll be offended. - M
I crumbled the note in my fist.
I didn't eat the cookies. I left them there.
I went upstairs. I walked past her door. I could hear the faint sound of the TV. Real Housewives.
I wanted to knock. I wanted to go in there, crawl into her bed, and bury myself in her warmth until the world went away.
But I didn't.
I went into my room. I locked the door.
I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, feeling the phantom weight of her body next to mine.
Focus, Sterling.
I closed my eyes.
I dreamed of ice cracking under my feet.
The next three days were a blur of avoidance and aggression.
I was a tyrant at practice. I yelled at Johnson for missing a check. I made the rookies run suicides until they puked. I stayed late. I left early.
I avoided the house as much as possible.
When I was there, I was a ghost. I ate in my room. I wore headphones.
Michelle tried.
She cornered me in the kitchen on Wednesday morning.
"Greg," she said, blocking my path to the coffee pot. She was wearing my hoodie again. It looked like a flag of surrender. "What is going on? You've barely said two words to me."
"Busy," I grunted, trying to step around her.
"Busy? Or avoiding me?"
"Both."
"Why?" Her voice cracked. "Because I'm leaving? Because of what my dad said?"
"Because I have playoffs next week," I snapped. "And Coach is breathing down my neck. I need to focus, Michelle. I can't be... doing this."
"Doing what?"
"Playing house. Pretending everything is fine when it's not."
She flinched. "I'm not pretending. I'm trying to spend time with you before I get shipped off to Italy."
"Well, maybe you should focus on packing," I said coldly. "Instead of burning cookies."
Her eyes widened. Hurt flashed across her face, raw and open.
"Fine," she whispered. "I'll stay out of your way. Captain."
She turned and walked out of the kitchen. She didn't slam the door. The quiet click was worse.
I stood there, gripping my mug, hating myself.
I was protecting her. That’s what I told myself. If I pushed her away now, it would hurt less when she left. If I focused on hockey, I could secure my future, and maybe... maybe someday I could be the man she needed.
But it felt like cowardice.
Thursday night. The night before she left.
I came home late again. It was raining. A cold, miserable sleet that turned the driveway into a skating rink.
The house was quiet.
I walked into the kitchen. The cookies were gone. The plate was in the dishwasher.
I went upstairs.
My door was ajar.
I frowned. I always locked it.
I pushed it open.
Michelle was in my room.
She was sitting on the floor, leaning against the side of my bed. She was surrounded by my old game tapes. VHS tapes from high school that my dad had converted.
She was watching the TV in the corner.
On the screen, a younger, smaller version of me was skating. I was celebrating a goal. I was smiling. A real, wide, unburdened smile.
She looked up when I entered.
She wasn't crying. She looked... resigned.
She was wearing the blue silk slip dress she had finally sewn. It was stunning. It fit her like water.
"You used to smile a lot," she said softly, gesturing to the screen. "You looked happy."
"I was a kid," I said, closing the door. "I didn't know the stakes."
"Or maybe you just loved the game," she said. "Before it became a job."
She stood up. The silk rustled.
"I leave tomorrow," she said. "At 6:00 AM."
"I know."
"I just wanted to..." She hesitated. She reached into the pocket of the dress—she had added pockets, of course—and pulled out a small box. "I wanted to give you this."
She held it out.
I took it. It was a small, velvet jewelry box.
I opened it.
Inside was a cufflink. Just one. It was made of silver, shaped like a tiny, battered shield.
"I made it," she said. "In the metalworking studio. It's... it's a shield. For the Wall."
I stared at the tiny silver piece. It was imperfect. There were file marks on the edge. But it was heavy. Real.
"There's only one?" I asked, my throat tight.
"I have the other one," she said. She lifted her hand. She was wearing it on a chain around her neck. "So you're never fully alone. You have half the shield. I have the other."
The wall I had been building for four days crumbled. It turned to dust.
"Michelle," I choked out.
"I know you're stressed," she said, stepping closer. "I know Coach is pressuring you. I know my dad is a monster. I know you think you have to push me away to survive."
She placed her hands on my chest.
"But you don't," she whispered. "You don't have to carry the roof alone, Greg. You can put it down for one night."
I looked at her.
She wasn't asking for sex. She wasn't asking for a promise. She was offering peace.
"I'm scared," I admitted. The words scraped my throat. "I'm scared if I let go, I won't be able to pick it back up."
"I'll help you," she said. "I'm strong. I lift trunks full of shoes, remember?"
A small, watery laugh escaped me.
"Yeah," I said. "You do."
I dropped the box onto the bed. I wrapped my arms around her.
I held her. Tight. Desperate.
"Don't go," I whispered into her hair. "Don't go to Italy."
"I have to," she said. "If I don't, he cuts me off. No label. No future."
"I have money," I said. "I'll have the contract soon. I can support us."
"No," she said firmly, pulling back to look at me. "I won't be another person you have to take care of. I won't be a liability. I need to do this, Greg. I need to play his game so I can win my freedom."
She was right. I knew she was right.
"One night," I said. "We have one night."
"Make it count," she said.
We didn't have sex immediately.
First, I made her sit on the bed. I sat behind her. I massaged her shoulders. They were knotted with tension.
"You're tight," I murmured, digging my thumbs into her traps.
"Packing is stressful," she said, leaning back into me. "Fitting my life into two suitcases feels like a metaphor for something terrible."
"It's just a trip," I said. "You're coming back."
"Am I?" she whispered. "My dad... he sounded final on the phone. 'Strategic Alliance'. He wants me to stay there. He wants me to become an Italian countess."
"You'd be a terrible countess," I said, kissing her neck. "You'd reorganize the castle and make the guards wear pink."
She laughed. "True."
I turned her around. I kissed her.
It was slow. Melancholic. A goodbye kiss.
We lay down. The lights were still on. We wanted to see each other.
I traced the line of her jaw. She traced the scar on my hip.
"This scar," she murmured, touching the jagged line. "Did it hurt?"
"Like hell," I said. "Skate blade. Freshman year."
"It's beautiful," she said. "It means you survived."
"I'll survive this too," I said. "I'll survive you leaving."
"Will you?"
"I have to. Playoffs start Tuesday."
She propped herself up on an elbow.
"Promise me something," she said.
"Anything."
"Win," she said fiercely. "Win the whole damn thing. Get the contract. Become the star. Don't let my dad—or anyone—tell you you're distracted. Prove them wrong. Prove that I made you better, not worse."
I looked at her. Her eyes were burning with intensity.
She wasn't asking me to choose her over hockey. She was asking me to use her as fuel.
"I will," I vowed. "I'll win it for you."
"Good."
She straddled me. She pulled the silk dress over her head.
"Now," she said. "Love me. Before the alarm goes off."
We made love for hours. Not rushing. Not fighting.
It was a conversation without words.
I'm going to miss you.
I'm scared.
You are the only thing that feels real.
When we finally fell asleep, it was 3:00 AM.
The alarm went off at 5:00.
It was dark. Cold.
We got up in silence.
I drove her to the airport.
The car ride was quiet. We held hands across the console.
When we pulled up to the terminal, the reality hit.
I got out. I unloaded her trunks.
She stood there on the curb, looking small in her shearling coat.
"Well," she said. "This is it."
"This is it," I said.
I pulled her in for one last hug. I buried my face in her neck, inhaling her scent. Vanilla. Rebellion.
"Call me," I whispered. "When you land."
"I will."
She pulled back. She touched the silver shield necklace around her neck.
"Keep the wall up, Gavel," she said, trying to smile. "But leave the door unlocked."
"Always," I said.
She turned. She walked through the automatic doors.
She didn't look back.
I got back in my truck. I watched the doors close.
I felt a physical pain in my chest. A hollowness.
I drove back to the house. It was empty. Quiet.
I went to my room.
The bed still smelled like her. The tiny silver cufflink was sitting on the nightstand.
I picked it up. I squeezed it in my fist until the metal dug into my skin.
Focus.
I had a championship to win.
But for the first time in my life, the victory felt like a consolation prize.