Chapter 15
Greg
There is a law in physics called the conservation of energy. Energy cannot be created or destroyed; it can only change form.
In my bedroom, the energy that had been love—warm, blinding, terrifying love—had transmuted instantly into rage.
I stood in the center of the room, breathing hard. The lamp lay in shards against the wall where I had thrown it. The lightbulb was shattered, leaving the room in shadows.
We don't marry hockey players. We own them.
The words echoed in my head, bouncing off the soundproof walls. They were cold. They were cruel. They were exactly what Victor Vane would say.
And that was why they were a lie.
I ran a hand through my hair, gripping the roots until it hurt. I forced my brain to work. I forced the "Game Theory" logic to override the pain in my chest.
Michelle hated her father. She had climbed out of a bathroom window in Italy to escape him. She had flown across an ocean on a maxed-out credit card to come back to me. She had stood at the glass of the arena and tapped her heart.
People don't change their core values in twenty-four hours.
Unless they are threatened.
I looked at the empty space where she had stood. She had been trembling. She had been hugging herself, protecting her core. Her eyes hadn't been cold; they had been terrified.
"She's lying," I whispered to the darkness.
The rage evaporated, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity.
She was protecting me. Again.
I grabbed my keys. I grabbed my jacket.
I didn't know what the threat was, but I knew Michelle Vane. She wouldn't go far. She wouldn't go back to the dorms. She would go to her sanctuary.
The Design Studio.
The Art Building was locked at midnight, but I was the Captain of the hockey team. I knew which janitor left the side door propped open for smoke breaks.
I slipped inside. The hallway smelled of turpentine and clay. It was silent, ghostly.
I walked to the third floor. The fashion wing.
There was a sliver of light coming from under the door of Studio 3B.
I didn't knock. I pushed the door open.
Michelle was there.
She wasn't packing. She wasn't calling her father.
She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by bolts of fabric. She had the blue silk—the fabric we bought in Portland—clutched to her chest. She was rocking back and forth, silent tears streaming down her face, ruining her makeup.
She looked like a war refugee.
"Michelle," I said.
She gasped, her head snapping up. Her eyes went wide with panic.
"Greg," she choked out. She scrambled backward, crab-walking away from me until her back hit a dress form. "Get out. I told you to get out."
"I heard you," I said, stepping into the room and closing the door. "I just didn't believe you."
"I meant it," she cried, trying to summon the mask again. "I meant every word. I chose the money. I chose the villa."
"Liar."
I walked toward her. I didn't rush. I moved deliberately, cutting off her escape routes.
"Stay back," she warned, holding the silk like a shield. "I'm serious, Greg. We're done."
"If you chose the money," I said, stopping three feet away, "why are you crying on the floor of a studio at midnight? Why aren't you on a plane to LA? Why are you holding that fabric like it's the only thing keeping you alive?"
"Because I'm dramatic!" she yelled. "I'm an artist! We have feelings!"
"Stop it," I said. My voice wasn't loud, but it was absolute. The Gavel. "Tell me the truth. Who got to you? Was it your dad?"
"No," she sobbed.
"Then who?"
She buried her face in the silk. "It doesn't matter. It's over. You have a game tomorrow. You need to focus."
"I can't focus!" I roared, the control finally slipping. "How am I supposed to play a championship game when I know you're hurting? How am I supposed to be the Wall when you just ripped the foundation out?"
I dropped to my knees in front of her. I grabbed her wrists, pulling the fabric away from her face.
"Look at me," I commanded.
She looked. Her eyes were red, swollen, and filled with so much love it knocked the wind out of me.
"Tell me," I whispered.
"Thorne," she cracked. The name came out as a broken whisper.
My blood ran cold. "Carter Thorne?"
"He has photos," she confessed, the words tumbling out now. "From the Cloud. Of us. In the kitchen. In the truck. He hacked my account."
I froze. "Photos?"
"He said... he said if I didn't break up with you tonight, he'd release them. To the NCAA. To my dad. He said you'd get suspended. You'd lose the draft. You'd lose everything."
She tried to pull her hands away, but I held tight.
"I had to do it, Greg," she wept. "I couldn't let him destroy your dream. I couldn't be the reason you lost."
I stared at her.
She had walked into my room and shattered her own heart to save my career. She had taken the hit. She had jumped on the grenade.
"You idiot," I breathed.
"What?" She blinked, confused.
"You beautiful, stubborn idiot."
I pulled her into me. I crashed my mouth against hers.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a reclaiming. It was fierce and angry and desperate. I kissed the lies off her lips. I kissed the fear out of her lungs.
She stiffened for a second, then melted. She wrapped her arms around my neck, clinging to me like I was a life raft. She kissed me back with a desperation that matched mine.
"I love you," I murmured against her mouth. "I love you. I love you."
"I love you too," she sobbed. "But we can't... the photos..."
I pulled back, framing her face with my hands.
"Screw the photos," I said.
She stared at me. "What?"
"Let him release them," I said. "Let him send them to the NCAA. Let him send them to the Pope. I don't care."
"Greg, you're not thinking straight. It's your career. It's the NHL."
"It's a game," I said firmly. "It's a game played on ice with a rubber puck. You are my life. You are the future."
"But..."
"Listen to me," I said, locking my eyes on hers. "I have played by the rules my entire life. I have been perfect. I have been the Wall. And you know what? It's lonely. It's cold."
I wiped a tear from her cheek with my thumb.
"I would rather be suspended and be with you than be in the NHL and be alone."
"You don't mean that," she whispered. "You've worked so hard."
"I do mean it. Besides," I let out a dark chuckle, "Game Theory, remember? If Thorne releases the photos, he implicates himself in a hacking felony. And if I get suspended, I still get drafted. Maybe I drop a round or two. Maybe I lose a little bonus money. Who cares?"
"My dad cares," she said. "He'll cut me off."
"Then let him," I said. "We don't need him."
I shifted, pulling her onto my lap so she was straddling me on the studio floor.
"We figure it out," I said. "Together. I have savings. You have talent. We move to Boston after the draft. We get a crappy apartment in Southie. I play hockey. You design your armor. We eat ramen noodles and fight over the thermostat."
Her eyes widened. She was picturing it.
"A crappy apartment?" she asked, a small smile tugging at her lips.
"The crappiest," I promised. "Drafty windows. Leaky faucet. But it'll be ours. No parents. No contracts. Just us."
"And a dog?" she asked. "A big one. To scare my dad."
"A huge dog," I agreed. "We'll name him Puck."
"That's a terrible name."
"We'll work on it."
I kissed her again, slower this time. Deeper.
"We are invincible, Michelle," I whispered. "Thorne thinks he has leverage? He has nothing. Because he thinks I care more about hockey than I care about you. He calculated the variables wrong."
"He underestimated the Gavel," she murmured, resting her forehead against mine.
"He underestimated us."
I felt the tension leave her body. The fear dissolved, replaced by a fierce, burning hope.
We sat there on the floor of the studio, surrounded by bolts of silk, and planned our life. We talked about cities. We talked about colors. We talked about how we would tell the world to go to hell.
It was the happiest moment of my life.
I felt light. Unburdened. The roof I had been holding up for ten years was gone, and the sky above was open and limitless.
"Come on," I said, checking my watch. It was 2:00 AM. "Let's go home. I have a championship to win tomorrow."
"You're still playing?"
"Hell yes, I'm playing. And I'm going to win. And then, at the press conference, I'm going to kiss you in front of every camera in the room. And Thorne can choke on it."
She laughed. It was a bright, defiant sound.
"Okay," she said. "Let's go home."
We walked back to the Ice Box hand in hand. The campus was quiet. The snow had stopped. The air was crisp and clean.
We snuck into the house. We went to my room.
We didn't have sex. We were too exhausted, too emotionally drained. We just held each other.
I fell asleep with her head on my chest, my arm draped over her waist, the silver shield cufflink sitting on the nightstand next to us.
I slept dreamlessly.
I woke up to the sound of my phone ringing.
Not buzzing. Ringing. Loud and insistent.
I groaned, reaching for it blindly. Sunlight was streaming through the window. It was late. 9:00 AM.
"Hello?" I rasped.
"Sterling."
It was Coach Miller. His voice was ice cold.
"Coach? What's up?"
"Don't come to the arena," he said.
I sat up, the blood draining from my face. Michelle stirred beside me.
"What?"
"I said don't come to the arena. You're scratched, Greg. You're suspended indefinitely pending an investigation."
"Investigation?" I looked at Michelle. She was awake now, watching me with wide, terrified eyes. "Coach, listen to me..."
"Did you know?" Miller interrupted. "Did you know she was taking them?"
"Taking what?"
"The photos, Greg. The ones that are currently the top story on Barstool Sports. The ones of you two. In the kitchen. In the locker room."
My stomach dropped.
"Thorne," I whispered.
"It wasn't just Thorne," Miller said, his voice dripping with disappointment. "The email came from an anonymous account, sure. But the caption... Greg, the caption says 'The Captain's Price Tag.' It implies she paid you. It implies you were taking money from Vane to sleep with her."
"That's a lie!" I shouted. "Coach, that is a lie!"
"It doesn't matter," Miller said. "The NCAA is already on the phone with the AD. Vane is threatening to sue the school. The Bruins scout just called me to say they're pulling your name from their draft board until this clears."
I felt the room spinning.
"Coach, please. Let me explain. Let me play tonight."
"I can't," Miller said. "You're toxic right now, son. Stay home. Don't talk to the press. And for God's sake, get her out of that house."
The line went dead.
I lowered the phone slowly.
Michelle was sitting up, clutching the sheet to her chest.
"Greg?" she whispered. "What happened?"
I looked at her. I looked at the girl I had planned a future with in a crappy apartment in Southie.
"He released them," I said, my voice hollow. "It's everywhere. Barstool. The news."
She gasped, grabbing her own phone.
I watched her face as she scrolled. I watched the horror wash over her.
"Oh my God," she cried. "They're saying... they're saying I bought you. They're saying I'm a puck bunny who used Daddy's money to buy the Captain."
"I'm suspended," I said. "Indefinitely. The Bruins pulled my name."
"No," she wailed. "No, no, no!"
She scrambled out of bed. She looked frantic.
"We can fix this," she said. "I'll call my dad. I'll tell him the truth. I'll tell him Thorne hacked me."
"Michelle," I said. I felt numb. The happiness from last night felt like a hallucination.
"I'll fix it!" she screamed, pulling on her jeans. "I promise, Greg. I'll fix it."
My phone dinged. A text.
From Victor Vane.
You're done, Sterling. I told you to keep her safe. Instead, you made her a whore on the internet. My lawyers will be in touch. And say goodbye to your career.
I stared at the message.
The Ambush hadn't just sprung. It had decimated us.
"Greg, say something," Michelle begged, grabbing my arm. "Yell at me. Scream. Do something."
I looked at her.
"I have to go," I said.
"Where? You're suspended."
"I have to go," I repeated.
I stood up. I walked past her. I walked out of the room.
I didn't grab a bag. I didn't grab a coat.
I walked out of the house, past the confused faces of my teammates in the living room who were all staring at their phones.
I walked out into the cold morning air.
I started running.
I didn't know where I was going. I just knew I couldn't be there. I couldn't look at her and see the ruin of everything we had built.
We had been invincible for exactly six hours.
And now, we were nothing.