Chapter 16
Michelle
The boardroom at Blackwood University was designed to intimidate. It was a cavern of mahogany and oil paintings of dead men who probably never had to worry about their sex lives being discussed on Barstool Sports.
I sat at the end of a long, polished table. I felt small. I felt dirty. I felt like the "Puck Bunny" the internet was currently calling me.
Opposite me sat my father, Victor Vane. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at his phone, his thumb scrolling with lethal precision.
Next to him was Dean Miller (no relation to the Coach, just equally terrifying). And next to her was a lawyer I didn't recognize, a man with a suit that cost more than my tuition and eyes that looked like they had been surgically removed of empathy.
"The situation," the lawyer began, sliding a folder across the table, "is untenable."
I looked at the folder. I didn't open it. I knew what was inside. Screenshots. Comments. The wreckage of my life printed on high-quality bond paper.
"We have a moral turpitude clause in the scholarship agreement," Dean Miller said, her voice clipped. "And Mr. Sterling has a conduct clause in his athletic scholarship. The implication of... transaction... is damaging to the university's reputation."
"It wasn't a transaction," I said, my voice hollow. "We were dating. We are in love."
My father let out a short, sharp laugh. He finally looked up.
"Love," he sneered. "Is that what you call it? You humiliated me, Michelle. You took my money, my name, and dragged it through the mud of a locker room scandal."
"I didn't take the photos, Dad! I was hacked!"
"It doesn't matter who took them," Victor slammed his hand on the table. "What matters is what they show. They show my daughter—a Vane—living like a camp follower in a frat house."
He stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the snowy campus.
"I've spoken to the NHL commissioner," he said. "And the GM of the Bruins. They are... displeased. They don't like distractions. They don't like players who come with baggage."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying," Victor turned back to me, his face cold, "that Sterling is radioactive. As long as he is attached to you, he is un-draftable. No team will touch him. The media circus is too big. The 'Pay-for-Play' rumor is too loud."
"It's not true!"
"Perception is reality, Michelle. You know that. You're a marketing student."
He walked back to the table and leaned over me.
"Here are your options. Option A: You stay with him. The investigation drags on. He misses the playoffs. He misses the draft. He ends up playing semi-pro in Belarus for pennies. And you... well, I cut you off completely. You'll be broke, and you'll be the reason he failed."
I felt the blood drain from my face.
"Option B," Victor continued, his voice softening into a terrifying approximation of paternal care. "You leave. Today. You withdraw from Blackwood. You come back to LA. We issue a statement saying you were... confused. A brief lapse in judgment. We say it's over."
"And Greg?" I whispered.
"If you leave," Victor said, "I make a phone call. I tell the NCAA it was a misunderstanding. I tell the Bruins the distraction is gone. The investigation goes away. He plays the Finals. He gets drafted."
"You can do that?"
"I'm Victor Vane. I can do anything."
He sat back down.
"So, Michelle. What's it going to be? Do you love him enough to ruin him? Or do you love him enough to save him?"
The room spun.
Do you love him enough to save him?
I thought about Greg. I thought about the way he looked on the ice—powerful, focused, free. I thought about the little silver shield he kept on his nightstand. Be the wall.
He had carried the weight of his brother's death for ten years. He had finally put it down.
If I stayed, I would be handing him a new burden. A heavier one. The burden of a ruined dream.
If I stayed, I would become the thing he feared most: Chaos. Destruction.
I looked at my father. I hated him. I hated him with a purity that frightened me.
But he had won.
Because he knew the one weakness I had. He knew I couldn't be the reason Greg Sterling failed.
"I'll go," I whispered.
"Good choice," Victor said. He checked his watch. "The jet is waiting at the private airfield in Portland. You have two hours to pack."
"I need to talk to him," I said. "I need to explain."
"No explanations," the lawyer interjected. "If you tell him you're doing this for him, he'll fight it. He'll follow you. The break has to be clean. Absolute."
"You have to make him hate you," Victor clarified. "It's the only way he'll let you go and focus on the game."
I felt sick. Physically sick.
"Make him hate me," I repeated.
"Burn the bridge, Michelle," Victor said. "Burn it to the ground. For his sake."
I stood up. My legs were shaking.
"Two hours," I said.
I walked out of the boardroom. I walked past the Dean. I walked past the receptionist.
I walked out into the cold, grey afternoon.
I was going to save Greg Sterling.
And I was going to kill myself doing it.
The drive to the Ice Box felt like a funeral procession. I drove my rental car—the G-Wagon was long gone, repossessed weeks ago—with mechanical precision.
I rehearsed the words in my head.
I never loved you.
You were a project.
I'm bored.
They tasted like ash. They tasted like lies.
But I had to say them. I had to say them with the conviction of an Oscar winner. Because if I faltered, if I showed even a crack of the heartbreak that was tearing me apart, Greg would see it. He would know. And he would fight for me.
And if he fought for me, he would lose everything.
I pulled into the driveway.
The house was quiet. The team was at the arena for a mandatory "crisis meeting" without the Captain.
Greg would be in his room. Suspended. Waiting.
I walked up the steps. I unlocked the door.
The smell hit me. Cedar. Cold air. Him.
I almost turned around. I almost ran back to the car and drove until I hit the ocean.
But I forced my feet to move. Be the wall, I told myself. Be the wall for him.
I walked up the stairs.
His door was closed.
I didn't knock. I opened it.
Greg was sitting on the edge of the bed. He was still wearing the clothes he had run out in this morning—sweatpants and a hoodie. His head was in his hands.
He looked up when I entered.
His eyes were red-rimmed. He looked wrecked.
But when he saw me, a flicker of hope lit up his face.
"Michelle," he breathed. He stood up. "You came back. I thought... I thought you left."
He took a step toward me.
I held up a hand. "Stop."
He froze. "What?"
"Don't come closer," I said. My voice was steady. Cold. It didn't sound like me. It sounded like my father.
"Michelle, what happened? Where have you been?"
"I was with my father," I said. "And his lawyers."
Greg's face hardened. "What did they say? Are they suing?"
"They're fixing it," I said. "Or rather, I'm fixing it."
"How?"
"By leaving," I said. "I'm withdrawing from Blackwood. I'm moving back to LA today."
Greg stared at me. "What? No. Michelle, we talked about this. We said we'd figure it out. We said we'd get a crappy apartment in Southie."
"You said that," I corrected. "I just listened."
"Don't do this," he said, his voice rising. "Don't let him win. We can fight this. I don't care about the suspension. I don't care about the draft."
"But I do," I said.
I walked over to the dresser. I picked up the silver shield cufflink. I looked at it for a second, then dropped it back onto the wood with a loud clatter.
"I care about my future, Greg," I lied. "And my future isn't in Southie eating ramen noodles. My future is in Milan. It's in LA. It's with people who matter."
Greg looked like I had shot him.
"People who matter?" he whispered. "I thought I mattered."
"You did," I said. "For a semester. You were... interesting. You were different. It was fun to play 'poor student' for a while. It was fun to rebel against my dad by sleeping with the help."
The help.
I saw the flinch. I saw the light go out in his eyes.
"Is that what I was?" he asked. His voice was dangerously quiet. "A rebellion?"
"Mostly," I said. I crossed my arms, digging my nails into my biceps to keep from shaking. "And a project. I wanted to see if I could break the Wall. If I could make the Iceman melt."
"You melted me," he said. "You broke me open."
"I know," I said. "And now... it's messy. It's too much drama. I don't do scandal, Greg. I'm a Vane. We stay above the fray."
"You're lying," he said. He took another step toward me. He was searching my face, looking for the girl who had cried in the studio last night. "Michelle, I know you. I know you love me."
"I loved the idea of you," I said. "But the reality? The suspension? The bad press? It's embarrassing."
"Embarrassing?"
"Yes. Look at you." I gestured to him. "You're sitting in a dark room feeling sorry for yourself because you got caught. You're not a hero, Greg. You're just a liability."
It was the cruelest thing I could say. I used his own fear against him.
He recoiled. He actually took a step back.
"Get out," he said.
It wasn't a roar this time. It was a whisper. A broken, defeated whisper.
"I'm going," I said. "My bags are already in the car."
I turned to leave.
"Wait."
I stopped. I didn't turn around. I couldn't look at him. If I looked at him, I would break.
"Did you ever love me?" he asked. "Even for a second? Was any of it real?"
I closed my eyes. Tears leaked out, hot and fast. I wiped them away furiously.
Yes, I screamed internally. It was all real. You are the only real thing in my life.
"No," I said aloud. "It was just a game, Greg. And I won."
I walked out.
I walked down the stairs.
I walked out the front door.
I got into the rental car.
I didn't scream this time. I felt too empty to scream.
I drove to the airfield.
My father was waiting on the tarmac, standing next to the sleek white jet.
"Well done," he said as I climbed out of the car. "I spoke to the NCAA. The investigation is closed. He's cleared to play."
"Good," I said. My voice was dead.
I climbed the stairs to the jet.
I sat in the plush leather seat.
As the plane taxied down the runway, I looked out the window.
I saw the lights of Precipice Bay fading into the distance.
I had saved him.
He was going to be a star. He was going to the NHL. He was going to have the life he deserved.
And he was going to hate me for the rest of it.
Greg
I stood at the window, watching her car disappear down the driveway.
I didn't move for a long time.
I felt... cold.
Not the cold of the ice rink. Not the cold of the Maine winter.
This was a deep, internal freeze. It started in my chest and spread to my limbs, numbing everything it touched.
It was just a game.
You were the help.
I won.
I looked at the silver cufflink on the dresser.
She had left it. She had left everything.
I picked it up.
I walked to the trash can.
I held it over the bin.
But I couldn't drop it.
My hand shook. A spasm of rage and grief ripped through me.
I threw it across the room instead. It hit the wall with a ping and disappeared into the carpet.
My phone rang.
It was Coach Miller.
I stared at it. I didn't want to answer. I didn't care anymore.
But the phone kept ringing.
I picked it up.
"What?" I snapped.
"You're cleared," Miller said. His voice was breathless. "The NCAA called. The investigation is dropped. Vane... retracted the complaint. Said it was a misunderstanding."
I froze.
"Retracted?"
"Yes. And the Bruins scout called back. You're back on the board, Sterling. You're playing tomorrow night. Suit up."
I lowered the phone.
You're playing.
You're cleared.
It hit me then. The timing.
She leaves. She breaks up with me. She tells me I'm a liability.
And five minutes later, I'm cleared.
I looked out the window at the empty driveway.
She hadn't left because she was bored. She hadn't left because I was the help.
She had made a deal.
Option B: You leave. He plays.
The realization didn't make me feel better. It made the pain worse. It made it sharper, agonizingly precise.
She had sacrificed herself for me.
And she had done it by making sure I would never follow her.
I sank to the floor, my back against the wall.
I buried my face in my hands.
I didn't cry. The wall was back up. It was higher, thicker, and colder than before.
I would play tomorrow. I would win. I would go to the NHL.
I would do exactly what she wanted.
But I would do it alone.
And I would never, ever let anyone in again.