Chapter 20
Michelle
The Ice Box didn't smell like testosterone and stale beer anymore. It smelled like Lemon Pledge and emptiness.
I stood in the center of the guest suite—my room—staring at the bare walls. The velvet curtains were gone. The mood board was packed. The rug that had cost more than Beef’s Jeep was rolled up and waiting by the door.
It was May in Maine. The snow had finally melted, revealing a landscape of mud and stubborn green grass. The sun was streaming through the window, actually providing warmth for the first time since I arrived in January.
I walked over to the thermostat.
It was set to 72 degrees.
I smiled, tracing the dial.
Four months ago, I had cranked this thing up to eighty just to annoy the grumpy giant living next door. I had played Doja Cat at maximum volume to rattle his cage. I had been a brat, a whirlwind, a desperate girl trying to force the world to pay attention to her.
I looked at my reflection in the naked window pane.
I was wearing jeans and a Blackwood Hockey t-shirt. My hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. I wasn't wearing makeup.
I didn't look like the heiress who had dragged Louis Vuitton trunks up the stairs in six-inch stilettos.
I looked like... me.
"You checking the temperature again?"
I turned.
Greg was leaning against the doorframe. He was wearing a t-shirt and shorts, his muscles relaxed, his eyes soft. He was holding a roll of packing tape like a weapon.
"Just making sure the next tenant doesn't freeze," I said.
"The next tenant is a freshman goalie," Greg said, walking into the room. "He needs to toughen up. I'm setting it to sixty before we leave."
"You tyrant," I laughed.
He wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. We looked at our reflection in the window together. The Wall and the Storm.
"Remember when you moved in?" he murmured. "You were wearing that fur coat. You looked at me like I was the help."
"I was terrified," I admitted. "I thought you were going to eat me."
"I did eat you," he whispered against my neck. "Eventually."
I shivered, leaning back into him. "Greg. We have to be at the stadium in an hour. Graduation."
"I know." He tightened his grip. "I just... I'm going to miss this room. It's where you threw a shoe at my head."
"I did not throw a shoe at your head. I threw it near your head."
"It's where I realized I was in trouble," he said softly. "The first night. When I came in here to yell at you about the music. And you looked at me with those defiant eyes. I knew right then. My perimeter was breached."
I turned in his arms, looping my hands around his neck.
"And now?"
"Now the perimeter is gone," he said. "And I don't miss it."
He kissed me. It was slow, lazy, and tasted of coffee. It was the kiss of two people who knew they had a lifetime of mornings ahead of them.
"Ahem."
We broke apart.
Beef was standing in the hallway, holding a box of my shoes. He was crying. Openly weeping.
"You guys are gross," Beef sobbed. "I'm going to miss it so much."
"Beef, pull it together," Greg said, though he was smiling. "You're taking over as Captain. You can't cry over shoes."
"It's not the shoes," Beef sniffled. "It's the end of an era, man. The Ice Box won't be the same without the Princess. Who's gonna yell at me about my skincare routine?"
I walked over and hugged the giant goalie. He smelled like gym socks and sadness.
"You have my list of products," I said. "Use the retinol, Beef. Or you'll wrinkle."
"I promise," he wailed into my hair.
"Okay, break it up," Greg said, checking his watch. "We have to go. My parents are waiting. And if we're late, my mom will start organizing the seating chart herself."
"Right," I said, pulling away. "Graduation. Then Boston."
"Then the rest of our lives," Greg corrected.
He picked up the last box—my heavy box of sketchbooks—as if it weighed nothing.
"Ready, Vane?"
I took one last look at the empty room. At the place where I had learned that love wasn't a transaction, and that being seen was better than being watched.
"Ready, Sterling."
Greg
The Blackwood University football stadium was a sea of black gowns and mortarboards. The sun was beating down, unseasonably hot for Maine, making the synthetic turf smell like burning rubber.
I sat in the front row of the Business School section, sweating in my polyester robe.
I scanned the crowd.
My parents were in the stands, waving frantically. My dad was wearing a Bruins hat. He hadn't taken it off since the draft.
I looked for the Arts section.
There she was.
Michelle.
She had customized her cap, of course. She had bedazzled it with crystals that spelled out VANE & VALOR. It sparkled blindingly in the sunlight.
She was laughing at something the girl next to her said. She looked radiant.
I thought back to the girl I met in January. The girl who was drowning in expectations, hiding behind layers of expensive armor. The girl who thought she was a ghost.
Now, she was the brightest thing in the stadium.
"Gregory Sterling," the Dean announced from the podium. "Summa Cum Laude."
I stood up. I walked across the stage.
I shook the Dean's hand. I took the diploma.
I heard the roar from the section behind me.
"YEAH, CAP! WOO!"
Beef and the rest of the team were standing on their chairs, causing a scene.
I grinned.
But I wasn't looking at them.
I looked at Michelle.
She was standing up, clapping. She blew me a kiss.
I caught it and tapped my chest.
I see you.
I walked back to my seat, the diploma heavy in my hand.
Economics degree. Check.
NHL Contract. Check.
The Girl. Check.
For the first time in my life, the checklist was complete, and I didn't feel the urge to add anything else to it.
The ceremony dragged on. Speeches about the future. Quotes from poets I didn't know.
Finally, they called the Art and Design school.
"Michelle Vane," the Dean called. "Cum Laude."
She walked across the stage.
She didn't walk like a student. She walked like a runway model. Shoulders back, chin high. She wore her gown open, revealing a white dress she had designed herself.
She took the diploma.
She didn't look at the crowd. She didn't look for her father (who hadn't come, citing a 'board meeting' in Tokyo, which was fine by us).
She looked right at me.
She held up the diploma like a trophy.
And in that moment, I saw the shift. She wasn't doing this for Victor Vane. She wasn't doing it to prove she was 'acceptable.'
She was doing it because she was Michelle Vane, CEO, and she had earned every single credit.
The ceremony ended. Caps were thrown. The air filled with flying polyester squares.
I pushed through the crowd. I ignored my parents for a second. I ignored the teammates slapping my back.
I found her near the 50-yard line.
She was hugging Chloe.
"You did it, nerd!" Chloe was yelling. "You actually finished something!"
"I know!" Michelle laughed.
Then she saw me.
Her face lit up. She broke away from Chloe and ran to me.
I caught her. I lifted her off the ground, spinning her around in the middle of the chaos. Her gown swirled around us.
"We did it," she gasped, looking down at me.
"We did," I said.
I kissed her.
It wasn't a hidden kiss. It wasn't a stolen moment in a hallway or a truck.
It was right there, in front of five thousand people. In front of the faculty. In front of the cameras.
I kissed her like I intended to kiss her every day for the rest of my life.
Someone whistled. Probably Beef.
I put her down, but I didn't let go.
"Congratulations, graduate," I said.
"Congratulations, Mr. NHL," she replied.
My parents found us then. My mom was crying. My dad shook my hand, then hugged Michelle like she was his own daughter.
"We're so proud," my mom sniffled. "Both of you. Boston is going to be wonderful."
"It is," Michelle said, squeezing my hand.
We took photos. We laughed. We sweated.
But through it all, there was a calmness. The frantic energy of the last four months—the secrets, the scandals, the breakups—it had all settled into a deep, bedrock certainty.
We were a team. And we had just won the season.
The sun was setting as they drove out of Precipice Bay.
Greg was driving his truck. It was loaded down with boxes, hockey gear, and a garment bag containing a blue silk blazer.
Michelle was in the passenger seat, her feet on the dashboard (Greg had given up fighting her on this).
The town faded in the rearview mirror. The ocean was a strip of gold on the horizon.
"Are you going to miss it?" Michelle asked, looking at the passing pine trees.
"The freezing cold? The drafty house? The 6 AM practices?" Greg asked.
"Yeah. That."
"No," he said. He reached over and took her hand. "I'm not going to miss the place. I'm taking the best part with me."
Michelle smiled, interlacing her fingers with his.
"It's weird," she said. "I spent my whole life trying to run away. From LA. From boarding schools. I thought freedom meant having no ties. No address."
"And now?"
"Now I think freedom is choosing who you're tied to."
She looked at the silver chain on her wrist. The shield.
"We have an appointment," Greg reminded her. "Tuesday. In Boston."
"The tattoo artist?"
"Yep. No backing out."
"I designed it," she said. "It's good. Minimalist. Very chic."
"As long as it's not a butterfly," Greg grunted.
"It's a shield," she said softly. "But with a crack in it."
Greg glanced at her. "A crack?"
"Yeah. To let the light in."
Greg squeezed her hand. His throat felt tight.
"I love it," he said.
They drove in silence for a while, the hum of the tires on the highway the only sound.
"So," Michelle said, pulling up Zillow on her phone. "The apartment. I was thinking... grey walls?"
"Black," Greg said.
"Greg, we are not living in a bat cave. Grey. With navy accents."
"Compromise. Charcoal."
"Fine. Charcoal. But I get a walk-in closet."
"You get the second bedroom for a studio," Greg said. "I already measured it. It fits your sewing table."
Michelle looked at him. He had measured it. Of course he had.
"You really are the Wall," she whispered.
"I'm just the guy holding the tape measure," he said. "You're the vision."
They crossed the state line into New Hampshire.
The road ahead was open.
"Play something," Michelle said, reaching for the radio.
"Driver picks the music."
"We're a democracy now, Sterling. Co-CEOs."
"Fine. What do you want?"
"Something loud," she said. "Something happy."
She put on a pop song. Heavy bass. Synthesizers.
Greg didn't turn it down. He turned it up.
He looked over at her. She was singing along, her hair blowing in the wind from the cracked window. She looked free.
He looked back at the road.
He thought about the boy who had found his brother in the garage. The boy who had decided to be perfect to save his family. The boy who had been so scared of chaos he had built a fortress around his heart.
That boy was gone.
In his place was a man driving a truck full of dreams toward a city he didn't know, with a woman who was pure, beautiful chaos.
And he had never felt safer.
"Hey, Greg?"
"Yeah?"
"We're going to be really good at this. The whole 'life' thing."
He smiled. A wide, real smile that reached his eyes.
"Yeah," he said. "We're going to crush it."
He stepped on the gas.
The truck sped up, chasing the sunset, leaving the ice behind for good.