Chapter 8
Faye
I hated hockey.
I hated the violence. I hated the smell of testosterone and stale beer that seemed to permeate the molecular structure of every arena.
I hated that it was essentially a game where grown men strapped knives to their feet and bludgeoned each other with sticks for the entertainment of people like my father.
But mostly, I hated how much I loved watching Graham Vane play.
I sat in the Owner’s Box, a glass-encased VIP prison perched high above center ice. It was opulent—leather armchairs, a private bar stocked with top-shelf liquor, and a buffet of food no one touched because the wives were all on juice cleanses and the men were too busy shouting at the refs.
My father wasn't here. He was "entertaining" potential investors in the larger suite next door. That meant I was alone in the box, save for Cleo, who I had smuggled in under the guise of being my "legal counsel," and a few low-level executives who were terrified to make eye contact with me.
"This is barbaric," Cleo muttered, sipping a Diet Coke from a crystal goblet. "Did you see that hit? That’s assault. In any other context, that is a felony."
"It’s a clean check," I said automatically.
Cleo looked at me over her glasses. "Since when do you know what a clean check is?"
"Since I started living with the rulebook," I murmured, my eyes fixed on the ice.
Down below, it was a war zone.
The Sentinels were playing Minnesota. The rivalry was old, bitter, and bloody. The ice was already scarred from the first period, a chaotic scrawl of skate marks. The sound was deafening—the roar of the crowd, the thwack of sticks, the sickening thud of bodies hitting the boards.
But I didn't see the chaos. I saw him.
Number 19. The Captain.
Graham moved differently than the others.
While everyone else was scrambling, he was gliding.
He was a shark in a tank of minnows. His strides were long, powerful, eating up the ice with terrifying efficiency.
He didn't chase the puck; he arrived at the exact spot the puck was going to be, as if he had calculated the physics of the bounce three seconds before it happened.
He was magnificent.
He was also a liar.
From up here, to the untrained eye, he looked perfect. But I saw the way he rolled his right shoulder every time the whistle blew. I saw the slight grimace when he took a face-off. I saw the way he favored his left side when checking an opponent into the glass.
The tape I had applied that morning was holding, but barely. Underneath that jersey, his deltoid was screaming.
"He looks angry today," Cleo noted. "Like, 'burn the village' angry."
"He's focused," I said, gripping the armrests of my chair until my knuckles turned white.
"He’s terrifying. Look at him."
I looked. Graham was circling the center dot, waiting for the puck drop.
He was staring down the Minnesota center—a guy named Kowalski who had fifty pounds on him and a reputation for dirty hits.
Graham wasn't trash-talking. He was just staring.
The stillness of him was more intimidating than any shout.
The ref dropped the puck.
Crack.
Graham won the draw cleanly, sweeping it back to his defensemen.
The play unfolded. It was fast. Too fast. Graham surged up the ice, demanding the pass. He caught it on his backhand, spun around a defender with a move so fluid it looked like a dance, and drove toward the net.
Kowalski was waiting.
He didn't play the puck. He lined Graham up.
"Look out!" I gasped, half-rising from my seat.
It happened in slow motion. Graham saw him coming. He should have braced. He should have absorbed the hit with his shoulder.
But it was his right shoulder.
At the last second, Graham tried to spin away to protect the injury. It left him vulnerable.
CRUNCH.
Kowalski slammed into him, driving him into the boards from behind. Graham’s helmet snapped back. He hit the glass with a force that shook the entire arena.
The crowd gasped. Then silence.
Graham dropped to one knee.
My heart stopped. The world narrowed to that single figure on the ice.
Get up. Please, God, get up.
"That was a hit from behind!" Cleo shouted, jumping up. "Ref! Are you blind? That’s a penalty! That’s intent to injure!"
I couldn't speak. Nausea rolled over me, cold and heavy. I pressed my hand to the glass of the luxury box, leaving a smudge.
Graham stayed down for three seconds. Three eternities.
Then, he moved.
He planted his left skate. He pushed up. He shook his head, clearing the cobwebs. He stood up.
He didn't look at the ref. He didn't look at his teammates who were swarming Kowalski, starting a scrum.
He looked up.
Straight at the Owner’s Box. Straight at me.
His face was a mask of cold fury. There was a cut on his chin, blood trickling down onto his chin strap. His eyes were grey fire.
I’m okay, the look said. Stay put.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, slumping back into my chair. My legs were shaking.
"He's insane," I whispered. "He's absolutely insane."
"He's tough," Cleo conceded, sitting back down. "Stupid, but tough. Why didn't he dodge that?"
"He was protecting his shoulder," I murmured.
"What?"
"Nothing."
I watched him skate back to the bench. He didn't sit. He stood by the door, squirting water into his mouth, spitting it out onto the ice mixed with blood. The trainer tried to talk to him. Graham waved him off with a sharp gesture.
He wasn't coming out of the game. He was going to finish it, even if it killed him.
And for the first time, I realized that I wasn't watching a game. I was watching a man sacrifice his body piece by piece to prove he was worthy of love.
The rest of the game was a blur of violence.
The Sentinels won, 4-3. Graham had two assists and the game-winning goal—a slap shot from the point that was so hard it practically tore the net off its moorings.
But every time he touched the puck, I felt sick. Every time someone got near him, my body tensed, bracing for an impact I wouldn't even feel.
When the final buzzer sounded, the relief was so intense I felt dizzy.
"Let's go," I told Cleo, grabbing my purse.
"Where? To the locker room?"
"No. We can't go in there. It smells like Axe body spray and disappointment. We’ll wait by the family exit."
We navigated the corridors of the arena, moving against the flow of the crowd. I kept my head down, avoiding the gaze of the fans. They were cheering for Vane. They wore his name on their backs. They loved the Governor.
But they didn't know him. They didn't know how he looked in the morning with messy hair. They didn't know about the scars on his back or the way he drank his coffee black because sugar was "inefficient."
They loved the player. I… I was terrified I was falling for the man.
We reached the family waiting area—a sterile hallway near the loading docks where the wives and girlfriends waited. It was a hierarchy. The seniors' girlfriends stood near the front, looking bored and chic. The freshmen’s hookups stood near the back, looking nervous.
I stood apart from all of them.
"This is awkward," Cleo whispered. "Everyone is staring at you."
"Let them stare."
"They know who you are. The Owner’s daughter. They probably think you’re here to fire someone."
"I’m here to make sure the Captain isn't dead."
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The players started trickling out. Rys came out first, looking remarkably fresh for someone who had just played sixty minutes of hockey. He saw me and winked.
"He’s coming, Princess. Just getting stitched up."
Stitched up.
My stomach flipped again.
Finally, the door opened.
Graham stepped out.
He was wearing a suit—impeccably tailored, navy blue. His hair was wet, combed back but starting to curl at the ends as it dried.
He looked devastating.
But I saw the cracks. I saw the slight limp. I saw the butterfly bandage on his chin. I saw the grey pallor under his tan.
He scanned the crowd. He wasn't looking for his father. He wasn't looking for the press.
His eyes found mine.
The tension in his shoulders dropped an inch. A visible exhale.
He walked toward me. He didn't stop to sign autographs. He didn't stop to talk to the other girlfriends. He walked straight to me, creating a vacuum in the room.
"Hey," he said, his voice rough.
"Hey." I looked at his chin. "You’re bleeding."
"I cut myself shaving."
"With a hockey stick?"
"It was a dull razor."
He was trying to joke. It fell flat. He was hurting. I could see the pain lines around his eyes.
"Where is your dad?" he asked, glancing around.
"Entertaining donors. He’ll be hours."
"Good." Graham reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. He handed them to me. "Drive."
"Me? Drive the Rover?"
"I can't lift my arm past ninety degrees, Faye. Drive the car."
"Okay. Okay." I grabbed the keys. "Cleo, do you need a ride?"
Cleo looked between us. She saw the way Graham was standing—angled toward me, shielding me from the room, his eyes devouring my face. She saw the way I was practically vibrating with the need to touch him.
"Nope," Cleo said, backing away. "My boyfriend is picking me up. You guys go. Drive safe. Don't die."
She vanished.
"Let's go," Graham said. He put his hand on the small of my back. His touch was heavy, grounding.
We walked to the parking garage in silence. He moved slowly. I matched his pace, my hip bumping against his thigh every few steps.
When we got to the Rover, I unlocked it.
"Shotgun," he muttered, sliding into the passenger seat with a grimace.
I got into the driver’s seat. It felt huge. The leather smelled like him. I adjusted the mirrors, feeling ridiculous.
"Do you know how to get home?" he asked, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the headrest.
"Yes, Graham. I’m not an idiot."
"Just checking."
I started the engine. The powerful purr of the motor filled the garage.
I drove carefully. I avoided every pothole. I took the turns slow. I glanced at him every few seconds. He kept his eyes closed, his breathing shallow.
"Is it bad?" I asked softly as we merged onto the highway.