Chapter 15
Graham
Victory feels different depending on the cost.
A win against Minnesota felt like blood and bruises. A win against Michigan felt like intellectual superiority. But the win I felt right now? This felt like sunlight after a year of rain.
It was Friday. The day before the Conference Finals.
I sat in the Rovers, idling in the parking lot of the art building. I watched the door, waiting for Faye.
She walked out five minutes later.
She wasn't just walking; she was practically vibrating. She spotted my car and broke into a jog, her face split by a grin so bright it could have powered the entire campus grid.
She yanked the door open and threw herself into the passenger seat.
"I did it!" she shouted, hitting the dashboard with her palms. "I beat them!"
"The plagiarism charge?"
"Dismissed!" She laughed, a sound of pure relief. "Dean Miller reviewed the case. I showed him my sketchbook. I showed him the dates on the drafts. I proved I had been working on the concept way before that French painting was even digitized in the archives. He apologized. Actually apologized!"
"That’s amazing, Faye."
I reached over and grabbed her hand, squeezing it tight. I felt a knot in my chest loosen—a knot that had been there since she told me about the email two days ago.
"I told you," I said. "You're too good to be a copycat."
"I was terrified, Graham. I thought my dad was behind it."
"Was he?"
"I don't think so. It looked like a genuine algorithmic flag. Or maybe someone petty in the department reported it. But it doesn't matter. It’s over. My record is clean."
She leaned over the console and kissed me. Hard. fast. Joyful.
"Thank you for helping me prep my statement," she said against my lips. "You made me sound like a lawyer."
"I made you sound like a professional. There's a difference."
"Whatever. It worked. And now... I’m free." She sat back, buckling her seatbelt. "Take me home, Governor. I want to celebrate."
"Celebrate how?"
"Pizza. Wine. And you. Naked. Not necessarily in that order."
I laughed, shifting the car into gear. "Deal."
As we drove up the mountain, the sun was setting, painting the sky in streaks of violet and burnt orange. It was the kind of evening that made you believe in happy endings.
We were safe. Faye’s academic standing was secure. My shoulder was healed enough to play without pain. The "scandal" from the alley photo had died down, replaced by rumors about the quarterback and a cheerleader. My father hadn't called. Silas hadn't called.
For the first time in months, the board was clear.
"Graham?" Faye asked softly, looking out the window.
"Yeah?"
"Do you think about after?"
"After the game tomorrow?"
"After everything. After Sterling Vale."
I tightened my grip on the wheel. "Sometimes."
"I got an email today. From the Paris program. They want an interview next week."
"That’s huge, Faye."
"It is. But... if I get in, I leave in June. And you get drafted in June."
"Right."
"So if you end up in... I don't know, New York, or Boston... that’s an ocean away."
"Planes exist," I reminded her.
"I know. But long distance is hard. Especially for two people who are... intense."
I glanced at her. She looked worried. Not scared, just realistic.
"Faye," I said. "Open the glove box."
"What?"
"Just open it."
She popped the latch. Inside was a small velvet box.
Her breath hitched. She looked at me, panic flaring in her eyes. "Graham. Please tell me that isn't a ring. We are twenty-one. That is way too fast."
I chuckled. "It’s not a ring. Relax."
She opened the box.
Inside was a key.
It wasn't a car key or a house key. It was an old-fashioned, heavy brass key.
"What is this?" she asked, picking it up.
"It’s a key to a storage unit in New York."
"Okay... cryptic. What’s in the unit?"
"Nothing yet. But my grandmother left me a loft in Tribeca. It’s been sitting empty for years. My dad wants me to sell it. I told him no."
I signaled a turn, glancing at her.
"It has huge windows," I said. "North facing. Good light."
Faye stared at the key. "Good light for what?"
"For a studio."
Her mouth fell open.
"Graham..."
"I don't know where I’m getting drafted," I admitted. "My dad has influence, but the draft is unpredictable. But New York... the Rangers have a pick. Or the Islanders. Or the Devils. It’s a hub. And even if I’m not there... it’s a home base."
I reached over and covered her hand, the one holding the key.
"It’s yours," I said. "If you want it. Whether I’m there or not. It’s a place where you can paint without anyone telling you it’s a waste of time."
Tears welled in her eyes. "You're giving me an apartment in Tribeca?"
"I’m giving you a choice. You can go to Paris. You can go to New York. You can do both. But I want you to know... wherever you go, I’m investing in you."
"Investing," she laughed through a sob. "You really are an economics nerd."
"It’s a sound investment. High yield potential."
"I love you," she whispered.
I smiled. "I know."
"No, Graham. I really love you. Like... scary love. The kind that makes me want to be better."
"Me too," I said softly. "Me too."
We drove the rest of the way in silence, but it was a warm silence. The silence of a future being built, brick by brick.
We arrived at the penthouse.
We ordered the pizza. We opened the wine.
We ended up on the rug in the living room, surrounded by sketches and hockey playbooks. It was domestic bliss. It was the eye of the storm.
"Okay," Faye said, lying on her back and staring at the ceiling. "Hypothetical question. If we get a dog, what do we name him?"
"Puck," I suggested.
"Veto. Too cliché."
"Gordie."
"Better. But sounds like an old man."
"How about Chaos?"
She turned her head to look at me. "Chaos?"
"Yeah. Since you brought so much of it into my life."
She smiled. "Chaos. I like it. But only if he’s a Golden Retriever. Pure energy."
"Done."
She rolled over and crawled towards me. I was sitting against the sofa, reviewing the defensive lines for tomorrow. She pushed the papers away and straddled my lap.
"Enough work," she murmured, unbuttoning my shirt. "Focus on me."
"I’m always focused on you."
"Prove it."
She kissed me.
It started slow. Lazy. The taste of red wine on her tongue. The smell of vanilla on her skin.
But it deepened quickly. It always did with us.
I groaned, my hands sliding under her shirt to grip her waist. Her skin was warm, soft. I felt the familiar spark ignite in my gut—the need to consume her, to own her, to lose myself in her.
"Bedroom," I breathed against her neck.
"No," she whispered, biting my earlobe. "Here. On the rug. Under the lights."
"Someone might see."
"We're on the top floor. Only the birds can see."
She pushed me back onto the rug.
We made love with the city lights twinkling around us. It wasn't frantic. It wasn't desperate. It was confident. It was the sex of two people who knew each other's bodies by heart.
I knew exactly where to touch her to make her gasp. She knew exactly how to move her hips to make me lose my mind.
"I love you," I whispered as I thrust into her, burying my face in her hair. "Faye, I love you."
"I love you," she cried out, her nails digging into my shoulders.
When we finished, we lay there, tangled together, breathing hard.
I felt invincible.
I had the girl. I had the game tomorrow. I had a future.
Silas Allister felt like a bad dream. My father felt miles away.
"I’m going to shower," Faye murmured, kissing my chest. "Don't move. I’m coming back for round two."
"I’m not going anywhere."
She stood up, wrapped in a blanket, and padded toward the bathroom.
I lay on the rug, staring at the ceiling, smiling like an idiot.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again. And again. And again. A rapid-fire assault.
I frowned. It was 9:30 PM. Who was texting me this much?
I sat up and grabbed the phone.
Twenty texts. From Rys. From Miller. From Coach.
Rys: DUDE. PICK UP YOUR PHONE.
Miller: Cap, is it true?
Coach: Call me. Now.
My stomach dropped. The cold dread returned instantly.
I opened Twitter.
It was trending. #1 Nationwide.
#VaneBetrayal
I clicked it.
It wasn't the alley photo. It wasn't the video.
It was an audio file.
Leaked by an anonymous source.
I clicked play.
My voice filled the silent apartment.
"I promised him focus... I promised him I’d finish the season strong. That the relationship wouldn't be a distraction."
Then Faye’s voice: "That’s it?"
My voice: "That’s it."
Then, a splice. A jagged edit.
My father’s voice. Cold. Distinct.
"You leave. The girl goes back to Daddy. The scandal dies."
My voice: "I’m not leaving her."
My father: "Then you are a fool."
My voice: "I’ll make a deal. Name the price."
My father: "You sign with the team I choose. Not the one offering the most money. The one that benefits the family trust."
My voice: "Deal."
The recording ended.
It was edited. Manipulated. It made it sound like I had traded my career to my father not to save Faye, but to save myself. To keep the scandal quiet so I could still get drafted.
But worse... underneath the audio file was a document.
A PDF.
Transfer Request Form: University of North Dakota.
Applicant: Graham Vane.
Signed: Silas Allister (Approved).
It looked like I had applied to transfer weeks ago. Like I had been planning to leave all along.
The caption read: The Governor sells out. Graham Vane agrees to throw the Conference Final in exchange for a transfer to UND and a hush-money payout from Daddy Vane to cover up his affair with the owner's daughter. Proof attached.
Throw the game?
I stared at the screen.
Someone had twisted the narrative. They had taken the truth—that I made a deal to save Faye—and turned it into a story about match-fixing and abandonment.
"Graham?"
Faye was standing in the doorway of the bathroom. The blanket had slipped off one shoulder. She looked soft. Happy.
"What’s wrong?" she asked. "You look like you saw a ghost."
I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe.
My phone buzzed again.
It was Silas.
Silas: I told you. You have twenty-four hours. You didn't leave. So I made the decision for you.
Then another text. From an unknown number.
Unknown: The NCAA has been notified of the betting irregularities regarding your transfer. You are suspended pending investigation. Do not come to the arena tomorrow.
Suspended.
I was suspended.
Before the biggest game of my life.
"Graham?" Faye stepped closer. "Talk to me."
My phone rang.
It was my father.
I answered.
"You idiot," my father hissed. "Who recorded us?"
"I don't know," I whispered.
"It’s everywhere, Graham. They think you're throwing the game. They think you're transferring. The integrity of the Vane name is under attack."
"Dad—"
"Fix this. Or you're disowned."
Click.
I lowered the phone.
Faye was standing over me now. She saw the look on my face. She saw the Twitter feed on my screen.
She snatched the phone from my hand.
I watched her read.
I watched the color drain from her face. I watched the light in her eyes die.
She looked at the transfer form. She looked at the caption about me throwing the game. She listened to the audio clip of me making a "deal" with my father.
She looked up at me.
"You applied to transfer?" she whispered.
"No. That’s fake. Silas forged it."
"And the deal? With your father?"
"That was real. But not like that. I did it to save you!"
"To save me?" She laughed, a hysterical, broken sound. "By promising to leave? By letting your father own you?"
"Faye, listen—"
"And the match fixing? Graham, people think you're throwing the game!"
"I’m not! I would never!"
"But you're suspended." She pointed to the text from the league. "You're suspended."
"I can fix this."
"How?" She stepped back. She dropped my phone on the rug. "How do you fix this? Everyone thinks you're a liar. And looking at this... listening to you negotiate my life like a business deal... I think they might be right."
"I love you," I pleaded, standing up. "Faye, I love you."
"Do you?" She looked at me with cold, dead eyes. "Or do you just love winning? Because right now, it looks like you traded me to win your father’s approval."
She turned around.
"I’m leaving."
"Faye, no. You can't go. It’s not safe out there."
"It’s not safe in here!" she screamed. "You lied to me! You told me it was handled! You didn't tell me you sold your soul!"
She grabbed her dress from the floor. She didn't put it on. She just held it to her chest like a shield.
"Don't follow me," she said.
She walked out the door.
I stood in the middle of the living room, naked, shivering, listening to the sound of the elevator taking the only thing that mattered away from me.
The silence returned.
But this time, it wasn't a sanctuary. It was a tomb.
I looked at the phone on the floor.
The headline flashed again.
#VaneBetrayal.
I fell to my knees. And for the first time in my life, the Governor had no plan. No strategy. No control.
The ice had finally broken. And I was drowning.