Chapter 17
Graham
They say that when you lose a limb, the brain still tries to send signals to the missing nerves. It’s called phantom pain. You feel an itch on a foot that isn't there. You try to grip with fingers that have been severed.
I was living in a constant state of phantom pain.
It had been three weeks. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours since Faye walked out of the locker room and took the oxygen with her.
I was functioning. Technically.
I woke up at 5:00 AM. I drank black coffee.
I went to the rink. I skated drills until my legs shook.
I went to class. I sat in the back row and took notes I wouldn't read.
I ate chicken and rice because it was fuel, not because it tasted like anything.
I went home to the penthouse. I cleaned surfaces that were already clean.
I stared at the door of the guest room, which remained closed.
I didn't sleep.
I lay in the bed—our bed—and stared at the ceiling where we had built our imaginary yellow kitchen. I listened to the wind howling against the glass. I reached out in the dark, my hand searching for warmth, and found only cold, crisp sheets.
The silence in the apartment wasn't the heavy silence of waiting anymore. It was the dead silence of a tomb.
"You look like shit," Rys said.
We were in the weight room. It was Tuesday. Two days before the Frozen Four in Boston. The biggest stage in college hockey.
I was bench-pressing 225. Up. Down. Up. Down. Mechanical. Rhythmic. Pointless.
"I’m fine," I grunted, locking the bar in place.
"You're not fine. You're down ten pounds. You have bags under your eyes big enough to carry groceries. And you haven't smiled since... well, since The Event."
Rys didn't say her name. No one said her name. It was an unspoken rule in the locker room. Don't mention the girl who broke the Captain.
I sat up, wiping sweat from my forehead. "I'm focused, Rys. Isn't that what everyone wanted?"
"We wanted you focused, not lobotomized." Rys handed me a water bottle. "Look, man. The suspension is lifted. The team is rolling. You're projected top five in the draft. You won. Why are you acting like you're attending your own funeral?"
I took a sip of water. It tasted metallic.
"Because winning requires sacrifice," I recited, my father’s voice echoing in my head.
"Bullshit," Rys snapped. "Winning requires heart. And you left yours in an Uber three weeks ago."
I stood up, towering over him. The flash of anger felt good. It was better than the numbness.
"Drop it, Rys."
"No. I won't drop it. You're miserable. She’s... gone. To Paris, right? Eating croissants and pretending she doesn't miss you?"
"She doesn't miss me," I said coldly. "She made that very clear. I was a study in contrast. Nothing more."
"And you believed that?" Rys scoffed. "You? The guy who analyzes goalie twitches? You couldn't see that she was lying through her teeth to save your ass?"
I froze.
"She wasn't lying. She signed the statement. She called me empty."
"Yeah, because she had a gun to her head. Metaphorically. Or maybe literally, knowing Silas Allister." Rys stepped closer, poking me in the chest. "She fell on the sword for you, Graham. And you let her bleed out because you were too hurt to see the wound."
I stared at him. The doubt, which I had kept locked in a box in the back of my mind, rattled the lid.
You were a study in contrast.
Her voice had broken when she said it. Her eyes had been wet.
No. She left. She chose the exit.
"It doesn't matter," I said, turning away. "She’s gone. I have a game to play."
I walked out of the weight room. I walked away from the truth. Because if Rys was right—if she still loved me—then I wasn't the victim. I was the fool who let the love of his life walk away to save a career I no longer cared about.
Boston. The Frozen Four.
The TD Garden was a cathedral of noise. Twenty thousand fans screaming. The band playing fight songs. The ice gleaming under the bright lights like a sheet of diamonds.
This was it. The pinnacle. The moment every kid who ever laced up skates dreamed of.
I stood in the tunnel, listening to the roar.
Usually, this was where the adrenaline hit. The rush. The "Governor" would step in and take control.
Today, I felt... nothing.
I felt like an actor waiting for his cue.
"Let's go, boys!" Coach Halloway shouted. "Leave it all out there! For the legacy!"
The team roared. Sticks tapped against the walls. A primal, chaotic energy.
I led them out.
The lights blinded me for a second. The noise hit me like a physical wave.
I skated a lap. The ice felt good. Familiar. Simple.
I looked up into the stands.
My father was there. Senator Vane, sitting in a luxury box, looking pleased. He waved. I didn't wave back.
Silas Allister was there too. Sitting two boxes over. He looked smug. He raised a glass to me. A toast. To the boy who obeyed.
I looked for the one face I knew wouldn't be there.
I scanned the crowd behind the glass. I looked for blonde hair. I looked for a gold dress. I looked for a sign that said "Go Governor."
Nothing. Just a sea of strangers wearing my jersey.
A hollow ache opened up in my chest, wide enough to swallow the entire rink.
She should be here.
The thought was a scream.
She should be here banging on the glass. She should be here wearing my hoodie. She should be here to see this.
The puck dropped.
I went into auto-pilot.
I was a machine. That’s what Faye had called me. Efficient. Safe. Empty.
I played the best game of my life.
First period: Goal. A wrist shot top shelf. The crowd went wild. I didn't celebrate. I just skated to the bench.
Second period: Assist. A no-look pass to Rys that set up a one-timer. He hugged me. I patted his helmet.
Third period: Tie game. 2-2. Boston University was surging. The crowd was deafening.
One minute left.
I had the puck in the neutral zone. I crossed the blue line. Two defenders collapsed on me.
I spun. I felt the hit coming, but I didn't care. I fed the puck through my legs to Miller, who was streaking down the wing.
Miller shot.
Ping.
Goal.
The buzzer sounded.
The Sentinels had won. We were going to the National Championship.
The team swarmed the ice. Gloves flew. Helmets flew. I was buried under a pile of shouting, sweating bodies.
"We did it!" Miller screamed in my ear. "We're going to the Natty!"
"You're a legend, Cap!"
"Vane! Vane! Vane!" the crowd chanted.
I lay on the ice, staring up at the jumbotron. They showed my face. Close up. Sweat dripping. Eyes blank.
I had won. I had proven Silas wrong. I had proven my father right. I was a winner.
So why did I feel like I was bleeding to death?
I extricated myself from the pile. I shook hands with the other team. I accepted the trophy for the Conference Champions.
I looked up at the luxury boxes again.
My father was clapping politely. Silas was nodding.
They were happy. The investment had paid off. The distraction was gone, and the asset was performing.
I skated off the ice. I walked down the tunnel.
I went into the locker room. It was chaos. Champagne (non-alcoholic) was spraying. Music was blasting.
I sat in my stall. I didn't take off my gear. I just sat there, holding my stick, feeling the vibration of the celebration around me, and feeling utterly, completely alone.
The After-Party
The team hotel. A ballroom. Boosters, parents, scouts.
I was wearing a suit. I was shaking hands. I was smiling with my mouth but not my eyes.
"Great game, son." My father appeared beside me, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "You played like a Vane."
"Thanks, Dad."
"The scouts are raving. Top three, maybe even first overall. New York is very interested."
"New York," I repeated dully.
"Yes. The Rangers. Original Six. Big market. It fits the brand."
"The brand."
"And Silas is pleased. He’s doubling his donation to the athletic fund. It seems everything worked out for the best."
My father looked at me, his eyes gleaming with ambition.
"You see, Graham? Sacrifice yields reward. You cut out the rot, and the tree flourishes."
The rot.
He was talking about Faye. The girl who painted storms. The girl who made me laugh. The girl who held me when I was terrified of my own genetics.
Rage, cold and sharp, spiked in my chest.
"She wasn't rot," I said quietly.
My father frowned. "What?"
"Faye. She wasn't rot. She was the sunlight."
My father’s face hardened. "Don't be dramatic. She was a liability. And she’s gone. Focus on the win."
"I don't care about the win," I said, my voice rising.
People nearby turned to look.
"Graham," my father warned, gripping my arm. "Keep your voice down. There are cameras."
"Let them film," I snapped, pulling away. "Let them see. Let them see that the Vane brand is built on bullshit."
"You are exhausted," my father hissed. "Go to your room. We will discuss this in the morning."
"No. We’re done discussing."
I turned and walked away. I walked out of the ballroom. I walked out of the hotel.
I needed air. I needed silence.
I walked down the streets of Boston. It was cold. Windy.
I found myself at a park bench near the harbor. I sat down, loosening my tie.
I pulled out my phone.
I hadn't looked at it in three weeks. Not really. Just checking schedules.
I opened my gallery.
I scrolled past the game photos. Past the stats screenshots.
I found the folder. Private.
Photos of Faye.
Faye painting in the living room, messy bun, paint on her nose.
Faye sleeping in the hotel room in Minneapolis.
Faye laughing at me over a pizza box.
A selfie of us in the elevator, her kissing my cheek, me looking at the camera with a stupid, besotted grin I didn't recognize.
I zoomed in on my own face.
I looked happy. I looked alive.
I looked at the photo of me on the jumbotron tonight. Dead eyes. Empty.
Rys was right.
I had won the game, but I had lost the only thing that made the game worth playing.
I scrolled to the last photo.
It was a picture of a sketch she had left on the nightstand the morning she left.
It was a drawing of a wolf. Not the Sentinel mascot. A real wolf. Battered. scarred. But standing guard over a small, fragile flower growing in the snow.
At the bottom, she had scrawled a note.
Chaos isn't the enemy, Governor. Silence is. Don't let the silence win.
I stared at the drawing.
Don't let the silence win.
I had let it win. I had let the silence of my father’s expectations and Silas’s threats drown out the noise of our love.
I stood up.
The numbness was gone. Replaced by a frantic, burning need.
I checked the time. 1:00 AM.
Paris was six hours ahead. It was morning there.
I dialed her number.
Straight to voicemail.
"The number you have dialed is no longer in service."
Of course. She changed her number. She wiped the slate clean.
I called Cleo.
She picked up on the second ring.
"Vane?" Her voice was sharp. "Why are you calling me?"
"I need to find her."
"She doesn't want to be found. She’s in Paris. She’s happy. Or at least, she’s painting."
"Is she happy?" I demanded. "Tell me the truth, Cleo. Is she happy?"
Silence on the line.
"No," Cleo sighed. "She’s miserable. She cries when she thinks no one is looking. She paints nothing but grey storms. She misses you so much it’s pathetic."
My heart kick-started.
"She misses me?"
"Yes, you idiot. She left to save you. She signed that statement because her dad threatened to ruin your life if she didn't."
"I know," I whispered. "I know. But I let her go."
"Yeah. You did."
"I have to fix it."
"You have the National Championship on Saturday."
"I don't care."
"You get drafted in June."
"I don't care."
"Graham... what are you going to do?"
I looked at the Boston harbor. Dark water. Endless horizon.
"I’m going to catch a plane," I said. "And I’m going to go get my chaos back."
"You'll get expelled. You'll get benched."
"Let them bench me. Let them expel me. I’d rather be a failure with her than a champion without her."
"Okay," Cleo said, her voice softening. "Okay. She’s staying in the Latin Quarter. Rue des écoles. Apartment 4B. The code is 1998."
I froze.
"1998?"
"Yeah. Your birth year. She’s sentimental like that."
I laughed. A choked, wet sound.
"Thank you, Cleo."
"Go get her, Governor. And if you break her heart again, I will personally fly over there and murder you."
"Understood."
I hung up.
I didn't go back to the hotel. I hailed a cab.
"Logan Airport," I said. "International Terminal."
I was leaving the team. I was leaving the game. I was leaving the expectations of two powerful men who thought they owned me.
I was going to Paris.
And I wasn't coming back without her.