Chapter 18
Graham
The Boston streets were a blur of rain-slicked pavement and neon signs. I sat in the back of the cab, my leg bouncing with a nervous energy that made the entire chassis shake.
"Can you go faster?" I asked the driver, leaning forward.
"It's raining, buddy. And it's Boston. This is as fast as it gets."
I checked my phone.
1:45 AM.
The last flight to Paris out of Logan was at 7:00 PM. I had missed it by hours. The next one wasn't until 6:00 AM.
I couldn't wait until 6:00 AM. Waiting meant thinking. Thinking meant calculating the odds, the cost, the inevitable fallout. And if I started calculating, the Governor might take over and tell me to turn around.
I needed to move.
"Pull over," I said suddenly.
"Here? We're on the bridge."
"Pull over!"
The driver swerved to the shoulder, muttering curses. I threw a wad of cash—way too much—over the seat and scrambled out into the rain.
I wasn't going to the airport. Not yet.
I stood on the bridge, looking out at the dark water. The wind whipped my suit jacket, soaking my shirt instantly.
I had a phone call to make. One last call to burn the bridge completely.
I dialed my father.
He answered on the first ring. He must have been tracking me.
"Graham," his voice was tight, dangerous. "Where are you? Security says you left the hotel."
"I'm resigning," I shouted over the wind.
"Resigning? From what?"
"From the team. From the Vane legacy. From the deal."
"You are drunk," my father snapped. "Get back to the hotel. We have a breakfast meeting with the Rangers GM in four hours."
"I'm not coming to the meeting. I'm not playing in the Championship."
"Graham William Vane. If you do this... if you walk away now... I will cut you off. No trust fund. No connections. No safety net. You will be nothing."
"Good," I said. "I'm tired of being something. I just want to be someone."
"You are throwing away your life for a girl!"
"No. I'm saving my life. Goodbye, Dad."
I hung up. I didn't just hang up; I threw the phone into the harbor.
I watched it arc through the air, a small glowing rectangle, before it splashed into the black water and disappeared.
Silence.
No more notifications. No more threats. No more expectations.
Just me. In the rain. With nothing but the clothes on my back and a desperate need to get to Paris.
But wait.
My passport was in my hockey bag. Which was at the hotel.
I swore loudly, kicking the railing.
Chaos. This was chaos.
And then I remembered.
The team charter.
The Sentinels flew private. We had our own plane. It was scheduled to fly back to Aspen tomorrow morning.
But Silas Allister had his own jet. A Gulfstream G650. It was parked at the private terminal at Logan. I knew because Rys had complained about seeing it taxi in.
Silas Allister. The man who started this.
If I wanted to get to Paris tonight... I needed the enemy.
I started running. Not back to the hotel. To the airfield.
The Private Terminal
I stormed into the FBO, dripping wet, looking like a madman in a ruined Italian suit.
The receptionist looked up, alarmed. "Sir, you can't be in here—"
"I need to see Silas Allister," I panted. "Is his plane still here?"
"Mr. Allister is currently in the lounge preparing for departure, but—"
I didn't wait. I pushed past her, through the glass doors, into the VIP lounge.
Silas was there. He was sitting in a leather armchair, swirling a scotch, looking at a tablet. He looked up as I burst in.
He didn't look surprised. He looked... amused.
"Mr. Vane," he said smoothly. "You look wet."
"I need your plane," I said. No preamble. No politeness.
Silas raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"I need your plane. I need to go to Paris. Now."
Silas set his glass down. He stood up, buttoning his jacket.
"And why, pray tell, would I lend my fifty-million-dollar jet to the boy who just humiliated my family, got suspended, and is currently having a public breakdown?"
"Because you owe me."
"I owe you nothing. You signed a deal. You broke it."
"I broke it because I realized you were right."
Silas paused. "I was right?"
"You said I was empty. You said I was a product. You were right. I was. Until her."
I stepped closer. I was towering over him, dripping rainwater onto his expensive rug.
"You want to protect her, Silas? You think sending her away saved her? It didn't. It broke her. Cleo told me. She's miserable. She's painting grey storms."
Silas’s expression flickered. A crack in the armor.
"She’s resilient," he muttered.
"She’s heartbroken! And so am I! And if you care about her happiness—even one percent as much as you care about your reputation—you will let me go fix this."
"Fix it? You're a hockey player, Vane. You solve problems with violence. Faye needs... stability."
"She needs love!" I shouted. "She needs someone who sees her! Not as an asset. Not as a disappointment. As a masterpiece!"
I took a breath, lowering my voice.
"I love her, Silas. I love her more than hockey. I love her more than my father's approval. I just threw my phone in the ocean and resigned from the team. I have nothing left to lose. Except her."
Silas stared at me. He looked at my wet hair, my shaking hands, the raw desperation in my eyes.
He saw something. Maybe he saw the young man he used to be before the money hardened him. Maybe he saw the ghost of Faye's mother.
Or maybe he just saw a man who was crazy enough to be worthy of his daughter.
He reached into his pocket.
He pulled out a phone.
He dialed a number.
"Prepare the jet for immediate departure," he said. "Destination: Paris Le Bourget."
He hung up.
He looked at me.
"You have twelve hours," he said. "If you don't bring her back... don't bother coming back yourself."
"I'll bring her back," I vowed.
"Go."
I turned and ran toward the tarmac.
As I reached the door, Silas called out.
"Vane?"
I looked back.
"She likes lilies," he said gruffly. "Not roses. Lilies."
I nodded.
Then I ran.
Paris. 10:00 AM.
The flight was a blur of restless sleep and turbulence. I changed into dry clothes Silas had kept on the plane—a cashmere sweater and jeans that were slightly too short but clean.
I landed at Le Bourget. I cleared customs in record time thanks to the Allister name.
I got in a cab.
"Rue des écoles," I told the driver. "Vite."
Paris was grey. Raining, just like Boston. It seemed fitting.
We wove through the traffic. The Eiffel Tower loomed in the distance, a steel ghost in the mist. I didn't care about the landmarks. I cared about Apartment 4B.
The cab pulled up to a narrow building with a blue door.
I paid the driver and stepped out.
I looked up. Fourth floor.
My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I walked to the keypad.
1998.
Click.
The door opened.
I walked up the stairs. The elevator was broken—classic Paris. My legs burned, but I didn't slow down.
First floor. Second floor. Third floor.
Fourth floor.
Apartment 4B.
I stood in front of the peeling white door. I raised my hand to knock.
My hand shook.
What if she slammed the door in my face? What if she had a new boyfriend? What if she looked at me with that cold, dead expression she had in the locker room?
Coward, I told myself. Knock.
I knocked. Three sharp raps.
Silence.
I knocked again. Harder.
"J'arrive!" a muffled voice called out. I'm coming.
The lock turned. The door opened.
Faye stood there.
She was wearing a paint-splattered oversized shirt—not mine, just a generic one. Her hair was up in a messy bun held together by a paintbrush. She held a palette in one hand.
She looked tired. Pale. Thin.
But she was Faye.
She blinked, staring at me as if I were a hallucination.
"Graham?" she whispered.
"Hi."
She dropped the palette. It clattered to the floor, smearing blue paint on the wood.
"What... how... why are you here?"
"I missed the flight," I said stupidly.
"What flight?"
"The flight to not being with you."
She stared at me. Then, her eyes narrowed. The shock faded, replaced by anger.
"Go away," she said, trying to slam the door.
I caught it with my hand.
"Faye, wait."
"No! You don't get to do this! You don't get to show up here, looking like... looking like that, and disrupt my life again!"
"I'm not disrupting it. I'm joining it."
"I don't want you to join it! I left to save you, you idiot! Go back to Boston! Go play your game! Go make your dad happy!"
"I quit," I said.
She froze. She stopped pushing against the door.
"You... what?"
"I quit the team. I resigned. I told my dad to go to hell. I threw my phone in the ocean."
She blinked rapidly. "You threw your phone in the ocean?"
"It was a dramatic moment. I regret it slightly because I needed GPS, but the sentiment stands."
"Graham... the Championship is tomorrow."
"I know."
"The draft is in June."
"I know."
"You worked your whole life for this."
"I worked my whole life to be safe," I corrected. "And I realized... safety is boring. I'd rather be brave."
I pushed the door open gently. She let me.
I stepped into the apartment.
It was small. Tiny. A studio with a bed in the corner and an easel by the window.
The walls were covered in canvases.
Grey storms. Black oceans. Jagged lines.
But in the center of the room, on the easel, was a new painting.
It was vibrant. Red. Gold. Blue.
It was a painting of a hockey player. But he wasn't wearing a jersey. He was wearing a suit, unbuttoned. And he was holding a girl in a gold dress.
They were kissing. And the world around them was burning.
I looked at the painting. Then I looked at her.
"You painted us," I whispered.
"I tried to paint over it," she admitted, tears welling in her eyes. "I tried to paint storms. But you kept coming through."
"I'm sorry," I said, stepping closer. "I'm sorry I let you leave. I'm sorry I was a coward. I'm sorry I let you think you were a liability."
"I was a liability."
"No. You were the only real thing in my life."
I reached into my pocket.
I didn't have a ring. I didn't have flowers (I forgot the lilies, dammit).
But I had the key.
The brass key to the Tribeca loft. I had kept it in my pocket since the night she left.
I held it out.
"The offer still stands," I said. "New York. Yellow kitchen. Big dog."
She stared at the key. A tear slipped down her cheek.
"But you aren't playing in New York," she whispered. "You quit."
"I'll figure it out. I have a degree in Economics. I can be an accountant. Or a model. Rys says I have the jawline for it."
She let out a wet laugh. "You'd be a terrible model. You frown too much."
"Then I'll be your muse. Full time."
I took another step. I was close enough to touch her now.
"Faye," I said, my voice cracking. "Please. Don't make me go back to the silence. I can't do it. Not without you."
She looked at me. She looked at the key. She looked at the painting.
Then, she launched herself at me.
She hit my chest with a force that knocked the wind out of me. Her arms wrapped around my neck. Her legs wrapped around my waist.
I caught her. Instinctively.
I buried my face in her neck, inhaling the scent of paint and vanilla.
"You idiot," she sobbed into my shoulder. "You reckless, stupid, wonderful idiot."
"I love you," I groaned, squeezing her tight. "God, I love you."
She pulled back and kissed me.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't polite. It was frantic. It was a collision of teeth and tongues and tears. She tasted like coffee and heartbreak and hope.
I walked us backward until my legs hit the bed. We collapsed onto it, not breaking the kiss.
"Don't leave me again," she ordered, biting my lip. "Clause 1."
"Clause 1," I agreed. "Never."
"Clause 2: You have to fix this mess with your dad."
"Later."
"Clause 3," she whispered, her hands finding the hem of my sweater. "Take this off. I need to see if you're real."
"I'm real," I promised, pulling the sweater over my head. "And I'm yours."
We didn't make it under the covers. We made love right there on top of the duvet, in the middle of a rainy Paris afternoon, surrounded by paintings of storms that were finally clearing.
It was messy. It was loud. It was chaos.
And it was the most perfect order I had ever known.
Two Hours Later
We lay in bed, eating a baguette I had found on the counter.
"So," Faye said, picking a crumb off my chest. "You really quit?"
"Yep."
"You're insane."
"Probably."
"But... Graham?"
"Yeah?"
"You can't quit."
I looked at her. "What?"
"You can't quit hockey. It's who you are. Just because your dad made it toxic doesn't mean you don't love the game."
"I love you more."
"You don't have to choose," she said firmly. "That was the lie my dad told us. That we had to choose. We don't."
She sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist.
"We have Silas's jet, right?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"And the game is tomorrow night?"
"Yeah."
"And Boston is... what, seven hours away?"
"Six with a tailwind."
She grinned. A wicked, mischievous, "Brat" grin.
"Get dressed, Governor. We're going to Boston."
"Why?"
"Because you're going to win that Championship. And I'm going to be in the front row wearing your jersey. And when you lift that trophy, you're going to look right at your dad and my dad and you're going to kiss me on national television."
I stared at her.
"You want to go back? Into the fire?"
"I'm the fire, remember?" She kissed my nose. "Let's go burn it down."
I laughed. I grabbed her face and kissed her hard.
"God, I love you."
"I know. Now move your ass. We have a plane to catch."
We scrambled out of bed. We threw on clothes. We ran down the stairs.
Chaos.
Beautiful, glorious chaos.
We were going back to war. But this time, we were fighting together.
And I pitied anyone who tried to stand in our way.