Chapter 12
Toby
A lie is heavy.
It has physical mass. It sits in your chest, pressing against your lungs, making every breath shallow. It wraps around your spine, adding tension to every movement. It clouds your vision, turning the clear, sharp lines of the ice into a blurred mess of anxiety.
I was carrying a mountain of lies.
I was lying to my father about Georgia. I was lying to Coach about my hip. I was lying to the media about my "focus." And, most dangerously, I was lying to Georgia about the threat Marcus Thorne had delivered in the parking garage.
If he sees another photo... the signature won't happen.
I sat in the team lounge, staring at the film screen, but I wasn't watching the power play breakdown. I was watching my life implode in slow motion.
It was Monday morning. Two days since the visit from Marcus. Two days since I had driven Georgia home from the bus stop, kissed her like I was drowning, and then pretended everything was fine.
"Kincaid?"
Coach Miller's voice cut through the fog.
I snapped my head up. The entire room was looking at me. Jager, usually the one zoning out, looked concerned. The rookies looked terrified.
"Yeah, Coach?"
"I asked you about the entry strategy on the weak side," Coach said, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn't look angry. He looked disappointed. Which was worse. "You've been staring at a freeze frame for five minutes. Where's your head, son?"
"Sorry," I said, sitting up straighter. "Just... visualizing the options."
"Visualize the puck," Coach snapped. "And meet me in my office after this. Alone."
A murmur went through the room. Being called to the principal's office was never good.
I felt a cold sweat break out on the back of my neck.
Had he found out? Had my father called him? Had Marcus sent the photos to the athletic department?
I spent the rest of the session in a state of high-functioning panic. I answered questions mechanically. I pointed out defensive lapses. But inside, I was calculating exit strategies.
When the session ended, the guys filed out. Jager lingered by the door.
"You good?" he mouthed.
I nodded once. A lie.
I walked into Coach Miller’s office. It smelled of stale coffee and whiteboard markers. The walls were lined with photos of past championship teams—teams led by captains who didn't lie to everyone they knew.
"Sit," Coach said.
I sat in the hard plastic chair.
Coach leaned back behind his desk. He picked up a file folder. My heart stopped. Was it the photos?
He tossed the folder onto the desk. It slid across and stopped in front of me.
"Open it."
I opened it.
It wasn't photos of Georgia.
It was a statistical analysis report. My stats.
"Look at the last three games," Coach said. "Face-off percentage down 4%. Corsi rating down. Time on ice reduced by two minutes per game."
He pointed to a graph.
"And this. Speed bursts. Your top speed is down by 3%. Your acceleration out of turns is sluggish. You're hesitating, Toby. You're a half-second late on hits you used to make in your sleep."
I stared at the numbers. They were damning.
The lie about my hip was bleeding into the data. I was protecting the injury, and the sensors picked up what the human eye missed.
"I'm just tired, Coach," I said. "Midterms."
"Don't give me that," Coach said, his voice hard. "You've been an Academic All-American for three years. You eat midterms for breakfast. This isn't school. This is physical. Or it's mental."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.
"Is it the girl?"
I froze. "What girl?"
"The Sterling girl. Rumors are flying, Toby. People saw you leave the Gala together. People saw you leave the rink together on Friday. Hell, my wife thinks you two are 'adorable.'"
He sighed, rubbing his temples.
"Look, I don't care who you date. But Richard Sterling is a shark.
If you're involved with his daughter, you're swimming in dangerous waters.
And right now, whatever is happening outside this rink is affecting what happens inside it.
The scouts are noticing. I had a call from Toronto this morning.
They asked if you were 'losing your edge. '"
Losing my edge.
The words were a death sentence for a draft prospect.
"I'm not losing my edge," I said, my voice tight.
"Then prove it," Coach said. "Because right now, you look like a guy carrying the weight of the world. Drop the weight, Toby. Or the weight will drop you."
He gestured to the door.
"Get out. And fix it."
I walked out of the office.
Fix it.
How was I supposed to fix it? To fix my hip, I needed rest I couldn't afford. To fix my focus, I needed to stop worrying about my father. To fix the "distraction," I needed to get rid of Georgia.
And I couldn't do any of those things.
I walked to my locker. I grabbed my phone.
Three missed texts from Georgia.
Georgia: Hey, running late at the studio. Can we order Thai tonight?
Georgia: Also, I think I figured out a new taping method for the knee. I watched a YouTube video from a Swedish physio.
Georgia: Hello? Earth to Captain?
I stared at the screen.
She was trying to help. She was perfect.
And she was the reason I was failing.
A surge of irrational anger flared in my chest. It wasn't at her. It was at the situation. It was at the unfairness of having to choose between being happy and being successful.
But anger was useful. Anger was energy.
I shoved the phone into my bag without replying.
I needed to grind. I needed to prove the numbers wrong.
I changed into my gym gear. I wasn't going home. Not yet.
The weight room was empty.
I loaded the bar for squats. 225 pounds. Light weight, usually. Today, it felt like a ton.
I put on my headphones, blasting heavy metal so loud it hurt. I needed to drown out the voice of Marcus Thorne. I needed to drown out Coach Miller.
Drop the weight.
I squatted.
The pain in my hip was immediate. A sharp, hot needle.
I ignored it.
One.
For the trust fund.
Two.
For the freedom.
Three.
For the penthouse she was currently sitting in, waiting for me.
I pushed through the reps. I added weight. 315.
My form broke on the fourth rep. My right side collapsed slightly. I roared, forcing the weight up with sheer, stupid willpower.
I racked the bar with a crash.
I stood there, panting, sweat dripping onto the rubber floor.
My phone buzzed again from the bench.
Georgia: Toby? Everything okay? You're usually home by 6.
I grabbed the phone. I typed a reply.
Me: Staying late. Don't wait up.
Cold. Dismissive.
I hated myself as I hit send.
But I needed to be cold. I needed to be the Ice King again. Because the Ice King didn't have feelings. The Ice King didn't have weaknesses. And the Ice King didn't lose his edge.
I stayed in the gym for three hours. I punished my body until I couldn't feel the emotional pain anymore, only the physical exhaustion.
When I finally left, it was 10:00 PM.
I drove home in silence. The city was dark. The snow was falling again.
I didn't want to go up to the penthouse. I didn't want to see her. Because if I saw her, the ice would melt. And right now, I needed the ice to survive.
I parked the car and took the elevator up.
I swiped my key card.
The apartment was dark.
Good. She was asleep. I could shower, crash in the guest room, and avoid the conversation.
I walked into the living room.
A single lamp was on by the window.
Georgia was asleep in the Eames chair. She was curled up under a blanket, clutching a book. A plate of cold Thai food sat on the table next to her.
My heart twisted.
She had waited up.
I stood there, looking at her. She looked so peaceful. So innocent. She didn't know about Marcus. She didn't know about the threat. She thought we were just a couple navigating a secret romance. She didn't know she was the gun pointed at my head.
She stirred. Her eyes fluttered open.
"Toby?"
She sat up, rubbing her eyes. "You're home. Is everything okay? You didn't text back."
"I was busy," I said, walking past her to the kitchen. I needed distance. "Coach kept me late."
"Until 10?" She stood up, the blanket falling to the floor. She was wearing one of my shirts again. "Did something happen? Is it the knee?"
"The knee is fine," I snapped, opening the fridge and grabbing a water. "Why does everyone keep asking about the damn knee?"
Georgia recoiled. Hurt flashed across her face.
"I'm asking because I care," she said softly. "And because I'm the one who tapes it every morning. You don't have to bite my head off."
"I'm not biting your head off. I'm just tired, Georgia. I've had a long day. I don't need the third degree."
"I'm not giving you the third degree! I was worried! You went radio silent for five hours."
"I don't have to report to you every minute of the day," I said, slamming the fridge door. The sound echoed like a gunshot. "I have a job to do. I have a team to lead. I can't be checking my phone every five seconds to reassure you."
It was cruel. It was unfair. It was the stress talking.
Georgia stared at me. Her eyes narrowed. The hurt turned to anger.
"Excuse me?" she said, stepping closer. "Reassure me? I wasn't asking for reassurance, Toby. I was checking if you were dead in a ditch. Or in a hospital."
"I can take care of myself."
"Clearly! That's why you're limping right now, isn't it?" She pointed at my leg. "You overdid it. You went to the gym, didn't you? Instead of coming home to rest, you went and punished yourself because you're stressed."
"So what if I did?"
"So you're an idiot!" she yelled. "You're sabotaging yourself! And you're shutting me out! We're supposed to be a team, remember? Allies? No secrets?"
"Some things aren't your business," I said coldly.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Georgia looked at me like I had slapped her.
"Not my business," she repeated quietly. "Okay. I get it. I'm just the roommate. Just the distraction."
"Georgia, I didn't mean—"
"No, you meant it. You revert to this... this robot mode whenever things get hard. You push everyone away."
She turned around.
"Your food is on the table. It's cold. Just like you."
She walked toward the hallway.
"Georgia, wait."
I reached out and grabbed her arm.
She tried to pull away. "Let go."
"No." I pulled her back. "I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry."
The fight drained out of me instantly. The anger vanished, leaving only exhaustion.
I slumped. I let go of her arm and rubbed my face with both hands.
"I'm drowning, G," I whispered. "I'm drowning and I don't know how to swim."
Georgia stopped. She looked at my slumped shoulders. She saw the crack in the armor.
She didn't leave.
She walked back to me. She stepped into my space and wrapped her arms around my waist, resting her head on my chest.
"You don't have to swim," she murmured into my shirt. "Just float. I've got you."
I broke.
I wrapped my arms around her and held on tight. I buried my face in her hair, inhaling the scent of vanilla. It was the only thing that felt real.
"Coach called me out," I mumbled. "Stats are down. Scouts are talking. They say I'm losing my edge."
"Screw them," she said fiercely.
"And my father..." I hesitated. I couldn't tell her the whole truth. Not yet. "My father is putting pressure on the lawyers. The trust fund... it's getting complicated."
"We'll figure it out," she promised. "We always do."
She pulled back and looked up at me. Her hands came up to cup my face. Her thumbs traced the dark circles under my eyes.
"You need to eat," she said. "Then you need a shower. Then you need to sleep. Real sleep. No phones. No film."
"I can't sleep," I said. "My brain won't stop."
"I'll help you," she said.
She led me to the table. She sat with me while I ate the cold Pad Thai. She didn't talk. She just sat there, her presence a silent comfort.
Then she led me to the bedroom.
She turned off the lights. She pushed me onto the bed.
She didn't initiate sex. She initiated care.
She massaged my shoulders. She rubbed my scalp. She hummed a soft, tuneless melody that sounded like a lullaby.
Slowly, the tension began to bleed out of me. The knot in my chest loosened.
"Why are you so good to me?" I whispered, my eyes heavy. "I was an asshole."
"Because," she kissed my forehead. "I know what it's like to be scared of failing. And because I love you, you big, dumb robot."
She lay down beside me, curling into my side.
I wrapped my arm around her.
The Sanctuary.
That's what this was. The world outside was a war zone. My career was on the line. My father was a villain.
But in this bed, in the dark, with her breathing against my neck... I was safe.
She wasn't a distraction. Coach was wrong. My father was wrong.
She wasn't the weight dragging me down. She was the only thing keeping me afloat.
"I love you too," I whispered into the darkness.
It was the first time I had said it.
She was already asleep. She didn't hear me.
But the universe heard. And somewhere, in a high-rise office in New York, I knew the clock was ticking down on the moment I would have to prove it.
Because loving her was easy.
Keeping her was going to cost me everything.