Chapter 17
Toby
Montreal was cold in June. Not the biting, honest cold of Duluth that cleared your head, but a damp, humid chill that settled in your bones and refused to leave.
I had been a professional hockey player for exactly three weeks.
I was free. I was rich. I was the future face of the franchise.
And I had never wanted to drive my car off a bridge more in my life.
My alarm went off at 6:00 AM. I stared at the ceiling. It was white. High. Ornate. Not like the brutalist concrete of the Duluth penthouse. This place was elegant. Cold. Empty.
I got up. My body moved on autopilot. Coffee (black). Mobilize joints (hip felt fine, knee was stiff but manageable). Breakfast (oatmeal, egg whites).
I sat at the marble island in my kitchen. It was three times the size of the one Georgia used to sit at while she heckled me about my cooking.
Georgia.
The name hit me like a physical punch to the gut. It happened every morning. The split second of waking up where I forgot, followed by the crushing weight of remembering.
She was gone.
I picked up my spoon. My hand was shaking. I put it down. I wasn't hungry. I hadn't been hungry in weeks. I ate because it was fuel, because the team nutritionist tracked my caloric intake, because if I lost weight, the media would start speculating again.
My phone buzzed on the counter.
Jager: Yo. Checking in. You alive?
I stared at the text. Jager had been drafted by Chicago in the second round. We were rivals now. But he still texted me every day. He knew. He was the only one who really knew.
Me: Alive.
Jager: Liar. Go outside. Talk to a human. Don't be a hermit.
I ignored him and put the phone down.
I had a media availability at 10:00 AM. Then a photoshoot for a sportswear endorsement. Then a team dinner.
My schedule was packed. Every minute accounted for. Every minute a distraction from the silence in my head.
I went to the bathroom to shower.
I avoided looking in the mirror. I didn't like the guy staring back. He looked like me—same dark hair, same scar through the eyebrow—but his eyes were dead. They were flat, gray stones.
I turned on the shower.
The steam rose.
Flashback.
Georgia in the shower. Water slicking her hair back. Her hands on my chest. "I think I'm in love with you."
I slammed my hand against the tile wall. The pain radiated up my arm, sharp and grounding.
"Stop," I growled to the empty room. "Just stop."
I showered in cold water. It didn't help.
The Bell Centre was a cathedral of hockey.
I walked into the media room, flanked by the team's PR director, a nervous woman named Sarah who treated me like a volatile explosive.
"Remember, Toby," Sarah whispered as we approached the podium. "Smile. Be engaging. They want to love you. Give them the Golden Boy."
I nodded. I knew the drill.
I sat down. The cameras flashed. A sea of blinding lights.
"Toby, welcome to Montreal!" a reporter shouted. "How does it feel to be the number one pick?"
I leaned into the mic. I smiled. It felt like stretching a rubber band until it snapped.
"It's a dream come true," I said. My voice was smooth, practiced. "This is a historic franchise. I'm honored to wear the jersey. I'm ready to get to work."
"Your father was at the draft," another reporter asked. "He must be proud. Is he involved in your management?"
The question was a trap.
"My father is... supportive," I said carefully. "But I have my own team now. I'm focused on my game."
"And your personal life?" a tabloid journalist from Toronto asked. "Any truth to the rumors about a girl back in Duluth? The one involved in the 'Sugar Daddy' story?"
Sarah stepped forward to intervene, but I held up a hand.
I looked directly at the reporter.
"That story was exaggerated," I said coldly. "As I said before, it was a distraction. It's over. I'm single. My only relationship is with the ice."
The reporters laughed. They loved it. The Ice King is married to the game. It was a great headline.
Inside, I was screaming.
I lied. I lied to protect her. And now the lie is my life.
The session ended. I walked out, shaking hands, signing autographs.
"You were great," Sarah beamed. "Textbook. The fans are going to eat this up."
"Great," I murmured. "Can I go now?"
"Don't forget the photoshoot. 2:00 PM. Studio B."
I walked to the player's lounge. It was empty.
I sat on a leather couch and pulled out my phone.
I opened Instagram.
I had unblocked her. I couldn't help it. I needed to know she was alive.
Her profile was public now. Georgia Sterling Art.
Latest post: A photo of a gallery in Paris. A small, chic space with white walls.
The caption: Opening Night. "The North" collection. sold out.
I zoomed in on the photo.
She was standing in front of one of the paintings—the violent blue storm we had created in the Boathouse. She was wearing a white dress. Her hair was cut short, a sleek bob that made her look older, sharper.
She was smiling.
But it wasn't the smile she gave me in the morning light. It was her "Sterling Mask" smile. Perfect. Polished. Guarded.
Next to her stood a man. Tall. French. Wearing a scarf. He had his hand on the small of her back.
Jean-Luc. Or someone like him.
Jealousy, hot and acidic, clawed at my throat.
I wanted to fly to Paris and punch him. I wanted to burn the gallery down. I wanted to grab her and drag her back to Duluth.
But I couldn't.
I had set her free. I had paid the ransom.
She was safe. She was successful. She was moving on.
And I was sitting in a locker room in Montreal, staring at a screen, realizing that $84 million couldn't buy me the one thing I actually wanted.
I closed the app.
I felt sick. Physically sick. My stomach churned.
I went to the bathroom and retched over the sink. Nothing came up but bile.
I washed my face. I looked in the mirror.
You won, the voice in my head whispered. This is what winning looks like.
"Fuck winning," I whispered back.
The photoshoot was torture.
"Chin up, Toby. Look fierce. Look like a predator."
I stared into the lens. I didn't have to act. I felt like a predator—a starving one.
"Great! Now give us a smile. Approachable. The fans want to see the human side."
I tried to smile.
"A little more warmth, Toby. Think of something happy. Think of your girlfriend."
The photographer laughed at his own joke.
I froze.
"I don't have a girlfriend," I said, my voice dead.
The room went quiet.
"Right. Sorry. Just... think of winning the Cup."
I finished the shoot. I walked out without saying goodbye.
I got into my car—a new black Porsche that I felt nothing for—and drove.
I didn't go home. I couldn't face the silence of the apartment.
I drove aimlessly through the city. The old cobblestone streets, the river, the lights. It was a beautiful city. Georgia would have loved it. She would have wanted to paint the light hitting the basilica.
Everywhere I looked, I saw her.
A woman in a trench coat crossing the street.
A display of art supplies in a shop window.
A couple kissing on a bench.
I was haunted.
I ended up at a dive bar near the port. It was dark, smelled of stale beer, and no one knew who I was.
I sat in the back booth. I ordered a whiskey. Neat.
I drank it. Then another.
I wasn't a drinker. Alcohol slowed recovery. It dehydrated the muscles.
But tonight, I needed to numb the noise.
My phone buzzed again.
Marcus Thorne: Documents for the trust dissolution are ready. Your father is... disappointed you moved the funds, but he accepts it. You're officially independent.
I stared at the text.
Independent.
I had done it. I had beaten my father at his own game. I had secured my legacy.
So why did it feel like I had lost?
I thought about the check. The $100,000 bribe.
Georgia hadn't taken it.
I knew she hadn't. I had checked the accounts. The money was still sitting in the escrow account Marcus had set up.
She had left without a dime. She had sold her jewelry, probably. Or maybe she had sold the art immediately.
She had walked away from the money to save me.
And I had let her go.
I slammed the empty glass on the table.
"Another," I barked at the waitress.
"You sure, honey? You look like you've had a rough day."
"I've had a rough life," I muttered.
She poured the drink.
I stared into the amber liquid.
I pulled the key out of my pocket. The brass key on the leather cord. I carried it everywhere. It was warm from my body heat.
I ran my thumb over the ridges.
It's an escape hatch. For us.
There was no us. There was just me, rich and miserable, and her, famous and heartbroken in Paris.
I was a coward.
That was the truth I had been avoiding. I hadn't let her go to save her. I had let her go because I was afraid.
I was afraid that my father was right. That love was a liability. That I couldn't be the best if I was distracted.
I chose the game over the girl.
And now the game was all I had.
Two days later.
The team hosted a "Season Kickoff Gala" for the sponsors.
It was black tie. Expensive champagne. Fake smiles.
I wore my tuxedo. I looked perfect.
I stood in the corner of the ballroom, sipping water, watching the wealthy donors circulate.
"Toby! There you are!"
The team owner, Mr. Molson, walked over. He was a short, energetic man who loved hockey almost as much as he loved money.
"Great turnout tonight," Molson said, gesturing to the room. "And everyone wants to meet you. You're the main attraction."
"Happy to be here," I lied.
"I have someone I want you to meet," Molson said. "A potential investor for the new arena art installation. He's a big collector. Very influential."
He guided me toward a group of people near the bar.
A man turned around.
It wasn't a stranger.
It was Richard Sterling.
My blood turned to ice.
What was he doing here? In Montreal?
He saw me. His eyes narrowed. Then, a slow, shark-like smile spread across his face.
"Mr. Kincaid," Sterling said, extending a hand. "Congratulations on the draft. Number one. Impressive."
I stared at his hand. I didn't take it.
"Mr. Sterling," I said coldly.
Molson looked confused. "You two know each other?"
"Briefly," Sterling said smoothly, dropping his hand. "Our families have... history. And of course, I used to be the GM in Duluth."
"Ah, right! Small world!" Molson laughed. "Well, Richard is looking at expanding his portfolio into Canadian markets. We're hoping he'll sponsor the atrium."
"I'm sure he will," I said, my jaw tight. "He loves buying things."
Sterling's smile didn't waver, but his eyes were hard.
"I hear you're settling in well, Toby. No... distractions?"
He emphasized the word. It was a taunt.
I stepped closer. "No distractions. Just hockey."
"Good," Sterling said. "It's for the best. Some things just aren't meant to last. They're too... volatile."
He took a sip of his drink.
"By the way, I heard from Georgia recently."
My heart stopped.
"She's in Paris," he continued, watching me closely. "Doing well. Although... she seems a bit lonely. She asked about you."
He paused for effect.
"I told her you were doing great. That you had moved on. That you were happy to be free of the baggage."
Red rage flooded my vision.
"You told her what?" I growled.
"I told her the truth," Sterling shrugged. "Or at least, the version of the truth that keeps everyone safe. She doesn't need to know you're pining, Toby. It would only confuse her. Let her go. She's better off without you."
"You don't know what she needs," I hissed.
"I know she needs stability," Sterling said, his voice dropping to a menace. "And I know that if you go near her again, I will personally ensure that your father cuts you off for good. And I'll ruin her reputation in the art world before her career even starts."
He patted my arm.
"Enjoy the party, son. You won. Try to look like it."
He walked away.
I stood there, shaking.
He had lied to her. He had told her I was happy. He had told her I considered her baggage.
She thought I didn't care.
The room spun. The noise of the gala—the laughter, the clinking glasses, the music—became a deafening roar.
I couldn't breathe.
I turned and ran.
I pushed through the crowd, ignoring Molson calling my name. I burst through the doors onto the terrace.
The cold night air hit me. I gasped, trying to fill my lungs.
I gripped the stone railing, looking out at the city.
I had done everything right. I had followed the rules. I had made the sacrifice.
And it was all a lie.
My father, Sterling, Marcus—they were all playing a game. And I was just a pawn.
But I wasn't a pawn anymore. I was independent. I had $84 million. I had the key.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the key.
I looked at it.
Let her go. She's better off without you.
Was she?
Was she better off thinking I didn't love her? Was she better off alone in Paris, haunted by ghosts?
No.
"No," I said aloud.
I wasn't the figure in the ice. I was the storm.
And storms didn't follow rules.
I pulled out my phone.
I dialed Jager.
"Yo," Jager answered on the first ring. "Why are you calling me during a gala? Are you drunk?"
"I need a favor," I said. My voice was steady. For the first time in weeks, I felt clear.
"What kind of favor?"
"I need you to find out exactly where that gallery is in Paris. And I need you to charter a jet."
"Whoa, T. Slow down. You have practice tomorrow. You have a game on Saturday."
"I don't care," I said. "I'm done playing their game."
"Are you going to get her?" Jager asked, his voice softening.
"I'm going to get her," I confirmed. "Or I'm going to die trying."
"About damn time," Jager laughed. "I'll text you the coordinates. Go get your girl, Cap."
I hung up.
I looked at the city one last time.
Then I turned and walked back into the gala.
I wasn't leaving quietly.
I walked straight up to Mr. Molson.
"Mr. Molson," I said. "I have a family emergency. I need to take a leave of absence. Effective immediately."
Molson looked shocked. "Toby? Is everything alright? Is it your father?"
"No," I said, a real smile finally touching my lips. "It's my heart. And I have to go find it."
I walked out of the ballroom, leaving the stunned silence behind me.
I was done with the zombie phase. I was done with the hollow victory.
I was going to Paris.
And this time, I wasn't coming back alone.