Chapter 37 Adrian
Adrian
The roar of the crowd is a physical force, a living thing that presses in on all sides.
But for the first time in weeks, my head is clear.
The score is tied, third period, clock ticking down under two minutes.
Greystone is playing dirty, their chirps getting uglier, their checks landing a half-second late just to leave a mark.
I can taste blood from where I bit the inside of my cheek.
I’m running on fumes and fury, a familiar cocktail that usually keeps me sharp. But tonight, something is different.
We line up for a face-off at center ice. The air smells of ice, exertion, and the faint, coppery scent of my own blood.
“Their defenseman, number four, he’s getting lazy on the left side,” Calder grits out between breaths. “He’s cheating toward the middle every time.”
“I see it,” I say, my eyes locked on the opposing center, who is smirking at me, his mouthguard a slash of ugly green.
Dante glides into position. “Draw it back to me. I’ll get it to Rylan. We can catch him flat-footed.”
“No,” I say, a new, clean, and brutally simple plan forming in my head. “Draw it back to me. I’m taking it.”
Dante gives me a sharp, questioning look, but he just nods. He trusts me. As I get into my crouch, my eyes instinctively scan the crowd. A sea of faces, Briarcliff colors, the usual blend of bored donors and drunk students. I’m not looking for anything in particular.
And then I see her.
The roar of the crowd fades to a dull hum, the world narrowing to a single point of light ten rows up.
She’s sitting just behind the goal, next to Talia, just…
watching. Her expression is intense, analytical, the same way she looks at a problem set, as if she’s trying to figure out the formula that makes me work.
And she’s wearing my jersey.
It’s huge on her, swallowing her small frame, the blue and white a stark contrast to her dark hair.
Across the back, I can just make out the letters: HALE.
And beneath it, my number: 17. The sight of her, in my colors, in my world, wearing my name like a declaration, hits me harder than any body check.
A punch of pure, possessive pride right to the gut.
She came. She’s here. She chose to be here.
A jolt, hot and potent, shoots through me, a surge of adrenaline more powerful than any pre-game shot. The puck drops. Everything shifts. My focus narrows to a razor’s edge. This isn’t for my father. Not for Addison or the scouts or the team.
This is for her. I need her to see what I am in my element. I need her to see me win.
The puck hits the ice. I win the draw clean, pulling it back between my skates.
I pivot, my skates carving deep. I see the opening Calder spotted, a sliver of space their defenseman is too slow to cover.
I skate with a ferocity I haven’t felt all season, my legs burning, my lungs screaming.
The puck feels like an extension of my own body.
I deke past one player, a move of pure instinct.
Another comes at me, and I use his own momentum to spin off him as the crowd roars to life.
I cross the blue line. I see the net. I see the goalie’s eyes, the flicker of panic.
I see his weak side. I let the shot fly—a hard, vicious wrister that sings through the air and finds the top corner of the net with a satisfying thud that echoes in my bones.
Goal.
The horn blares, a beautiful, violent sound. My teammates mob me, their shouts muffled against my helmet, their gloves pounding my back.
“HOLY SHIT, HALE!” Calder screams in my ear, shaking me by the shoulders. “WHERE DID THAT COME FROM?”
I just grin inside my helmet, a raw, triumphant feeling surging through me.
I raise my stick to the crowd, but my eyes are already scanning, searching, finding her.
She’s on her feet. Not cheering wildly, but her eyes are wide, and there’s a small, almost imperceptible smile on her face. A smile just for me.
In that moment, it’s the only validation in the world that matters.
The high from the win follows me off the ice, a raw, chaotic energy filling the locker room.
The air is thick with the spray of champagne that someone, probably Calder, smuggled in.
The bass from the speakers is a physical force.
For a single, fleeting moment, it doesn’t feel like pressure. It feels like victory.
“Fucking poetry, Hale!” Calder is shouting, shaking a bottle. “Absolute filth!”
Gio is already re-enacting my goal with a taped-up sock. “Did you see that spin move?” he yells to Rylan. “The goalie’s jock is still hanging from the fucking rafters!”
The guys are shouting, laughing. It’s the ugly, loud, beautiful sound of a win we bled for. I’m grinning, a real, stupid grin I can’t seem to wipe off my face, my mind already on finding her. Getting out of this room, finding Clara. I know she’ll be waiting.
I’m showered and dressed in record time, my heart hammering with anticipation. I grab my bag, give a quick nod to Declan, and head for the door to the family waiting area.
I’m halfway there when the energy in the room just…
dies. The music, a celebratory roar a second ago, suddenly feels obscene.
Calder lowers the champagne. Gio stops his reenactment.
Every player in the room seems to shrink, their shoulders hunching.
The temperature drops twenty degrees. I don’t have to turn around. I know he’s here.
Then the voice, cold and familiar, cuts through the noise. “Adrian.”
I freeze. My father is standing by the exit, his arms crossed, his face an impassive mask. He’s flanked by two of his business partners, their expensive suits a stark contrast to the raw energy of the locker room.
“A decent performance,” he says, his voice devoid of warmth, loud enough for the donors beside him to hear. “Don’t get complacent.”
The compliment is a dismissal, a pat on the head for a prized horse. The pride from the win immediately curdles in my gut. I see him clock the direction of my gaze, toward the public exit where I know she’s waiting. A flicker of something cold and calculating passes through his eyes.
“Forget about that,” he says, his voice dropping lower, a quiet, sharp command. “The Jennings are here. They want to discuss the new arena funding. Your job isn’t over when the game ends.”
My jaw tightens. The words are a leash, snapping taut around my neck. “Clara’s waiting for me.”
His eyes go flat, turning to chips of ice. “Let her wait. She’s a distraction. A liability. Your priorities are the team, the donors, and this family’s name. In that order. Do you understand me?”
I flinch. A small, almost imperceptible movement, but I know he sees it.
The words are a cold, brutal slap, a reminder of the cage I live in.
He’s not just telling me what to do; he’s telling me what I am allowed to want.
And Clara is not on the list. Rage boils in my chest, the urge to tell him to go to hell so strong I can taste it.
I feel the eyes of my teammates on my back, their pity and their fear.
But I see the look in his eyes—the unwavering certainty, the absolute control.
And I know this isn’t a fight I can win. Not here. Not now.
He turns and gestures for me to follow, the silent command as absolute as a chain around my neck. And I obey. Because that’s what I’ve been trained my entire life to do.
I spend the next hour trapped, a performing seal in a suited world, smiling and nodding as my father parades me around.
My face aches from the fake smile. My hand aches from shaking hands.
But my mind is elsewhere, consumed by a fury so profound it makes my hands shake.
He did it on purpose. He waited until I was at my highest, until I had something that felt real and pure—her smile from the stands—and then he deliberately crushed it, just to remind me who was in charge.
When I finally escape, the hallway where she was supposed to be is empty. The air is cold, still smelling faintly of her perfume, a ghost of a promise. Of course it is. I pull out my phone. No texts. No missed calls. She wouldn’t. She has too much pride.
The rage at my father curdles into a sick, hollow self-loathing.
He was right about one thing. I'm a liability. And I just made her the collateral damage. I dragged her into the heart of my storm only to abandon her the second my father snapped his fingers. She doesn’t deserve that.
She doesn’t deserve to be a pawn in his sick games.
Declan’s warning echoes in my head: You keep pushing like that, you’re going to break her, or she’s going to break you.
I can’t face her. Not like this. Not when I’m still choking on the taste of my father’s control. Not when all I’ll do is bring this poison into her world.
With a curse that tears from my throat, I turn away from the exit and storm back into the empty locker room, slamming the door behind me. The silence is a suffocating accusation. The half-empty bottle of champagne sits on the bench, the bubbles gone flat.
She was waiting for me.
And I let her down.