Chapter 31 #2
"It's Gio," he says, his voice shifting instantly from petulant brat to something sharper. "I need to know where we stand."
"Stand tall," Coach says, the background noise of a whistle blowing cutting through the line. "I just got off the line with the Dean. They're circling, Rossi. They want a scapegoat."
"Let them circle," Gio says, leaning his palms against the counter, his head dropping for a fraction of a second. "We have the proof. We're pushing the narrative now."
"Good. Because I just authorized the legal retainer. Whatever you need, whatever it costs—the university is not throwing you to the wolves. On my watch."
The room goes still. Gio closes his eyes, his throat working on a swallow. When he opens them again, the raw hunger for me is gone, replaced by something heavier, graver. "Thank you, Coach," he says, the words rough, scraping the bottom of his throat. "For standing with me."
"You're part of this team, Gio," Coach cuts him off, sharp and final. "We protect our own. Now let's finish this."
The line clicks dead. Silence stretches, thick and vibrating.
Gio stares at the black screen, his chest rising and falling in a slow, measured rhythm.
He's realizing that this—this room, these people, this man—is what family actually looks like.
A shield that holds without asking. But the gravity of the moment doesn't stick.
His head lifts, his eyes cutting across the room, bypassing the guys, bypassing Genny, and landing straight on me.
He's still grateful. He's still humbled. He's not whole.
"Schedule it," he says to Maya, his eyes locked on mine. "Drop the bomb."
Maya's fingers fly across her keyboard, a final, sharp clack echoing through the room. She hits enter, and the tension in the air snaps, replaced by the hum of electronics and the collective intake of breath.
"Sent," she says, leaning back. "Live in three, two, one."
A chime sounds from Genny's laptop, followed instantly by the buzz of my phone in my pocket.
Then Dante's. Then Cole's. The room erupts in a sudden, sharp chaos of vibration and notification lights.
Genny pumps her fist, a silent, violent gesture of victory.
Maya is already refreshing the page, her eyes scanning the rapidly loading comments.
"Comments are positive," Maya says, her voice rising an octave. "They're buying it. They're questioning the source."
The guys move first. Adrian and Declan close in on Gio, slapping him on the back, gripping his shoulders. They're forming a circle around him, a physical barrier of congratulations and relief. They did this. They locked shields, and the blow didn't land.
I stand up, needing to see the data for myself. I take one step toward the coffee table, and the wall of guys parts. Gio doesn't let me through. He steps out of the huddle, cutting off my path, his body broad and imposing.
"Move," I say.
"I want to spare you reading what they're saying about me," he says, his voice low, blocking the screen with his chest. "It doesn't matter."
"It's my plan, Gio," I say, trying to sidestep him. "Get out of my way."
He shifts, mirroring me, a dark, stubborn shadow refusing to yield. He hesitates, his jaw working, the conflict warring behind his eyes. He wants to hide the ugly parts from me, but he knows he can't control the flow of information. Slowly, grudgingly, he steps aside.
I lean over Genny's shoulder. The headline is bold, black, and devastating: Briarcliff Hockey: Systemic Failure or Scapegoat? The narrative is flipped. The questions aren't about Gio's behavior anymore; they're about the administration's silence. It worked. He's safe.
I straighten up, turning back to Gio. He's watching me, waiting for the verdict, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"We won," I say.
The adrenaline in the room is suddenly too loud, a cacophony of back-slapping and victory speeches that grates against my nerves.
Someone shoves a bottle of champagne into Gio's hand, and with a pop, the celebration officially begins.
Foam fizzes over his knuckles, but he doesn't even flinch.
His relief is a palpable force, a wave of pure, unadulterated joy that washes over the room and makes my teeth ache.
He's grinning, a real, blinding thing I haven't seen in weeks.
He's the hero again, the king returned from exile.
The guys are slapping his back, their cheers echoing off the walls.
He drinks it in, his chest swelling, his eyes finding mine across the room.
The look on his face is one of shared triumph, a desperate plea for me to join him in the light.
He pushes through the throng, leaving a wake of back pats and congratulations.
He grabs two plastic cups from the counter, his movements sure and confident.
He fills them both, the cheap champagne sloshing over the rims. He stops in front of me, holding one out.
The room quietens just enough for his voice to carry.
"To us," he says, his voice booming with an emotion that feels foreign to me now. "To my fixer."
The word hangs in the air between us. Fixer. It's a job description. It reduces everything I just did—every sleepless night, every calculated risk, every moment of tactical genius—to a service rendered. It strips the power from my hands and frames it as a tool he can now claim.
I look from the cup in his hand to his hopeful, expectant face. He sees a partner. I see a man celebrating the end of his problem, expecting me to be grateful for the privilege of cleaning up his mess.
I don't take the cup. I keep my eyes on his, letting my expression go flat, letting the warmth drain from my face until it's a cold, hard mask.
"I don't celebrate doing my job," I say, my voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the noise. "I'm the person you broke."
A few guys nearby go silent, their smiles faltering.
The energy in the room shifts, the celebration curdling into something awkward and tense.
Gio's face falls, the brilliant hope in his eyes extinguishing like a flame in a vacuum.
The victory in his posture crumbles, leaving him looking lost and exposed.
I turn my back on him without another word. I place my phone flat on the counter, a deliberate, final gesture, and walk toward the hallway that leads to the front door. I'm leaving. The job is done. The contract is fulfilled.
Behind me, I feel him move—feel him about to follow, about to grab, about to make this messy in front of everyone.
I stop without turning. I reach back and catch his wrist again, low at my side where no one gets the show.
A brief, controlled clamp. A warning delivered through bone.
He freezes. I let him go and keep walking.
I can feel the silence I leave behind me, a gaping hole in the middle of his party.
It's a better victory than any headline.