Chapter 37
Justin POV
The brass latch of the executive boardroom doors snapped under the heel of my boot.
The heavy double oak panels flew backward, slamming against the plaster walls with a violent, concussive crack that rattled the glass in the thirty-foot windows overlooking the quad.
Twenty-one days remained until the ECAC Championship in Lake Placid.
The air inside the boardroom smelled of radiator dust, hot coffee, and the sharp, sour sweat of bureaucrats caught off guard.
Seated around the thirty-foot mahogany table were Dean Arthur Sterling, Dr. Marcus Vance, Coach Bradley Hauer, and the university’s chief legal counsel.
Sitting at the far corner, wearing a crisp navy polo and an arrogant, relaxed smirk, was Garrett Shaw.
Beside him sat his father, Arthur Shaw, his pinstripe wool coat unbuttoned, tapping a gold pen against a leather folio.
Every head snapped toward the threshold.
"Ibarra?" Hauer barked, half-rising from his chair, his brow furrowing as his eyes took in my appearance.
I hadn't shaved in nine days. The dark stubble along my jawline was thick and ragged, my eyes bloodshot, ringed with dark purple hollows from two hundred hours without real sleep.
The split on my lower lip was a jagged black line.
I wore only black combat boots, dark jeans, and a black thermal shirt that left the corded muscle of my forearms exposed to the fluorescent glare.
I didn't carry a stick. I didn't carry an apology.
I crossed the room in four heavy, predatory strides, my shadow falling across the mahogany table like a thunderhead.
I reached into the pocket of my coat with my left hand, pulled out a black thumb drive and the iPad Declan had dropped on my floor, and slammed them into the center of the table.
The impact sent a shower of water droplets scattering across Dean Sterling's legal briefs.
"Justin, what is the meaning of this—" Sterling began, pushing back his chair.
"Shut your mouth, Sterling," I rasped.
The voice was a low, gravel-scraped blade, stripped of every ounce of deference I had ever shown the athletic department.
I reached down, tapped the glass of the iPad, and spun the screen to face the university legal counsel.
The Third-Floor North Reading Room security footage from January 15 filled the display.
The room went dead silent.
I hit play.
Garrett’s voice slithered out of the speaker, thin, crisp, and unmistakable, detailing the blackmail ultimatum: Twenty-four hours, Correa. Five o'clock today. You submit that withdrawal to Vance, or Justin Ibarra's entire life burns to the ground before the puck drops.
Then came Penny’s voice, ringing out cold, unbending, and pure as winter steel, calling him a pathetic coward, refusing to be his weapon.
Garrett’s smirk curdled.
The color drained from his face in a single, brutal second, his skin turning an ugly, mottled gray as his eyes locked onto the screen. Beside him, Arthur Shaw’s hand froze on his gold pen, his jowls quivering as his mouth fell slack.
"The forensic metadata on that thumb drive tracks the memorandum back to Garrett’s laptop on the fourth floor of the athletic dorms," I said, my voice flat, cold, and dead as a frozen pond.
"The signature was lifted from an equipment checkout sheet from October twelfth. And the prepaid phone used to send the extortion texts was billed to a corporate Visa registered to Arthur Shaw’s holding company, paid out to Wade Kozak at a motel on Route Nine. "
The legal counsel grabbed the iPad, his eyes darting frantically across the timestamps, his face draining of blood as he realized the catastrophic criminal liability sitting on the table.
* * *
Dean Sterling swallowed hard, his collar suddenly looking three sizes too small. He looked from Garrett to the legal counsel, his hands trembling as he smoothed his tie.
"Justin," Sterling stammered, holding up a placating palm.
"This... this is deeply concerning. But if we take this to the NCAA compliance committee right now, three weeks before Lake Placid, it creates an uncontrollable media disaster.
The program will be placed under a formal postseason review. Your draft ranking—"
"I don't give a damn about my draft ranking," I rumbled, taking a slow step toward the head of the table, leaning down until my palms rested flat on the mahogany, towering over Dean Sterling.
The air in my chest was calm, lethal, and absolute.
I reached inside my black wool coat, pulled out the thick FedEx envelope containing the unsigned three-year Boston Bruins Entry-Level Contract, and dropped it onto the wood.
Nine hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Ninety-five thousand signing bonus.
"You think I care about this paper?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave, vibrating the water glasses on the table. "You think I care about an NHL sweater?"
I leaned closer, my dark, unblinking eyes boring into Sterling’s skull.
"Here are the terms of my silence, Sterling," I said, each word an iron spike driven into the room.
"First: you execute an immediate, unconditional administrative exoneration for Penny Correa.
You wipe the forged memo from her academic record.
You issue a signed statement from the Dean of Athletics certifying that her clinical work was entirely compliant with NCAA and NATA regulations. "
I turned my head slowly, fixing my gaze on Dr. Marcus Vance, whose face was pale with shame.
"Second," I continued, "Vance writes an official departmental endorsement to the Vanderveer Clinical Fellowship committee by noon today, naming Penny Correa as the sole recipient of the forty-five-thousand-dollar grant based on verified kinematic data."
Vance nodded instantly, his hands shaking on his notepad. "Consider it done, Justin."
I looked back at Garrett Shaw.
Our senior alternate captain was trembling in his leather chair, pressing his back into the cushions as if he were trying to melt through the wall.
"Third," I growled, "Garrett Shaw is stripped of his sweater, stripped of his captaincy, and expelled from Garrison University for criminal extortion and academic fraud.
Campus security escorts him off this property in five minutes, or I walk down these stairs, find the beat reporters in the media room, and give them every piece of dirty paper Arthur Shaw has traded with this board for five years. "
Arthur Shaw leaped out of his chair, his face crimson. "You can't threaten this board, you ungrateful thug! My family has donated millions—"
"Try me, Arthur," I whispered, the words so soft, so terrifyingly devoid of fear, that the older man’s voice choked in his throat. "Call my bluff. Let's see if the Boston Globe wants to read about how you paid Wade Kozak to frame a twenty-one-year-old student trainer."
A dead, ringing silence smothered the room.
The university legal counsel leaned toward Dean Sterling, whispering with frantic, terrified urgency: "Sign the exoneration, Arthur. Do it right now. If this reaches the state police, the entire board is indicted."
Dean Sterling didn't argue. His pen moved across the emergency administrative order, his hand shaking as he applied the official university seal.
Sterling looked up, his voice barely a breath. "Campus security has been notified. Garrett’s student status is terminated immediately."
Two armed campus police officers pushed through the broken boardroom doors, stepping directly behind Garrett Shaw’s chair.
"On your feet, Mr. Shaw," the lead officer commanded, taking Garrett by the elbow, hauling him up from the table.
Garrett didn't look at me. He kept his eyes fixed on the carpet, his face hollowed out with ruined humiliation as they led him through the shattered doors, his father trailing behind him in a sputtering, impotent fury.
I picked up the signed exoneration decree from the table, folded the paper once, and shoved it into my coat pocket.
I didn't look at Coach Hauer. I didn't look at my contract.
I turned on my heel and walked out of the room, leaving the athletic department in ruins behind my boots.
* * *
The freezing Adirondack sleet hit my face as I shoved open the heavy bronze doors of Hudson Hall, washing the sweat from my temples.
It was 9:08 AM.
The concrete plaza was slick with gray slush, students bundled in heavy parkas hurrying between morning lectures under black umbrellas.
Fifty yards ahead, walking toward the rink with her black figure skate bag slung over her shoulder, was Chloe Ross.
I didn't shout. I broke into a run, my heavy boots spraying icy water across the pavement, closing the distance in six long strides.
"Chloe!"
Chloe stopped at the base of the granite steps.
She turned slowly, her high blond braid whipping across her collar in the wind. When she saw me, her pale blue eyes hardened into two chips of Arctic ice. Her posture went rigid as rebar, her hand tightening around the strap of her skate bag, ready for a fight.
"Get away from me, Ibarra," she said, her voice sharp as an unstoned blade. "If you take another step toward me, I'm screaming for campus security."
I didn't tower over her. I didn't use my size to block her path.
I pulled my hands out of my coat pockets, stopping three feet from her boots.
I dropped my head.
The enforcer was gone. The campus king was gone.
I stood in the freezing rain, my broad shoulders shaking with an agony so profound, so stripped of every shred of pride, that my vision blurred with burning moisture.
"Chloe, please," I rasped, the words tearing out of my chest, cracked and bleeding down the middle.
Chloe froze. Her sharp eyes flicked over my face—taking in the bloodshot, ruined hollows of my eyes, the cut lip, the nine days of dark stubble, the complete, unvarnished destruction of the man standing in front of her.
"I'm not going to argue with you," I whispered, my voice breaking on a dry, ragged swallow as the sleet soaked through my dark hair. "I know what I did to her. I know what I said in that tunnel. I was blind, I was terrified, and I broke the only thing that ever mattered in this life."
A single, scalding tear spilled down my cheek, burning against the cold air.
"I don't expect her to forgive me," I said, looking straight into Chloe’s unyielding eyes, baring my throat to the blade.
"I will crawl from here to the ocean on my hands and knees if that's what she wants. But I have to tell her the truth. I cleared her name. Vance signed the fellowship. She’s safe. Please, Chloe... tell me where she is."
Chloe stared at me for ten agonizing heartbeats.
The wind howled through the plaza, whipping snow across our boots, but neither of us moved.
Slowly, the icy contempt in Chloe’s face softened, replaced by a grim, heavy sorrow.
"She went to Maine, Justin," Chloe said quietly, her voice barely carrying over the sleet. "My aunt has a saltbox cottage on the water in Kennebunkport. Off the turnpike, at the end of Ocean Avenue."
My lungs seized on a sharp, burning breath.
Chloe reached into her pocket, pulled out a small scrap of paper with an address scribbled in black ink, and pressed it into my shaking, calloused palm.
Her blue eyes pinned me with a final, lethal warning:
"She is carrying something precious, Ibarra. If you break her heart twice, I will finish what you started."
I didn't answer with words.
I closed my fist around the paper, gave Chloe a single, fierce nod, and broke into a dead sprint across the slush toward the athlete parking lot.
I threw myself behind the wheel of my black pickup truck, jammed the key into the ignition, and fired the diesel engine with a concussive roar.
I slammed the shifter into drive, tires spinning on the packed ice as I rocketed out of the gate onto Route 9, hitting the on-ramp for Interstate 87 South at sixty miles an hour.
Three hundred and twenty miles of frozen highway stretched ahead.
Twenty-one days remained until Lake Placid, but my sport, my team, and my contract were dead.
There was only Penny.
And I was coming to put my life at her feet.