CHAPTER 7
Publish It
The Norsemen called their annual charity gala The Winter Crown.
Every December, the organization transformed its arena from a place built for violence into something elegant enough to convince wealthy people they were saving the world.
The ice disappeared beneath polished black flooring.
Crystal chandeliers hung over the rink.
White roses climbed temporary walls concealing locker rooms, medical corridors, and the narrow service tunnels beneath the building.
Players arrived in tuxedos.
Their wives wore gowns worth more than most families’ monthly rent.
Executives smiled beneath banners promising support for youth athletics while, somewhere below their feet, the original medical records of injured men waited to be erased.
It was the perfect setting for Graham West.
Beautiful.
Expensive.
Rotten underneath.
I stood across the street inside a dark SUV and watched photographers crowd the arena’s entrance.
My reflection stared back from the window.
Naomi had chosen my dress.
Black.
Long-sleeved.
Fitted through the waist, with a high neckline and a slit stopping several inches above my knee.
“Nothing they can call attention-seeking,” she had said while zipping it.
Then she had looked at the mirror and added, “Although they will call it that anyway because apparently having breasts is now an ethics violation.”
My hair fell in thick curls over my shoulders. The makeup artist Naomi trusted had covered the exhaustion beneath my eyes without making me look soft.
I did not feel soft.
I felt sharpened.
My press credentials were gone.
My job was gone.
My reputation had become entertainment.
But I still had my name.
And tonight, I intended to put it above the most important story I had ever written.
Beside me, Lars adjusted the cuff of his tuxedo.
His knuckles were bruised from hitting Matteo.
The hand tremor had worsened since morning, though he hid it by keeping his fingers closed.
He had refused pain medication.
He had also refused to remain behind.
“You keep staring,” he said.
“I’m checking for signs you’re about to collapse.”
“I am not.”
“You barely slept.”
“Neither did you.”
“I wasn’t shot at two nights after a concussion.”
“I was not concussed.”
“You were hit hard enough to bleed from the mouth.”
“That happens often.”
“That isn’t the defense you think it is.”
He looked toward me.
The deep blue of his eyes appeared almost black in the vehicle’s dim interior.
“You look beautiful.”
The compliment unsettled me more than danger did.
“Thank you.”
His gaze lingered.
“You wore black the night we met.”
“I wore a black sweater to a college party.”
“You wore nothing beneath it.”
“I wore a bra.”
“Not for long.”
Naomi made a disgusted noise from the front passenger seat.
“I need both of you to remember that I am here.”
Lars did not look away from me.
“I know.”
“That somehow makes it worse.”
Matteo sat behind us holding an ice pack against his nose.
The swelling had spread beneath both eyes, leaving him looking like a wealthy raccoon in formalwear.
He lowered the ice pack.
“For the record, I also look beautiful.”
Naomi glanced back.
“You look like someone lost a fight outside a nightclub.”
“I did lose a fight.”
“To a man with neurological damage. Embarrassing.”
Lars turned.
“You deserved worse.”
Matteo’s humor disappeared.
“I know.”
Silence settled inside the SUV.
The confession remained between us.
Matteo had told Graham where I was meeting Derek.
Graham had used that information to follow me.
Perhaps to reach Derek.
Perhaps to arrange the attack at the cabin.
Matteo had betrayed us because he was afraid the organization would reveal his medical condition and end his career.
I understood fear.
Understanding was not forgiveness.
Matteo looked at me.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ve said that.”
“I’ll keep saying it.”
“That does not make it useful.”
“No.”
He stared at the ice pack.
“But I’m going to help finish this.”
Naomi checked her watch.
“Review the plan.”
I looked toward the arena.
“The gala begins at seven. Graham gives his speech at eight-fifteen. While everyone is focused on the main stage, Matteo creates a disturbance in the ballroom.”
“I prefer the word distraction,” Matteo said.
“You are going to accuse the organization’s medical staff of falsifying your records in front of two hundred donors and thirty cameras.”
“A tasteful distraction.”
“While security handles him, Lars and I enter through the west rehabilitation corridor.”
Naomi turned in her seat.
“Using credentials that do not belong to you.”
“Matteo’s guest access and Lars’s employee pass.”
“Which may have been deactivated.”
“It worked yesterday.”
“At the garage where security saw you stealing a locker.”
“Retrieving a drive,” I corrected.
“Mhm.”
Lars exhaled.
“Does that sound always mean disapproval?”
“No,” Naomi said. “Sometimes it means I am documenting poor judgment.”
I continued.
“The server room sits beneath the rehabilitation wing. Derek gave us the access route, but Graham’s office contains the current server code.”
Lars nodded.
“I go to Graham’s office. Aaliyah reaches the server room.”
“No,” I said. “We stay together.”
“You can download the files while I retrieve the code.”
“What happens when security catches one of us alone?”
His expression hardened.
“We save time by splitting.”
“No.”
“Aaliyah.”
“We spent eight years splitting every problem into yours and mine. Look where it got us.”
The words stopped him.
His eyes held mine.
Then he nodded.
“Together.”
Naomi looked at us through the mirror.
“Mhm.”
“What did that one mean?” I asked.
“Growth.”
We left the SUV at seven-fifty.
The crowd reacted before we reached the carpet.
Our appearance had not been announced.
The Norsemen had removed Lars from promotional material and told media representatives he would not attend.
Then he stepped into the light with his hand around mine.
The noise changed.
Gasps.
Shouting.
Camera shutters firing in rapid bursts.
Reporters pushed against the barricades.
“Aaliyah!”
“Lars!”
“Are you still together?”
“Did you stage the shooting?”
“Have you been questioned by police?”
“Did the league invite you?”
Lars’s fingers tightened around mine.
I heard the hatred too.
A woman shouting that I had ruined hockey.
A man calling me a name built from sex and race.
Someone yelling that Lars should have married one of his own.
I kept walking.
The years of hiding had trained me to disappear beside him.
Tonight, I refused.
We stopped at the center of the carpet.
Lars turned toward me.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
“Correcting something.”
His hand moved to my waist.
Then he kissed me.
Not the private kiss from Matteo’s apartment, stolen by a camera through glass.
Not the courthouse kiss from eight years ago.
This one belonged to us because we gave it willingly.
His mouth touched mine beneath hundreds of flashes.
The crowd erupted.
I should have worried about the photographs.
The headlines.
What commentators would say about my judgment.
Instead, I curled my fingers around his lapel and kissed my husband back.
When he lifted his head, his forehead remained against mine.
“No more hiding,” he said quietly.
My throat tightened.
“No more hiding.”
We entered the arena together.
Graham West met us near the ballroom entrance.
He wore a midnight-blue tuxedo and the calm expression of a man who believed every room belonged to him.
Two members of security stood behind him.
His eyes moved from Lars to me.
“You were not invited.”
“I’m still under contract,” Lars said.
“You are suspended.”
“Suspended employees attend organization events every year.”
“Not after assaulting teammates in front of the media.”
Matteo stepped beside us.
“He hit me. I’m over it.”
Graham looked at his bruised face.
“You have always mistaken recklessness for loyalty.”
Matteo gave a thin smile.
“I learned from the organization.”
Graham’s eyes sharpened.
Then he turned to me.
“Ms. Grant.”
“Mrs. Halvorsen,” Lars said.
I glanced at him.
Graham smiled faintly.
“Of course.”
He lowered his voice.
“I would think recent events taught you both the value of discretion.”
“No,” I said. “They taught me who benefits from it.”
For one second, the mask slipped.
Only slightly.
Then Graham stepped aside.
“Enjoy the evening.”
We entered the ballroom.
Music drifted from a live quartet near the stage. Donors gathered around tables glittering with crystal and silver. Former players posed for photographs beneath the Norsemen logo.
Some people stared.
Others looked away too quickly.
A team physician I had interviewed two years earlier turned pale when he saw me.
Players approached Lars.
Not openly.
A hand briefly on his shoulder.
A quiet nod.
A whispered, “We’re with you.”
Fear still kept them from saying it loudly.
But something was shifting.
Graham had controlled them by convincing each man he was alone.
Now they were beginning to look around.
At eight-ten, we moved toward the west corridor.
Matteo remained near the stage.
Naomi stood beside the media section with her phone ready to record everything.
Graham took the stage.
Applause rolled through the ballroom.
He smiled down at the donors.
“For more than forty years, the Boston Norsemen have believed hockey is more than a sport. It is a family.”
Matteo walked toward the stage.
Lars and I slipped through a service door.
The applause faded behind us.
The rehabilitation corridor was empty.
We moved quickly past dark training rooms and physical-therapy suites.
Lars swiped his card at a secured door.
Red light.
“Deactivated,” I said.
He tried again.
Nothing.
Footsteps sounded behind us.
I turned.
Howard Kline stood at the end of the corridor.
He looked from us to the locked door.
For several seconds, no one spoke.
Then he removed his access card.
“Graham told me the medical program saved careers,” he said quietly.
Lars watched him.
“And now?”
Howard looked toward the ballroom.
“I saw Derek’s scan before they changed it.”
My pulse quickened.
“You knew?”
“I knew one report was altered. I told myself a doctor had made a correction.”
“You told yourself what kept you employed,” I said.
His mouth tightened.
“Yes.”