Chapter 48 Linc
LINC
The mood in the locker room hangs heavy with the sting of a season opener loss. Hat trick in my first game back—three goals, two assists—but it wasn’t enough. Chicago beat us five to four, and the kind of performance that should have been a celebration feels pointless when you’re on the losing end.
My teammates sit in various stages of disappointment, some staring at their phones, others removing gear in silence.
I can’t shake the feeling that something is off.
Maybe it’s the adrenaline crash, or perhaps it’s because Jules hasn’t responded to my text.
I told her I missed her, which feels inadequate now that I’m sitting here in my gear, remembering the roar of twenty thousand fans cheering for me, when she’s the only one I want saying my name.
My phone buzzes as I’m unlacing my skates.
Unknown number: Your little assistant isn’t exactly what she seems. Check the file I left in your desk drawer. Evidence of fake college transcripts. -M
My blood turns cold. Drecken. Even from whatever hole she’s crawled into, she’s still trying to cause damage.
But what does she mean about Jules not being what she seems?
Did she fake her degree? I’ve always leaned toward my father being wrong about, well, everything.
But he did mention she may not have an authentic diploma.
Why wouldn’t she have told me this? The text plants a seed of doubt that grows with every second I stare at the screen.
“Solid play, Linc,” Johannessen calls from across the room, but his usual jokester energy is subdued as he gathers his gear to leave.
I force a smile and nod, but my mind races ahead to getting home to Jules. Whatever Drecken is implying, I need to know the facts or if she’s manipulating me.
The drive to my penthouse takes forever in post-game traffic.
Every red light and every slow pedestrian crossing is an obstacle keeping me from the conversation I should have had weeks ago.
I should have told Jules about hockey. Should have been honest from the beginning instead of playing the ridiculous game of summer intern.
The elevator ride to my floor stretches taut like a rubber band about to snap. When the doors finally open, I hear movement from the guest room—drawers closing, the rustle of fabric.
“Jules?” I call, dropping my keys on the table by the door.
No response.
I find her stuffing clothes into a clean trash bag. Her motions are rigid, tense.
From the doorway, I say, “Hi.”
She must not hear me.
“What are you doing?” I ask even though it’s obvious.
She doesn’t answer.
“Where are you going?” I lean against the door frame, trying again.
She doesn’t look up.
Her phone beeps with a text. Oly’s name is on the screen. I take that as a reply.
“Why?”
Still nothing. She continues rushing around the room, gathering her things.
The silence stretches between us like a chasm.
“Jules, talk to me.”
She doesn’t even look my way.
“Look, I know you’re upset about something, but leaving isn’t the answer.” I step into the room, and she freezes. “Stay. Please. We can work through whatever this is.”
It’s one of two things: Drecken or hockey. Has to be.
She slams a drawer and finally looks at me. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry, like she’s used up all of her tears.
“Here.” I pull out my wallet and extract my credit card. “Take this. Whatever you need—”
“I don’t want your money, Linc.”
The words are clipped, cold. This isn’t the woman who whooped as she swung on the rope swing or fed me pieces of watermelon while I counted her freckles popping in the sunlight.
This is someone I don’t recognize.
The worst of it is she hardly looks at me.
She moves toward the door, bags in hand, and every instinct tells me to block her path. Instead, I let her pass, following her to the front door like a puppy.
She pauses, hand on the doorknob, but doesn’t turn around. “Where were you tonight?”
Like when the buzzer sounds to signal the end of a period and the puck streaks toward the net, I realize a moment too late what this is about.
“I was at work. Playing hockey. For the Ottawa Outlaws. We lost to Chicago five to four. I scored a hat trick, but it wasn’t enough.
I’m a professional hockey player, Jules.
Have been for over six years. The summer internship was me trying to avoid disappointing my father for a few more months before the season started. ”
She turns around slowly. Recognition flickers across her face. Followed by comprehension. And then, devastatingly, confirmation.
“I know,” she says quietly.
“You know?”
“I was there tonight at the arena. I watched you score all three goals.”
The words hit me like when Crofton slammed me into the boards. She was there. She saw everything—the crowd chanting my name, the celebration, the version of me that exists in the spotlight.
“Jules—”
“So those 'fans' who were lurking around the gallery building that night weren’t random weird people. They recognized you.”
I nod, feeling smaller with each word spoken. “Yeah.”
“Mistaken identity versus hidden identity,” she says, and there’s something sharp in her tone that cuts deep. “There is quite a difference.”
“I should have told you—”
“When? When you mentioned you weren’t officially on the payroll?
When we were talking about our hobbies? Interests?
College? Surely you played while there. When you just shrugged and said something about your father owning Meridian and wanting to pass it on to you?
” Her voice rises with each question. “That’s why you didn’t need to be paid. You just have oh-so-much money.”
“It’s not about the money—”
“It is when you’re twenty-five thousand dollars in debt because your father was a jerk and the guys he wronged don’t want to forget about it, saddling me with his obligations.”
She’s on fire, but my defenses rise. “As if you haven’t done anything wrong,” I shoot back.
A heaviness like freshly poured cement settles between us, thick and immobilizing. We’re both carrying secrets, both guilty of deception, both standing in the wreckage of whatever trust we built.
“I stole gel highlighters,” she sniffs. “And maybe some Post-Its from the supply closet at Meridian.”
“Is that it?” The text from Drecken burns in my pocket. “I was told that you forged your diploma.”
Jules goes very still. Then, she leans against the door as if exhausted from the weight she’s had to carry. “In my original application, I added a few little embellishments to my resume. But I’m passionate about art history, and according to my professors, an exceptional student.”
“What about graduating?”
She meets my eyes directly. “Yeah, I claimed I have an art history degree. I didn’t finish because I had to take care of my ailing father. Alone.”
The word alone reverberates inside like a tuning fork, leaving silence in its wake. While I was playing division one hockey and complaining about my privileged problems—my roommate ate all my pizza rolls!—she was caring for a dying parent and sacrificing her own dreams.
“And what about Iva?” she asks, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
“Iva?” The name feels foreign in my mouth after months of thinking only about Jules.
“Don’t play dumb, Linc-y.” Iva’s pet name feels like sludge in my ears.
“There’s nothing to say. She’s ancient history.”
“Photos surfaced of you two hugging.”
A memory clicks into place. “We ran into each other before the rooftop party. She ambushes people. Plus, that was when you hated me. It meant nothing.”
“Right. When I hated you.” She hefts her bags.
“Jules, please—”
She snorts. “I was right. You’re a chucklechump.”
Laughter erupts out of me like a shaken soda can. The sound is completely inappropriate given the circumstances, but I can’t help it.
She opens the front door. “Oh, and from now on, I’m Miss Lindley to you. Or Juliana. Actually, you can call me anything but Jules. Julia, Juliette, even Yulia will do.”
The hurt and hostility in her tone stop my laughter cold. I know exactly when I chose Jules. Fell in love with her. The name made her mine.
And now she’s taking it away. Leaving.
“Jules—”
“Miss Lindley,” she corrects sharply, then steps into the hallway.
The door closes with a soft click that sounds like the end of everything.
I don’t sleep. Instead, I sit on my couch staring out at the city lights, my thoughts alternating between static and replaying every moment of my time with Jules.
The memory montage plays like a “best of” highlight reel—her laugh, appreciation when I indulged her chocolate addiction, the way she felt in my arms at the lake house, the trust in her eyes when she told me about her father.
She is everything to me. More important than my hockey career, the high of winning a game, and the hope of hitting the Stanley Cup someday.
I screwed it all up. My jewel—because that’s what Jules means to me, something rare and precious—and I let everything fall apart.
The next morning, Bīri?? shows up at my door with coffee. He launches into a recap of the game and then goes still, taking in my appearance with a wrinkled brow.
“Do I really look that bad?”
“It’s the perfect sunny day for a final ride in the boat before I put it away for the season, but a soggy gray cloud hangs over you.”
I let him in and collapse back onto the couch. “I messed up, Bīri??. Really messed up.”
He settles into the chair across from me, his usually animated face solemn. “What’s up?”
I tell him about Jules, about the lies, about how I chose fear over honesty and lost the best thing that ever happened to me. He listens without judgment or teasing—a first—occasionally nodding or making sounds of understanding.
When I finish, he’s quiet for a long moment, then he lets out a laugh.
“Not exactly helpful, bro.”
“No, I got it. When I got citizenship here, I learned all about your forefathers. Your great-grandfather or whatever, especially.”
The guys will forever be amused that I am indeed related to Abraham Lincoln.
I correct, “He was my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather.”
“You know what your boy Abe said about a house divided?” he says with his Eastern European accent.
I raise an eyebrow. Bīri?? quoting American history isn’t exactly in his usual playbook.
“It cannot stand,” I recite. “But what does that have to do with—?”
He shakes his head. “A heart divided cannot stand either. You divided your heart, kept part of yourself hidden from her. Sounds like she did the same.”
He’s right. Now Jules and I are standing in the ruins, wondering what happened. We both built walls, both chose protection over vulnerability. And now we’re paying the price.
I reach for my lucky penny, the one I’ve flipped for every major decision I’ve ever made since I was twelve. But as my fingers close around the worn metal, I realize I don’t need luck for this decision.
I know what I want to do. What I have to do.
Setting the penny aside, I get up and find a pen and paper. If my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather Abraham Lincoln could pour his heart onto paper to win the woman he loved, then so can I.