Chapter 14: CHAPTER 14
Jax POV
"If you stare at that ice any harder, you’re going to fall in."
I looked up to see Beau leaning against his stick, looking at me. We were on the bench, and the arena was mostly empty except for a few sophomores skating warm-up laps. The "Opening Night" high was long gone. The reality of Northwood was back, and it felt heavy.
"I'm fine," I grunted. "Just... focusing."
"Right. Focus. Because you’ve been 'focusing' on Thorne for the last twenty minutes. You look like a lion watching a wounded antelope." Beau didn't smirk this time. He just looked at me. "Be careful, Miller. That antelope has a very protective, very wealthy father."
I didn't answer. I just watched Julian. He was on the other side of the rink, working on transition drills. He looked perfect, as always, but his face was white and tight. Every time he turned, I could see the tension in his shoulders. He hadn't spoken since Riley left the suite. It was a new kind of silence, not the "Ice King" silence, but a "Broken King" silence.
I want to make him smile. The thought made my chest tighten. This was stupid. I didn't care about smiles. I cared about contracts. But after that morning in the kitchen, after seeing him fall apart in my arms, I realized that I was in deep. And the person who was going to hurt him the most was the man standing at the glass.
Arthur Thorne had arrived.
He was standing by the visitor’s tunnel, arms crossed over his chest, looking like he owned every molecule of oxygen in the building. He was watching Julian. Not with pride. With scrutiny.
Coach Clain didn't miss a beat. She saw Arthur, and she knew exactly how to make the day hell.
"First line, center ice!" she barked. "Five-on-five transition drills. Full contact."
We lined up. Liam was in net, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else. Julian was next to me, his breath hitching. I could smell the fear on him, a scent that cut right through the stink of the locker room.
Arthur Thorne’s presence on the sidelines changed the entire mood. The rest of the team was tense, trying not to mess up in front of the board. But for Julian, it was psychological warfare.
We started the drill. Julian took the puck from Liam, turning to make the breakout pass. He should have seen me wide open. Instead, he hesitated, his eyes flicking toward the glass where his father was standing.
He missed the pass. A sophomore winger intercepted it and took it down the ice for an easy shot.
"Thorne! What was that?" Coach Clain roared, her whistle shrieking. "Your grandmother skates faster than that! Again!"
We lined up again. The tension was suffocating. I wanted to skate over and grab Julian by the jersey and tell him to forget about the glass, but I knew that would only make it worse. He had to face this on his own.
The next drill was defensive containment. Julian and I were covering the top center. The puck came in. I stepped up to take the body, but the forward dodged and headed toward the corner. Julian should have been there to cut him off.
He was late. Not by a lot, but enough. The forward got a clean cross-ice pass off.
"Thorne! Focus!" Coach Clain was yelling, her face red. "You are not a statue! You are a defenseman! Move those feet!"
I looked at the glass. Arthur wasn't yelling. He was just watching, his face hardening with every mistake. He didn't have to say anything. His disappointment was a palpable force in the rink.
By the end of the second hour, Julian was a disaster. He was missing simple passes, getting caught flat-footed, and turning the puck over. He was playing like an amateur, and every player on the ice knew it was because of the man standing on the other side of the glass.
Coach Clain finally called practice. We headed toward the bench, our breath coming in ragged plumes of steam.
"Julian. A word," Arthur said, his voice cutting through the quiet.
He was standing by the glass door. Julian didn't even look at the bench. He didn't look at me. He skated toward his father, his head down, like a dog that knew it was about to be beaten.
I should have skated to the locker room. That was the smart move. That was the "survival" move. But I found myself skating toward them instead. I didn't get too close just enough to hear.
"You are not focusing, Julian," Arthur said, his voice low, cold, and devastating. He didn't look at his son. He was looking over Julian’s shoulder at the rest of the team. "I’ve seen the reports. The Board is talking about the decline of your leadership. This Miller situation is a distraction."
"He... he helps me, Father," Julian whispered, his voice cracking. He was still in his skates, towering over his father, but he looked small. He looked like a child. "He’s my partner."
"He is your liability," Arthur spat, his eyes finally moving to Julian’s face. "The only reason you are tolerated in this program is because of the Thorne name. If your stats keep dropping, if your leadership keeps failing, even the legacy won't save you. You need to distance yourself from that... element. Now."
Arthur finally looked at me, standing a few yards away. His eyes were cold, full of the same disgust Riley had. "And you. Miller. I know what you are. Enjoy your time on the first line. It won't last. A cultural misfit always finds their way back to the mud."
I didn't answer. I didn't want to make it worse for Julian. But I saw the way Julian flinched, how he looked at the ice like he wanted it to swallow him. The "Ice King" was officially a memory. This was just a broken man, begging his father to approve of him, and the man who should have protected him was the one tearing him apart.
Arthur turned and walked out, the metal door slamming shut.
Julian stood there in the ringing silence. His chest was heaving. He didn't move for a long, agonizing minute. Then, he looked up and met my eyes. He looked broken. He looked sad. He looked like he’d been vivisected in front of his entire team.
The arena was finally quiet. The team had cleared out, the sound of their skates echoing on the concrete long gone. I stood on the ice alone, the cold seeping through my boots, watching the empty tunnel. I had just watched my partner, my captain, get shredded by his own father in front of the whole school.
Julian hadn’t moved since the door slammed shut. He was standing near the center ice logo, staring at the blurred reflections on the ice. He looked small. Not weak. Just... broken. The "Ice King" was officially dead. This was a different man, a man who had realized his throne was made of glass and it was currently shattering.
I skated over. I didn't want to startle him. I just wanted him to know I was there.
"Thorne," I said quietly, stopping a few feet away.
He didn't answer. He didn't even flinch. He just kept staring at the ice.
"Julian."
Finally, he looked up. His eyes were wide and vacant, filled with a deep, bottomless kind of sadness. He looked at me.
"He’s going to get rid of you," Julian whispered, his voice cracking. "And I... I can't stop him."
"We just won, Julian. The Board is happy. The scouts are talking." I stepped closer, my skates scraping on the ice. I was desperate to fix this, to fix him. "He can't touch me as long as we keep winning."
"He doesn't care about winning," Julian said. He looked back at the empty tunnel, a tear finally escaping and running down his cheek. The Ice King is crying. The thought was so jarring it almost made my knees weak. "He cares about the Thorne name. He cares about the image. And you... you represent everything that the brand is supposed to avoid."
"And you?" I asked, stepping right into his space. I needed to know. I needed to hear the words. "What do I represent to you, Julian?"
He looked at me for a long time. The tension was so heavy it felt pressurized. We were standing in the middle of an empty arena, the locker room felt a million miles away, and for the first time, there were no masks.
"You are the only person who doesn't look at me like a product," Julian breathed. He reached out with one hand, his fingers barely brushing against my forearm. I saw the way his fingers were shaking. I saw the total lack of "discipline" in his expression. "And I... I am so terrified of how much I want you, Jax."
The confession made my heart stop. It wasn't about how hot or incredibly sexy it was, because trust me, it was. It was a declaration of complete collapse. The Thorne heir, the Golden Boy, was begging me to be real.
I didn't think about rules or "survival. I just wrapped my arms around his waist and pulled him close. He hit my chest hard, his head burying into my neck, his whole body turning into a block of ice that was desperately trying to melt. I held him. I let him collapse. In the middle of an empty arena, with the smell of sweat and rubber filling my lungs, I realized I’d do whatever it took to keep him from breaking again.
I held him for what felt like an hour. His breathing was shallow and jagged, and I could feel the frantic beat of his heart against my chest. This wasn't a romance novel hug. This was a messy, desperate collapse of a identity.
I ran a hand down the smooth fabric of his practice jersey, feeling the defined Thoroughbred muscles Jax envied. He was incredibly fit, incredibly strong, but in this moment, he felt like glass. He was vibrating, trying so hard not to sob, and the sound of his suppressed grief was worse than any insult Arthur could have hurled.
Why do I care? The thought was annoying, like a mosquito in my ear. I am a mercenary. I am here for a contract. But then I’d think about Arthur’s cold voice and the way Riley looked at him, and I knew I couldn't walk away. I couldn't be just another person who used him.
I thought about his sad eyes in the kitchen. I thought about the fierceness of the kiss in the equipment room. I thought about the way his body had ground against mine, searching for a release he didn't know how to ask for.
I wanted to fix it, to fix him. I wanted to tell him that the "Thorne Legacy" was a lie. I wanted to tell him that he was okay, that we were okay. But I was just a kid from Detroit who had nothing to lose. I couldn't understand what it felt like to have everything on your shoulders.
"We have to go back to the suite," I whispered, my chin resting near his ear. "Someone might come in."
"I... yeah," Julian rasped, pulling back slowly. He didn't look at me. He looked at the ice, his face pale and wet. He looked like a statue that had been dropped. He looked beautiful, and it terrified me.
We walked back into the suite. The lights were off, the only glow coming from the city lights outside. The place smelled like Riley's floral perfume and the leftover garlic from the dinner. It was a mess. My Red Wings poster was starting to peel, and the pile of magazines on the coffee table was overflowing.
"This place is a disaster," Julian muttered. It was a familiar complaint, a "Captain" complaint, but his voice had no power behind it. He just looked at the mess with a tired kind of resignation.
"It’s real," I said, dropping my gear by the door. "Real people live here, Julian. Real messy people who don't have to follow a script."
I walked toward the kitchen to grab a Gatorade. Julian didn't move. He stood by the couch, staring at the Red Wings logo. I saw the way his eyes tracked the messy stack of magazines. He was thinking about how little control he had over his own life.