Chapter 90 CHAPTER 90

Chapter 90 CHAPTER 90
Jax’s Pov

Fin didn't knock on the door like a normal person. He kicked the lower panel three times in a sharp, rhythmic code, followed by a loud, obnoxious whistle that echoed through the third-floor hallway.

When I opened the heavy deadbolt, Fin was standing under the yellow corridor light wearing a faded Detroit Red Wings jacket, a knit cap pulled low over his ears, and a grin that stretched from ear to ear. In his left hand, he was clutching a taped-up cardboard box that smelled overwhelmingly of roasted garlic, smoked ham, and Evelyn’s famous baked macaroni.

"Look at this joint!" Fin roared, pushing past me without waiting for an invitation. "No uniformed doormen, no marble floors, no scent of artificial lavender, Jaxom, you've finally dragged the Ice King down into the gutter where he belongs!"

"Watch your mouth, Fin," I grunted, but I couldn't stop the grin from splitting my face as I grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him into a rough, collar-dragging hug. "And don't drop that box or Evelyn will have your head."

Julian stepped out of the small kitchen, holding a dish towel in his long hands. He was wearing his oversized gray sweatshirt and faded sweatpants, his hair damp from the shower, a soft, genuine smile lighting up his blue eyes the second he saw Fin.

"Fin," Julian said, his voice quiet, warm, and entirely free of his old aristocratic restraint. "You made it."

"Made it? Jules, I drove three hours through a Midwest snowstorm in a Honda Civic with a dying alternator just to deliver these provisions," Fin declared, setting the box down on our pine table with dramatic reverence. "Evelyn personally packed this casserole. She told me if I let it get cold on the turnpike, she’d confiscate my laptop for a month."

He threw his jacket onto the back of a wooden chair, looked around our open living room, at the wide-plank oak floorboards, the big river windows, and our simple furniture, and let out a low, appreciative whistle.

"It’s real," Fin said, his tone softening just a fraction as he looked between the two of us. "It actually looks like a home."

"It is a home, Fin," Julian replied softly, walking over to unbox the hot casserole dishes. "Now sit down before Jax eats all the macaroni straight out of the Tupperware."

By eight o'clock, we had walked Fin down the snowy street to THE ANCHOR & DUCK, a dive bar three blocks from the rink that catered to off-shift dockworkers, mechanics, and local hockey fans.

The place was loud, warm, and smelled of spilled lager, fried wings, and cedar sawdust scattered over the floorboards. Neon beer signs hummed in the frosted bay windows, and an old jukebox in the corner was playing classic rock over the steady rumble of thirty different conversations.

We squeezed into a worn leather booth in the back, under a framed, signed poster of the 1994 Midwest Wolverines championship squad.

"I can't believe you're drinking draft beer out of a thick glass mug, Thorne," Fin teased, leaning over his basket of hot wings and pointing a greasy drumstick at Julian. "Where's the crystal glassware? Where's the forty-year-old scotch?"

Julian took a slow, relaxed sip from his heavy glass mug, setting it down on the wooden table with a soft thud.

"The beer is four dollars, Fin," Julian said, a sharp, playful spark dancing in his blue eyes. "And unlike my father’s scotch, it doesn't come with an hour-long lecture on corporate inheritance."

"Touché," Fin laughed, shaking his head. "The Ice King has jokes now. What did you do to him, Jax?"

"He did it himself," I growled softly, my shoulder pressed against Julian's in the booth, my hand resting flat over my thigh right where his knee brushed mine.

Before Fin could fire off another insult, two guys in heavy canvas work coats, a pair of local steelworkers who had been sitting at the bar, walked over to our table holding two fresh pitchers of local ale.

"Hey," the taller one said, his face red from the cold air outside. "You're Miller and Thorne, right? The new rookies on the third line?"

I shifted in my seat, my chest tightening out of old habit, but the guy just held up his hands with a broad, toothless grin.

"Relax, big man," he chuckled. "We were at the Wolves exhibition game on Tuesday. That bank-pass off the boards you two pulled in the second period was the dirtiest piece of hockey seen in this barn in five years."

He set one of the pitchers down on our table with a heavy clack.

"First round’s on the steel plant," the guy added, slapping the dark wood. "Welcome to the River District, boys. Keep hitting 'em hard."

Julian looked at the pitcher, then looked up at the steelworker with that quiet, effortless grace that was entirely his own. "Thank you. We intend to."

As the fans walked back to the bar, Fin stared at us in disbelief. "Unbelievable. You guys have been in this city for ten minutes and you're already receiving public tributes in dive bars. I can't take you anywhere."

Julian let out a light, ringing laugh that carried over the noise of the jukebox, taking another drink of his beer while Fin kept launching into absurd stories about his landlord back in Detroit. For the first time since I'd known him, Julian looked completely at home in the middle of the noise, the sawdust, and the grit.

Later in the evening, after the tavern crowd began to thin out and the jukebox went dark, the conversation at our corner table turned quiet.

Fin pulled his phone out of his coat pocket, tapping the screen a few times before sliding it across the dark wood toward Julian.

"Thought you guys might want the final briefing," Fin said, his voice dropping into that quiet, sharp cadence he used whenever he was working behind a keyboard. "The Northwood cleanup is officially wrapped."

Julian looked down at the screen. It was a digital news article from the state legal register.

"Marcus Vance’s trial date has been set for November," Fin explained, tracing a line on the table with his thumb. "The athletic department released all the internal review files to the state prosecutor. His dad tried to pull some strings with the university board, but after Coach Clain handed over the off-the-books ledger, there wasn't a lawyer in the state willing to touch it. He’s looking at federal fraud and grand larceny."

Julian’s face remained calm, his blue eyes moving steadily across the text. "And Riley?"

"Riley Clain’s athletic agency in New York is officially dissolved," Fin said flatly. "The state licensing board revoked his credentials last Thursday. The fraud courts froze his firm's accounts to pay back the junior players he was skimming from. He’s completely out of the industry."

Julian leaned back against the leather booth, taking a slow, deep breath.

There was no anger on his face. No triumph, no lingering bitterness, and no desire for revenge. It was just the quiet, clean resolution of a chapter that had finally been closed for good.

"It’s over," Julian whispered softly, sliding the phone back to Fin.

"It’s over, Jules," Fin agreed, giving him a firm nod. "The bad guys lost, the ice is clear, and nobody’s coming down that turnpike to bother you ever again."

I looked at Julian, seeing the pale silver line of his scar under the low tavern light. The ghosts of Northwood were gone, buried under the snow, leaving nothing behind but the open road ahead of us.

By midnight, we were back at the apartment.

Julian was in the kitchen, quietly rinsing our beer glasses and stacking them in the drying rack while the warm yellow light streamed through the doorway.

I stepped out onto the small, covered wooden porch off the back hallway with Fin, the cold night air hitting us like a slap of ice water. The snow had stopped falling, leaving a quiet, pristine sheet of white covering the river docks and the dark outlines of the barges below.

Fin leaned his forearms against the wooden railing, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it with a small brass lighter. He took a short drag, blowing a plume of white smoke into the freezing air.

"You look good, Jax," Fin said quietly, not looking at me, his eyes fixed on the frozen river.

"I feel good," I grunted, leaning my shoulder against the porch post.

"I mean it, man," Fin turned his head, his dark eyes serious beneath his knit cap. "I’ve known you since we were fourteen years old in the foster system. I remember when you wouldn't say three words a day, carrying all that angry Flint iron around like a shield, expecting every door to be shut in your face."

He tapped the ash off his cigarette into the snow on the railing.

"You made it out, Jaxom," Fin whispered, his voice thick with a quiet, fierce pride. "You got your contract, you got your team, and you built a life on your own terms. Nobody gave it to you."

I stood quiet for a long moment, listening to the soft, rhythmic sound of the water moving beneath the river ice.

I turned my head and looked through the small glass window of the back door.

Inside the warm, bright kitchen, Julian was drying his hands on a towel. He stopped, looking toward the door, caught my eye through the glass, and offered a soft, quiet smile that lit up his entire face before he went back to folding the linen.

I turned back to Fin, a deep, unshakeable warmth filling my chest despite the freezing wind.

"I didn't do it alone, Fin," I said softly, my voice rough.

Fin looked through the window at Julian, then looked back at me, a soft, knowing smirk touching the corners of his mouth.

"Yeah," Fin chuckled, throwing his cigarette butt into the snow. "I guess the Ice King turned out to be pretty good company after all."

"The best," I growled, pushing open the back door and stepping back inside toward the heat, toward the light, and toward the boy who held my whole world in his hands.

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