Chapter 42 Chapter 42
Chapter 42 Chapter 42
The success of the first trial was undeniable. Within fourteen days, the chronic pain in my shoulder—the dull, grinding ache that had defined my mornings for three years—was gone. The scans showed the tissue had knitted back together with the structural integrity of a teenager’s.
But as the news of the "North Star Miracle" began to leak out, a new kind of chaos emerged. This wasn't the violet venom of Sloane or the corporate greed of Arthur. It was the desperate, crushing weight of hope.
Hundreds of people began to camp outside the Academy. Not skaters, but parents of children with degenerative bone diseases, veterans with shattered limbs, and athletes whose careers had ended in a single, tragic heartbeat. They didn't want the "Golden Boy." They wanted the cure.
"We can't do this, Reid," Iris said, looking out the window at the growing crowd. "We aren't a hospital. We’re a skating rink. We don't have the staff, the insurance, or the capacity to handle this."
"But we have the science," I said, the weight of their expectations pressing against my chest. "How do we tell a mother that we have the technology to make her son walk, but we won't use it because our zoning permit says we’re for sports?"
The tension between our dream and our discovery began to fray our nerves. The Academy, which had been a sanctuary, felt like a fortress under siege. Reporters were posing as parents to get inside. Rival pharmaceutical companies were sending "consultants" with blank checks.
The breaking point came when a father managed to bypass security and cornered Iris in the locker room, holding out a file of his daughter’s medical records and begging for a "slot" in the protocol. Iris had collapsed into a panic attack, the trauma of being hunted by Nikolai and Sloane resurfacing in the face of this new, desperate pressure.
"We have to go public with the science," I told Quinn that night. "We have to give it away. We can't be the gatekeepers of this. It’ll kill us."
"If you give it away, the Van Dorens or someone like them will just grab it and patent it," Quinn warned. "You have to open-source it. Release it to the world's medical universities simultaneously. Burn the bridge so no one can own it."
It was a terrifying prospect. Giving away the "Legacy Protocol" meant giving up the one thing that could make us billionaires. It meant choosing the soul of the science over the profit of the discovery. But as I looked at Iris, sleeping fitfully on the sofa, I knew there was no other way. The plan was executed with the precision of a power play. We spent seventy-two hours straight preparing the data packets. Quinn built a decentralized server that would "bloom" at exactly 8:00 AM Central Time, sending the complete Legacy Protocol to every major teaching hospital and medical research facility on five continents.
We held the press conference on the ice of the North Star Academy. No podium, no fancy lights. Just me and Iris, standing at center ice, with the silver drive in her hand.
"This research does not belong to the North Star Academy," Iris told the cameras, her voice echoing through the rafters. "And it does not belong to the Van Doren Sports Group. It belongs to the human race. Today, we are releasing the blueprints for the Chen-Volkov Regeneration Protocol to the public domain. It is free. It is un-patentable. And it is our gift to everyone who has ever been told that 'broken' is a permanent state."
The silence in the room was deafening. The reporters, the corporate spies, and the desperate families all stared in disbelief. We were giving away the most valuable medical discovery of the decade.
By noon, the "North Star Gambit" was the top story on every news cycle. The Van Dorens' remaining stock value plummeted as their "proprietary" claims were rendered moot. But more importantly, the pressure on the Academy evaporated. We were no longer the gatekeepers; we were the pioneers who had opened the door for everyone else.
As the sun set on the quieted Academy, Mila took the ice. She wasn't wearing the haptic sensors, but she was moving with a fluidity we hadn't seen in years. The protocols had been integrated into her physical therapy, and for the first time, she landed a double-Salchow without a wince of pain.
"I think your father is finally at peace, Iris," I said, watching Mila glide.
"I think we all are," she replied.
Peace, however, was a fragile thing in the world of professional sports. Just as we were settling into our new roles as educators and philanthropists, a ghost from my own past returned to haunt us.
A letter arrived from the NHL’s disciplinary committee. It wasn't a subpoena, but an invitation. They were reopening the investigation into the 2022 season—the year I had supposedly "retired" due to injury. New evidence had surfaced suggesting that my "recovery" had been aided by illegal performance-enhancing methods provided by Nikolai Volkov.
"They’re trying to strip your titles, Reid," Quinn said, looking at the letter. "And they’re trying to ban you from ever being associated with a professional team again. This isn't about the science. This is about the league trying to cover their own tracks by making you the scapegoat."
"I never took a drug in my life," I snapped.
"They don't care about drugs. they're defining the haptic feedback as 'neuro-doping.' They’re saying that because you used the protocols to heal, you cheated."
The hypocrisy was staggering. The same league that had authorized Volkov’s "supplementary programs" was now trying to crucify me for using the same science to survive.
"I’ll testify," Iris said, her jaw set. "I’ll show them the difference between the 'shocks' Nikolai used and the 'resonance' we developed. If they want to put the science on trial, let them. We’ve already won that battle once."
But the hearing wasn't in a courtroom; it was in a closed boardroom at the NHL headquarters. It was a kangaroo court of suits who wanted to protect the "integrity of the shield." I realized that to save the Academy’s reputation, I might have to do the one thing I had promised Iris I would never do.
I had to step back into the spotlight of the Golden Boy.