Chapter 41 The Red Line on the Ice

Chapter 41 The Red Line on the Ice

"Your boots are completely soaked," Knox said.
He didn't wait for my permission. Before I could even track the movement, his hands slid under my thighs and behind my back, lifting me off the splintered wood of the bench in one clean, effortless motion. I let out a soft gasp, my arms instantly looping around his neck as he carried me over the threshold of the wooden boards and straight out onto the dead ice.
The gray, unzambonied surface cracked faintly under the heavy heels of his winter boots, but his balance was perfectly steady. The cavernous warehouse was dead silent around us, save for the low, hypnotic buzz of the single row of yellow mercury lamps hanging far overhead.
"Knox, put me down, you're going to slip," I laughed softly, burying my face into the warm crook of his neck to shield myself from the sudden draft.
"I've been on the ice since I was four years old, Lila," he murmured, his voice a deep, gravelly vibration right against my ear. "I’m not dropping you. Not on this rink. Not anywhere."
He didn't put me down. Instead, he walked deeper toward the center of the rink, the dark shadows of the empty stadium bleachers framing us like a private fortress. When he finally stopped right over the faded, dusty red line, he didn't set my feet onto the freezing surface. He just shifted my weight, sliding me down the heavy, insulated front of his hockey jacket until my hips were locked against his, my sneakers resting completely on top of his heavy boots.
The heat radiating off his body cut through the sub-zero air of the warehouse like a furnace. His hands came up, sliding inside the oversized hood of my sweater to cup the back of my neck, his long, calloused fingers burying deep into my hair.
"Look around," Knox whispered, his forehead pressing gently against mine. His breath was a sweet, warm cloud of white steam that settled over my lips. "There are no cameras here. No Shaws. No compliance boards. Just me and the girl who wrote a story so loud it woke up the whole damn league."
"They're going to call it a circus tomorrow," I breathed, my hands sliding inside his unzipped jacket, my palms flattening against the solid, racing pulse of his chest. "The scouts are going to look at me and think I'm a distraction."
"Let them think whatever they want," Knox said, his icy blue eyes widening in the dim light, burning with an intensity that made my knees go entirely weak. "I’m going to go out there for sixty minutes tomorrow night, and I’m going to put the puck in the net until Foley’s scouts have to re-ink the paper right on the ice. And I’m doing it with your name on my stick."
My heart gave a violent, beautiful stutter. "You're what?"
"I’m custom-wrapping the tape before the morning skate," he said, a slow, wicked trace of his old cocky smile touching his lips before his expression turned completely fierce. He leaned down, his mouth brushing against mine with a slow, deliberate pressure that made the freezing air around us disappear entirely. "Every scout in the executive box is going to know exactly who owns the line. I’m done hiding you, Lila. I’m done letting people think this was a game."
He kissed me then, and it was the kind of kiss that made the entire world outside the corrugated iron walls feel completely insignificant. It wasn't the frantic, desperate hunger of the apartment hallway, or the careful, guarded touches of our fake dates on campus. It was heavy, deep, and utterly possessive, his tongue sliding inside my mouth to taste the residual cold of the diner coffee and the winter wind, his thumbs pressing firmly into my jawline to hold me completely captive to him.
I arched into him, my fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, pulling myself closer until there wasn't a single millimeter of space left between us. The old rink felt like a sacred space, the yellow light painting the rough, unpolished ice beneath our feet like gold leaf.
When he finally broke the kiss to breathe, his lips lingered against my mouth, his thumb tracing a slow, mindless circle over my cheekbone.
"I used to sit at that kitchen table during Thanksgiving dinners and watch you pretend to be invisible," Knox whispered, his voice dropping into that dark, raw register that belonged only to me. "You’d hide behind those textbook covers, and I’d sit there losing my mind because the golden boy didn't even know what he had under his own roof. I hated him for it. But I hated myself more for wanting to break the rules."
"Why didn't you?" I asked, my voice trembling as I looked straight into the blue of his eyes.
"Because I didn't think I could keep you safe from the mess I carry," he said simply. He reached down, his large hand sliding down to wrap around mine, squeezing my fingers until the pressure was almost painful. "But the mess is already here. And there isn't a single person on that campus who can take you away from me now."
The phone in my jacket pocket gave a sudden, sharp buzz.
I didn't reach for it, but the screen lit up through the thin fabric, casting a brief blue glow against his hip. It was an automated email notification from my public writing portal, the anonymous account where the story had originally lived before the world blew it apart.
Knox reached down, his fingers sliding into my pocket to pull the phone out. He didn't check the media alerts or the text messages from Mason's father. He opened the author dashboard, his eyes scanning the data scrolling across the glass.
The anonymous story had been officially verified by the league registry's public relation branch as an authentic, historical fiction piece. The follower count wasn't eight hundred anymore. It was ticking past fifty thousand, the comment section updating so fast the digital interface was lagging under the volume.
"Looks like your editor called back," Knox said, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest as he held the screen up between us.
A direct message was pinned at the top of the inbox, bearing the verified blue check of one of the largest mainstream romance publishing houses in New York.
Lila Bennett, the message read. We've been tracking the registry leak since eight o'clock. We don't care about the university board's statement. We want the print rights for the full manuscript before the Monday night puck drops. Name your terms.
I stared at the screen, the breath completely leaving my lungs as the yellow mercury lights hummed above us.
Knox threw the phone onto the wooden bench behind us, his hands instantly returning to my waist, lifting me slightly until my eyes were level with his.
"Monday night isn't just my draft skate anymore, Lila," Knox whispered, his mouth curving into a dangerous, beautiful smile that made my chest ache.
"What is it?" I asked, my fingers curling tightly into his shoulders.
Knox leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as the sound of the wind rattled the old iron roof above the ice.
"It's the first chapter of the book we're going to sell them," he said.