Chapter 42 The Final Face-Off

Chapter 42 The Final Face-Off
"If you miss this shot, Ryder, you can look for another team to play for next winter," Coach Foley said.
He stood right at the edge of the ice, leaning over the plastic barrier. He didn't look at the game. His eyes were locked on Knox, who sat on the wooden bench, breathing heavily in his black jersey. The silver number eighty-four on his shoulder was covered in gray slush from a hard hit he had taken into the boards two minutes ago.
Knox didn't look up right away. He spit a bit of ice onto the floor, wiped his mouth with his thick padded glove, and then lifted his chin. His blue eyes were perfectly clear under the bright yellow lights.
"The line is fine, Coach," Knox said. His voice was rough and scraped dry, barely louder than the roar of the three thousand people packed into the old Cherry Street warehouse. "Just tell the ref to drop the puck."
Foley let out a short grunt and stepped back. He didn't say anything to me, but he gave the stack of freshly printed documents on the equipment table a slow nod before walking back to the other coaches.
The arena around us felt ready to explode. The small parking lot outside had filled by noon, forcing local police cars to block off the bridge to keep the extra crowds from spilling onto the icy riverbanks. Inside, the students from the main campus took up the entire west side, a sea of blue and gold coats stamping their feet against the old wooden stands until the metal walls of the building shook.
In the lower seats right behind our bench, the scouts sat in a quiet row. They weren't cheering. They just watched every move Knox made, their black tablets glowing in the cold air.
Knox slid his skates across the rubber mat, the metal making a sharp clicking sound before he hit the ice. He didn't look at the scouts, and he didn't look at the television cameras tracking him from the blue line. He skated straight to where I was leaning against the wooden barrier, and the clean scent of his skin hit me instantly.
"You're supposed to be behind the glass, Lila," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, deep tone that belonged only to me.
"The glass is too crowded," I told him, wrapping my fingers tightly around the top of the wood. My hands were freezing, but the heat coming off his jersey was solid and real. "Mason said his father's lawyers are already trying to stop the league audit. They want to freeze your contract before the game ends."
Knox let out a short laugh that didn't reach his eyes. He leaned down, his massive frame completely blocking the view of the nearest camera crew as he pressed his forehead against mine. His breath was a warm cloud of steam that settled over my lips, cutting through the freezing chill of the warehouse.
"Richard Shaw doesn't own this rink tonight," Knox whispered, his fingers tightening around the grip of his hockey stick. "He can file whatever paperwork he wants. The second the puck hits the ice, the only thing the league is going to care about is the score."
He lifted his stick, turning the blade until the overhead lights caught the fresh, thick wrap of black tape. Written in bold, silver marker right across the center of the tape was a single word: LILA.
My heart gave a heavy thump against my ribs, my pulse jumping so hard I knew he could see it through the collar of my sweater. "Knox, every sports page in the state is going to screenshot that stick the second you take the opening face-off."
"Let them screenshot it," Knox said, a slow smile touching his lips before his look turned completely serious. He leaned in an inch closer, his mouth brushing against mine with a slow, heavy pressure that made the noise of the three thousand people in the stands disappear completely.
The kiss was deep, slow, and totally public, right in front of the team benches where Foley and the officials were standing. He tasted like the mint he always chewed before a shift and the sharp cold of the rink. His un-gloved hand came up, his rough fingers sliding behind the hood of my sweater to cup the back of my neck, holding me steady against him until my legs felt like they were going to give out under the weight of his pads.
When he finally broke the kiss to breathe, his blue eyes were dark and intensely focused, completely missing the cold bad-boy mask he used to wear like armor on campus.
"The New York editor called Foley's office ten minutes ago," Knox whispered against my mouth, his thumb tracing a slow circle over my cheekbone. "They're finishing the print rights for your book. The league just approved the promotion for the draft broadcast."
"What did you tell them?" I asked, my hands sliding inside the unzipped edge of his jacket to feel the steady, fast rhythm of his chest.
"I told them we'd sign the papers together after the sixty minutes are up," Knox said, his smile widening in a way that made my chest ache. "Now go stand behind Foley. I've got a game to finish."
He pulled his heavy glove back onto his hand, turned his back to the box, and skated out toward the center circle.
The horn blasted through the rafters, a sharp note that meant the final lines were set. Mason was already waiting at the red line, his white uniform a sharp contrast to Knox's black jersey. He didn't look at Knox with the old anger anymore; he just squared his shoulders, raised his stick, and nodded once as the referee stepped into the middle of the circle.
Knox leaned low over his blade, his body locking into a tight, aggressive stance as the referee lifted the black rubber puck. The silver letters on his stick flashed under the lamps, catching the light one last time before the whistle blew and the entire arena dissolved into a fast, screaming blur of ice and steel.
The sixty minutes went by like a war. By the final ten seconds of the third period, the score was tied four to four. My chest was so tight I could barely breathe as I watched Knox fight through two defensemen near the blue line, his skates cutting deep trenches into the dying ice.
He didn't pass. He drove his shoulder right into the lead defenseman, the sound of their pads slamming together echoing through the building like a car crash. He ripped the puck toward the top corner of the net just as the final buzzer shook the rafters.
The red light behind the glass flashed. The crowd didn't just scream; the noise was loud enough to fracture the old wooden stands. Knox didn't celebrate. He skated straight off the ice, his blades clicking sharply on the rubber mats as he pushed past the cheering players and stopped right in front of where I stood.
He didn't even take off his helmet. He grabbed my waist, lifting me completely off the ground as the arena doors behind us burst open and a league official pushed his way into the box with a phone in his hand.
"Ryder, put the girl down and look at the monitor," Coach Foley called out, his voice cutting through the screaming crowd as he pointed a shaking finger at the screen above the benches. "Foley’s contract just got pulled by the league office, and it isn't because of the audit."
Knox set my feet back on the rubber, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the screen.
The broadcast ticker at the bottom of the television wasn't showing his draft stats. It was a live video feed from the NHL headquarters in New York, and the man standing at the microphone was a league representative holding a completely different file.
"We have just received a secondary, verified leak from the university's internal server," the reporter on the screen announced. "The real author of the manuscript isn't Lila Bennett. And the contract she just signed wasn't with a publisher."
Knox turned his head slowly, his blue eyes locking onto mine with a look that made my blood go entirely cold.
"Lila," Knox said, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper that made the entire screaming arena disappear. "Why did your mother just walk into the league office with your laptop?"