Chapter 62 The Sixty-Foot Line
Chapter 62 The Sixty-Foot Line
"Get out of my way, Miller," I said, my boots skidding against the wet rubber flooring of the lower ice tunnel.
Miller didn't move an inch. He stood right in front of the heavy double doors of the home locker room, his varsity pads making him look twice his size under the flickering halogen tubes. The muffled roar of three thousand fans in the bleachers vibrated straight through the concrete wall behind his head. The game was exactly four minutes from the first puck drop, and the national scouts were already in the center press box.
"Knox isn't talking to anyone, Lila," Miller said, his voice flat as he pointed a taped glove toward the ice entrance. "He’s been on the bench since the warm-up cleared. He didn't even put his visor on. If you try to drag him into another argument before the scouts log the first shift, Coach Foley will have security carry you out of this rink."
"He gave up his signing bonus, Miller," I hissed, thrusting my white, gauze-wrapped wrists right against his chest pads. "He didn't pay me off to clear his brother. He signed the league voucher over to my dad's estate so your board lawyers couldn't file the theft charges against me. If he misses the scout cut tonight, he owes the league thirty thousand dollars."
Miller’s jaw went completely slack. He looked from my bleeding bandages to the locker room doors, then back to my face.
"He did what?" Miller whispered.
"Open the door," I commanded.
Miller didn't argue this time. He stepped aside, yanking the heavy brass handle back to let me break through into the dark equipment corridor.
The air inside smelled like old ice, stale sweat, and damp leather. Knox was sitting alone on the far end of the wooden bench, his helmet resting on his knees. He didn't have his jersey on yet—just his black padded compression shirt. His shoulders were slumped, his blue eyes staring entirely blank at the concrete floor between his skates.
"You're an idiot, Knox Ryder," I said, the heavy door slamming shut behind me with a loud wooden bang.
Knox didn't jump. He slowly raised his head, his face looking completely pale and exhausted under the harsh locker room bulb. When he saw my face, his jaw clenched tight, the skin over his cheekbones turning white.
"Lila," he said, his voice a low, rough rasp that barely carried over the noise of the crowd outside. "I told you the keys were on the counter. Why aren't you at the apartment?"
"Because Mason told me about the voucher," I said, walking straight down the center aisle between the rows of green lockers until I was standing two feet from his skates. "You didn't use your family fund. You signed your entire senior year contract over to my father's savings account to keep the Shaw lawyers from locking me in a cell."
Knox stood up from the bench, his massive frame completely crowding my space, his skates clicking loudly on the rubber. He didn't reach for my hands, but his chest was rising and falling in fast, heavy breaths.
"The lawyers were going to execute the warrant by 6:00 AM, Lila," Knox hissed, his face inches from mine. "If the commercial contract wasn't logged as a pre-existing transaction, the police would have arrested you on the admin steps. I didn't do it to buy you out. I did it because I wasn't going to let them take you."
"And what happens if you don't make the league cut tonight?" I asked, a hot tear finally spilling over my lower lid. "You owe them double the fee. You threw away your entire career for a code file."
Knox reached out, his thick, rough fingers gently catching my jaw, avoiding the raw blisters near my ears. He pulled my face up until my eyes locked onto his, the dangerous, cold focus completely draining from his expression.
"I didn't throw it away for a file, Lila," Knox whispered, his thumb tracing a slow, warm line against my skin. "I threw it away for you. Now sit on that bench and shut up, because I have a game to win."