Chapter 32 The ice king
Chapter 32: The Ice King (Liam’s POV)
"Level with us, Liam. Is the Ghost your new Queen, or are you just playing with the trash?"
Jax’s voice echoed through the cold, hollow air of the rink. The Jumbotron was still glowing with that grainy, stolen footage of me pulling Elena into my bed. My teammates were staring at me, their faces a mix of confusion and mocking grins.
I let out a slow, cold breath, the vapor swirling in front of my face. I didn't flinch. I didn't look guilty. I looked at Jax like he was a bug I was about to crush under my skate.
"Don't be stupid, Jax," I said, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "Look at her. Then look at the girls I usually have in my bed. You really think I’d trade a steak for a side of dirt?"
A few of the guys chuckled, the tension breaking just a little.
"The video doesn't lie, Cap," Jax pushed, crossing his arms over his chest. "You looked pretty cozy."
"I was protecting my father’s merger," I snapped, stepping into his space until our visors almost touched. "Chloe planted a bracelet in her room to start drama. If the cops arrested her in a Vance house, the press would have a field day and the Miller deal would die. I did what I had to do to shut her up and hide the evidence. I didn't touch her because I wanted to; I touched her because I had to keep her quiet. She’s a scholarship rat, Jax. She’s below my level, and she’s definitely below my interest. Clear enough for you?"
Jax stared at me for a long beat, searching for a lie. Finally, he spat on the ice and nodded. "Clear. Just making sure you haven't lost your mind, Vance. Let’s play."
I played that game like a monster.
Every time I hit the ice, I felt a surge of raw, aggressive power. I was the Playboy, the Captain, the untouchable Liam Vance. I body-checked the opposing team’s forwards into the boards so hard the glass rattled for minutes. I didn't just want to win; I wanted to remind everyone—especially myself—who was in charge.
I scored two goals in the first period alone. Every time the puck hit the back of the net, the crowd roared my name. I could see the girls in the front row, their faces pressed against the glass, screaming for a glance. One girl threw a rose onto the ice; another was holding up a sign with her phone number in massive red digits.
I soaked it in. This was where I belonged. Not in a quiet library with a girl who looked at me like I was a villain.
By the time the final buzzer sounded, we had won 4-1. I was the hero of the night. As we skated off toward the tunnel, the usual swarm of "Vance Groupies" leaned over the railings.
"Liam! Over here!"
"Great game, Liam! Take a picture!"
I flashed them my trademark smirk, the one that had broken a dozen hearts since freshman year. I took a phone from a gorgeous brunette, snapped a quick selfie, and handed it back with a wink that made her nearly faint. I was back. I was the King. Elena Marycynthia was just a bad dream I’d had in the dark.
But then, I saw her.
She was standing at the edge of the tunnel, far away from the screaming girls. She looked tiny in her oversized coat, her black cane looking out of place against the bright, polished concrete of the arena. She wasn't smiling. She wasn't impressed. She looked at me with those sharp, observant eyes, and suddenly, all the cheers from the crowd felt like background noise.
Why is she here? I started walking toward her, my skates clacking loudly on the rubber floor. I wanted to tell her to get out. I wanted to remind her that this was my kingdom, not her dusty West Wing.
The floor near the entrance was a mess—melted ice, spilled soda, and the smooth, treacherous concrete. As Elena stepped forward to meet me, her cane hit a slick patch.
Her eyes went wide. Her good leg slipped, and she started to go down, her head heading straight for the sharp corner of a metal equipment trunk.
"Elena!"
I didn't think. I didn't care about Jax watching, or Chloe in the VIP box, or the girls still screaming my name. I dropped my stick—my lucky, three-hundred-dollar carbon fiber stick—and lunged.
I caught her just in time. My arms wrapped around her waist, and I pulled her flush against my chest, my heavy hockey pads absorbing the impact as we both hit the ground. The force of it sent us sliding a few inches.
The arena went dead silent.
I was on my knees, breathing hard, holding the "Scholarship Girl" like she was the most precious thing I owned. Her face was buried in the neck of my jersey, and I could feel her heart racing against my chest. She was shaking.
"Are you okay?" I whispered, my voice cracked and raw, completely stripped of its arrogant edge.
Elena looked up at me, her face inches from mine. Her eyes were swimming with shock, her breath hitching in her throat. For a second, the mask was gone. She wasn't the "Ghost" and I wasn't the "King." We were just two people breathing the same cold air.
The silence was broken by the sound of a hundred camera shutters.
I realized what I was doing. I realized I was kneeling in a puddle of dirty ice water, holding a girl I had just called "side of dirt" in front of the entire school.
I stood up abruptly, pulling her to her feet with me. I felt a wave of hot, stinging shame. I could see the phones out. I could see the shock on my teammates' faces.
"You're clumsy, Elena," I snapped, my voice returning to that cold, disgusted sneer. I let go of her as if she had burned me. "Try not to die on my watch. I don't need the paperwork."
Elena’s face hardened instantly. The softness I’d seen for a split second was replaced by a familiar, jagged pride. She straightened her coat and gripped her cane, her knuckles white.
"I didn't ask for a hero, Liam," she said, her voice trembling but sharp. "I just came to tell you that your father is waiting. He’s not happy about the video. Neither am I."
She turned and hobbled away, her cane clicking rhythmically against the floor. Every step she took was a slap in my face.
"Vance!" Jax walked up, picking up my discarded stick and looking at me like I’d lost my mind. "You dropped your stick. For her. You never drop your stick."
"She was falling, Jax," I said, my jaw so tight it ached. I grabbed the stick from him and shoved past the team. "It was a reflex. Nothing more."
I walked into the locker room, but I didn't feel like a winner. I felt like a man who had just set his own throne on fire. I looked at my hands—they were covered in the dirty ice water from the floor where I’d held her.
I hated her. I hated that she had seen me break character. And most of all, I hated that even with a locker room full of victory, all I could feel was the ghost of her hands clutching my jersey.