Chapter 87 CHAPTER 87

Chapter 87 CHAPTER 87
Julian’s Pov

The press area at the River District rink wasn't a carpeted media suite with state-of-the-art microphones and custom podiums. It was a concrete corner off the main corridor, illuminated by humming fluorescent tubes and scented with damp rubber and motor oil.

Three local sports reporters stood waiting by the chain-link fence as I stepped off the ice after our morning skate, my dark blue practice jersey damp with sweat and pulled tight across my shoulders.

A middle-aged beat writer for the River District Gazette, wearing a scuffed leather jacket and holding a digital voice recorder, stepped forward first. He didn't waste time with soft opening questions about our power-play drills or puck movement.

"Julian," he began, his voice raspy from cold rink air. "Over the weekend, the financial press published details on your official separation from the Thorne Global asset trust. You’ve gone from a family legacy worth billions and a top-tier varsity scholarship to a twelve-hundred-dollar-a-month contract in an expansion league. How does it feel to trade the Thorne fortune for a minor-league locker room?"

The other two reporters lifted their recording devices, watching my face closely for any sign of aristocratic offense, regret, or pride.

Six months ago, my heart would have thudded against my ribs. I would have deployed a carefully rehearsed, evasive response drafted by my father’s public relations team to protect the family brand.

Today, I didn't even shift my stance. I leaned my Sherwood stick against the chain-link fence, wiped a bead of sweat from my cheekbone with the sleeve of my jersey, and looked the reporter straight in the eye with complete, tranquil clarity.

"The Thorne name never scored a goal on this ice," I said, my voice quiet, even, and resonant in the narrow hallway. "And it certainly never blocked a shot in the third period."

The beat writer paused, his fingers hovering over his recorder.

"I didn't come to this city to manage family politics or answer to a corporate board," I continued, offering a brief, graceful smile that carried no sharp edges. "I came here because the ice is two hundred feet long, the puck is black rubber, and the game is completely honest. The contract gives me a stall in that room and a chance to play hockey on my own terms. That’s worth considerably more to me than any asset trust."

The reporters looked at each other for a second, catching the absolute lack of bitterness or performative drama in my tone.

"What about the transition?" another journalist asked, stepping up. "The veterans in this room are tough. They aren't going to roll out a red carpet for a kid from Northwood."

"I don't want a red carpet," I replied, grabbing my stick. "I just want a shift. And I intend to earn every second of it."

I gave them a polite nod, turned on my heel, and walked down the seafoam-green corridor toward the locker room, feeling lighter with every step across the rubber matting.

By three o'clock that afternoon, the clouds had broken, leaving a sharp, brilliant blue sky over the city’s industrial skyline.

Jax had wrapped a thick woolen scarf around his neck over a dark canvas jacket, his long legs setting a steady, relaxed pace as we walked down the riverfront brick path. My ribs were dull and quiet today, held firmly by my medical brace, and the cold, brisk breeze off the water felt clean against my face.

This wasn't Northwood’s manicured grounds or the polished stone walkways of my childhood estate in Connecticut.

Here, the river path ran past old iron foundries with oxidized copper roofs, active grain elevators where heavy barges creaked against rubber bumpers, and vast yards of stacked cedar timber. The air carried a raw, working scent, wet wood, river silt, diesel exhaust, and roasting coffee beans from a nearby warehouse.

"You're quiet," Jax said, shifting his position so he walked on the river side of the path, taking the brunt of the cold wind.

"I was just thinking," I said, reaching out to hook my arm through his, resting my gloved hand over the sleeve of his coat. "If my father saw this district, he’d call it an blighted industrial zone earmarked for demolition."

Jax let out a short, quiet grunt, his dark eyes sweeping over a towering brick smokestack. "And what do you call it?"

I looked at the weathered red brick, at the iron bridges spanning the dark water, and at the workers in orange high-visibility vests laughing together outside an engine repair shop.

"I call it honest," I said softly. "At Northwood, every building was designed to look like it had stood for three hundred years, but everything inside felt temporary and fragile. Here, the concrete is cracked, the iron is rusted, but you know exactly what held it together."

Jax slowed his pace, a quiet, warm look settling in his dark eyes as he looked down at me. "You fit in here better than you think, Jules."

"I'm starting to realize that," I murmured.

We turned up a narrow cobblestone alley two blocks off the docks and found a small, quiet coffee shop tucked beneath a low brick archway. A handwritten wooden sign above the door read THE IRON DOCK.

Inside, there were no velvet armchairs or classical string quartets playing through hidden speakers. The shop consisted of six heavy oak tables built from old shipping crates, a iron stove crackling in the corner, and a quiet old woman behind a zinc counter pouring black coffee into thick ceramic mugs.

We sat together at a corner table near the front glass. Jax ordered two dark coffees and a plate of fresh cinnamon rolls still steaming from the baker's oven.

I held the heavy ceramic mug in both hands, letting the dark warmth soak into my palms, watching the river barges pass slowly by the window.

"No press releases," I said softly, looking across the table at Jax’s broad chest and the quiet, solid reality of his face. "No dress codes. No assigned seating."

Jax reached across the dark pine table, his thick, calloused fingers wrapping firmly over mine, his thumb stroking my wrist. "Just us, Jules. Just the work."

I smiled, taking a sip of the strong, rich coffee, feeling a quiet sense of peace settle deep into my chest.

At seven o'clock, the team gathered at Miller’s Tavern & Chop House, a seventy-year-old steakhouse near the rail yards with dark wood paneling, red leather booths, and low yellow light.

It was a mandatory welcome dinner for the new roster additions, paid for out of the team's veteran fines pool.

The room was loud, filled with the deep, rumbling laughter of twenty-eight grown men, the heavy clatter of thick dinner plates, and the sizzle of ribeyes coming out of the kitchen.

Jax and I sat together in a booth near the middle of the dining room. I had taken off my coat, wearing a simple dark blue sweater, while Jax sat beside me in a black thermal shirt, his broad shoulder pressed firmly against mine in the crowded booth.

Throughout the meal, I noticed the veterans watching us.

They didn't pry or ask crude questions, but their sharp, experienced eyes took in the unspoken rhythm between us. They saw the way Jax automatically shifted the salt and water glasses toward my side of the table to save my ribs from reaching. They saw the way my hand rested naturally on the leather bench right behind his knee, and the absolute, unshakeable ease with which we shared our space.

In high-society parlance, relationships were strategic alliances, carefully managed press disclosures aimed at maximizing family capital.

Here, in a room full of men who had spent fifteen years riding overnight buses across the Midwest, loyalty wasn't analyzed through a public relations lens. They recognized the real thing when they saw it. They saw two guys who had bled together on the sheet, survived a public war, and stood shoulder to shoulder without an inch of space between them.

Stasiak, the heavy veteran winger who had slammed me into the glass during practice, sat across the aisle. He cut a thick slice of steak, looked over at Jax’s split knuckles, then looked at my quiet posture.

He raised his heavy glass mug of draft beer toward us in a short, unceremonious toast, took a long drink, and went right back to eating without saying a word.

"That's high praise from Stasiak," Jax muttered near my ear, his breath warm against my neck.

"I'll take it," I whispered back, a faint smile touching my lips.

Near the end of the night, as the noise in the tavern began to settle into low conversations and the clink of coffee cups, Vance "Mac" Miller stood up from the head table.

The thirty-two-year-old captain held a cold bottle of local ale in his heavy, scarred hand. He walked slowly down the center aisle of the dining room, his heavy work boots thudding against the dark carpet, and stopped right at the edge of our booth.

The surrounding tables went quiet. Guys turned around in their seats, watching to see what the veteran defenseman was going to do.

Vance looked down at Jax first, acknowledging his solid stance with a tight nod. Then his small, dark eyes moved to me, taking in my posture, my sweater, and the calm, steady way I met his stare.

He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a second bottle of cold ale, and set it down on the dark wood table right in front of my plate with a solid clink.

"You handled the press corps well this morning, Thorne," Vance said, his voice like gravel scraping over concrete, loud enough to carry across the quiet restaurant.

"Thank you, Vance," I replied evenly.

Vance rested his heavy forearm on the high back of our booth, leaning down slightly. His broken nose gave his face a harsh, formidable angle under the yellow tavern lights.

"I read that financial article this afternoon," Vance continued, his eyes locked on mine. "My wife showed it to me. Said your family cut you off from a billion dollars because you wouldn't play by their rules."

The room remained completely still.

Vance paused, taking a slow sip from his bottle before looking around at the rest of the team.

"I've known a lot of rich kids in this league," Vance growled softly, turning his dark eyes back to me. "Most of 'em play hockey until their daddy finds 'em a real job at an investment firm. Most of 'em break the second a thirty-year-old defenseman digs a shoulder into their ribs."

He reached out his broad, calloused hand, pointing a thick finger straight at my chest.

"But a man who walks away from a billion dollars just so he can sit in a cold locker room, take body checks, and play hockey for twelve hundred bucks a month..." Vance paused, a rare, faint smirk cracking the hard line of his weathered face. "...that man isn't a rich kid. That's a hockey player."

A low, approving murmur rippled through the booths around us. Stasiak slapped his hand against the wooden table, and two other veterans banged their glass mugs against the leather seats.

Vance lifted his bottle toward me. "Welcome to the Wolverines, Julian."

I looked at the cold bottle of ale sitting on the dark wood, then up at the captain’s scarred face. The test was over. The Thorne fortune didn't matter here; the media circus didn't matter here. I had earned my place on their ice with my own skin, my own choices, and my own quiet iron.

I picked up the bottle, lifted it to meet his, and let the glass click softly in the warm tavern light.

"Glad to be here, Captain," I said.

Beside me, Jax’s broad hand settled heavily over my knee under the table, his fingers squeezing tight, anchoring me to the warm, solid reality of our new life.

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