Chapter 155: For Two Hundred Kids

NORA’S POV

The cold air inside Briar Ice Arena hummed with an energetic roar that could be heard all the way out in the parking lot.

Priya and I pushed through the heavy concourse doors, clutching paper cups of hot spiced chai from The Roost. Beneath our winter coats, the warmth of the tea battled the biting chill radiating from the ice surface.

Down on the rink, two hundred local kids between the ages of six and twelve were flooding the ice like a brightly colored tidal wave.

They wore oversized local youth league jerseys that draped down to their knees, little plastic helmets wobbling on their heads as their skates clattered and scraped across the frozen surface.

The sound of high-pitched laughter, pucks smacking into the boards, and whistles echoing off the high steel rafters filled the massive arena.

Right in the center of that chaotic storm was the Briar varsity hockey team.

They wore special-edition purple charity jerseys featuring silver-white lettering. Yet, there was no trace of the bruising, aggressive varsity squad that had battled Boston just weeks before.

Standing by the center circle, Knox had one knee dropped onto the ice, bringing himself right down to eye level with a tiny seven-year-old boy who had just lost his balance and landed flat on his padded rear.

Instead of barking an order or skating past, Knox caught the little boy under his arms and lifted him back onto his skates with ease.

Knox brushed the loose snow off the boy’s knees, gently adjusted the strap of the kid’s crooked blue helmet, and tapped the boy’s stick with his own blade.

"Bend your knees a little more, buddy," Knox’s deep voice carried over the glass. "Keep your weight centered over your blades. You’re doing great. Try it again."

The little boy looked up at Knox with wide, starstruck eyes, nodding furiously. When Knox held up a gloved fist for a bump, the kid tapped it with all his might, grinning from ear to ear before wobbling off toward the faceoff dot.

A few yards away, Bear was having the time of his life.

The six-foot-five defenseman was gliding slowly backward across the red line while three eight-year-olds practically hung off his composite stick like a monkey bar, squealing in delight as Bear pretended he was struggling to tow them across the zone.

Near the far net, Jake and Milo were running target-shooting drills, wildly throwing their arms into the air and cheering like they had won the Stanley Cup every time a kid managed to slide a puck past the foam cones.

Priya nudged my shoulder with her elbow, leaning against the plexiglass with a slow, knowing smirk.

"Okay, Bennett," Priya murmured, shaking her head. "I have to admit it. Watching a six-foot-three lethal athlete be patient and gentle with tiny children is a massive biological hazard. My ovaries are filing a class-action lawsuit."

A quiet laugh bubbled up from my throat, but beneath the humor was a profound ache in my chest.

This was the boy Garrison Sheridan called a reckless investment. This was the athlete his corporate handlers wanted to parade around like a polished trophy. Garrison had never seen this Knox... the captain who remembered what it was like to be a little kid holding a wooden stick, dreaming of the ice.

Knox blew his whistle, signaling the end of the shooting drill.

As the kids scrambled toward the benches for water, Knox turned his head. His sharp gray eyes scanned the concourse rail until they locked directly onto mine.

The serious captain focus on his face melted instantly into a private, heart-stopping smile.

Gliding across the blue line, Knox pulled up right in front of the glass where I was standing. He tapped the bottom of his stick blade against the glass right beneath my resting hand, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

He leaned close to the plexiglass and winked at me, mouthing three silent words against the cold glass: Told you so.

My cheeks warmed instantly, a helpless smile breaking across my lips as he pushed off with a sharp spray of ice and circled back to help Bear collect the practice pucks.

By ten-fifteen, the youth clinic wrapped up, and the kids were herded into the auxiliary lounge for pizza, autographed posters, and equipment distributions funded by the charity drive.

Down along the home player benches, a professional media crew took over the ice.

Studio lighting rigs, umbrella flashes, and reflective panels were rolled onto rubber mats along the boards for the official Briar Varsity Charity Calendar Photoshoot.

Every year, the athletic department sold the glossy twelve-month calendar to alumni and local businesses, donating all proceeds to the pediatric wing of the regional children’s hospital.

The team atmosphere was pure comedy.

Bear stood in front of the key light, flexing his massive biceps and squinting into the camera with an exaggerated scowl until Jake threw a roll of hockey tape at his shin pads, making the whole team erupt in roars of laughter.

Milo was ordered by the photographer to "look menacing," which resulted in Milo looking like he had swallowed a lemon, causing Coach Brennan to bark from the penalty box to wipe the clown look off his face.

Then Knox stepped into the center of the lights.

He had unzipped his padded jersey, wearing his navy Briar athletic long-sleeve that clung to every cut of his broad shoulders and narrow waist. A fresh practice jersey was draped loosely over one shoulder, his dark curls slightly damp with sweat from the two-hour skate.

The strobe light flashed, highlighting his sharp jawline, straight nose, and intense gray eyes.

The photographer fired half a dozen rapid frames, whistling under his breath in blatant admiration.

"Fantastic, Sheridan," the photographer called out. "Hold that angle right there. Chin up just a fraction. Perfect."

Priya leaned close to my ear, fanning her face with an arena program. "I take it back. It’s not just a biological hazard, Bennett. It’s an OSHA violation. How are you surviving this man on a daily basis?"

"Barely," I whispered, my heart thumping a heavy rhythm against my ribs as Knox looked over the camera lens and caught my gaze once more.

After twenty minutes of individual and team shots, the photographer gave a satisfied thumbs-up, signaling the end of the session.

The players began clearing the ice, heading toward the team tunnel to shower and change into formal suits for the corporate donor reception upstairs.

Knox skated over to the open bench gate, unstrapping his helmet and shaking out his dark curls.

"Give me ten minutes to hit the shower and ditch the pads," Knox called up to me, his chest rising and falling as he wiped a bead of sweat from his temple. "Wait for me by the concourse cafe? We’ll grab lunch before I have to talk to the board members."

"Take your time," I smiled down at him. "I’ll grab us some hot tea."

Knox flashed that devastating, crooked grin that always took the breath from my lungs, then disappeared down the rubber-lined ramp toward the varsity locker room.

Priya tapped my wrist. "I’m going to run to the restroom on the second floor before the donor crowd floods the lobby. Meet you by the cafe in five?"

"Sounds good," I said.

Priya took off up the stairs, leaving me to walk alone down the wide, heated concourse toward the concession kiosk.

The arena lobby was beginning to fill with arriving guests... wealthy Briar alumni in camel-hair overcoats, university trustees wearing navy blazers, and corporate sponsors holding leather portfolios. The scent of roasted coffee and buttery popcorn mingled in the warm air.

I reached the kiosk, ordered two large cups of peppermint tea, and waited as the barista filled the cardboard cups.

At that moment, the frosted glass doors leading from the private VIP parking deck swung open. A group of university development officials entered, talking in hushed, reverent tones as they ushered their guests inside.

Behind them, the sharp, rhythmic snap of high-heeled boots began echoing against the polished terrazzo floor.

I glanced over my shoulder, and the breath froze in my throat.

Standing in the center of that entourage was a familiar figure that made the breath freeze in my throat.

Vanessa Orwell.

She wore a neat cream cashmere coat tied at the waist with a gold buckle. Her high leather boots clicked as she walked, and she had large sunglasses pushed up into her styled blonde hair.

Behind her walked two of her sorority sycophants, whispering behind manicured hands, along with a pair of senior PR representatives carrying folders bearing the gold-embossed crest of the Orwell Development Group.

Harold Orwell was the co-title sponsor of today’s charity drive.

Vanessa had been conspicuously absent from campus all week following Monday morning’s compliance humiliation, where Dean Hastings had initiated disciplinary proceedings against Chloe.

But here, surrounded by her father’s corporate wealth and high-society donors, she walked like an untouchable queen.

Vanessa turned her head to say something to her handler, and stopped dead.

Her cold eyes swept across the lobby, locking directly onto me standing by the concession counter with two paper cups in my hands.

For a split second, shock flashed across her face.

Then the smooth, bored socialite mask fractured completely, replaced by an expression of pure hatred that turned the air ice-cold.

Vanessa handed her leather clutch to one of the girls beside her. Without a word to her entourage, she turned on her stiletto heels and marched directly across the lobby toward me.

The girls trailing behind her exchanged nervous, eager glances, while the corporate handlers paused by the elevator bank, oblivious to the storm brewing across the floor.

Vanessa came to an abrupt halt two feet in front of me, cutting off my path to the concourse corridor.

The expensive scent of gardenia perfume and cold winter air rolled off her in heavy waves. Her eyes raked over my wool sweater, my dark jeans, and the paper cups in my hands with blistering disgust.

"Well, well," Vanessa drawled, her voice dripping with toxic, polished condescension. "Look who had the audacity to show her face at an invitation-only donor event. The little work-study charity case."

Standing my ground, I tightened my grip on the cardboard cups, feeling the heat of the tea through the sleeves, and lifted my chin to meet her gaze head-on.

"The arena is open to the public for the youth clinic, Vanessa," I retorted in a completely steady voice. "And I’m waiting for Knox."

A bitter, ugly laugh tore from Vanessa’s lips.

She took a half-step closer, leaning in so only the two of us could hear.

"You really think you won, don’t you?" Vanessa hissed. "You think because Pierce swept that academic inquiry under the rug to save the hockey season, you’re untouchable? That pathetic little contract told the entire world exactly what you are, Bennett. A paid substitute."

Vanessa tilted her head, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Did you really think Chloe was the only one with copies of that agreement?"