Chapter 39: Touché

The deafening silence inside the Briar Ice Arena felt heavy enough to suffocate a person.

Down on the ice, twenty varsity players stood frozen in their tracks. Coach Brennan was still staring at me in disbelief, his metal whistle dangling limply from his fingers.

The entire arena seemed to hold its breath, the low hum of the refrigeration system vibrating through the cold air.

Knox didn’t say a word for three long seconds. His eyes remained locked on mine, his jaw clenching so hard I could see the sharp muscle ticking beneath his skin.

Then, without looking back at his coach or his teammates, Knox unclipped his helmet strap, unceremoniously yanked the helmet off his head, and tossed it onto the bench cushion. He handed his stick off to Jake without a word.

"Sheridan!" Coach Brennan shouted, finally finding his voice as he glided two steps toward the bench boards. "Where do you think you’re going? We have twenty minutes left on the ice!"

"Practice is over for me, Coach," Knox replied in a low, gravelly voice. "I have to handle something."

Before Brennan could erupt into a full tirade, Knox stepped off the ice through the bench door. His skate guards clicked sharply against the rubber matting as he reached out, grabbing my upper arm in a firm grip and steering me straight into the concrete hallway tunnel behind the arena.

The moment the metal fire doors swung shut behind us, cutting off the cold drafts and the echo of the ice rink, Knox dropped his hand and turned on me.

"Are you insane, Bennett?" he demanded in a harsh voice that sounded more like a growl and vibrated through the narrow corridor. "You don’t storm onto the ice and pull the captain out of practice in front of the entire team and the coaching staff."

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t step back. I reached into my jacket pocket, pulled out my phone, unlocked the screen, and shoved it directly against his broad, padded chest.

"Look at the screen, Sheridan."

Knox glared down at me, his dark eyebrows pulling together, but his gaze shifted to the bright phone display.

On the screen was the high-resolution photo I had taken ten minutes ago of my locker door, defaced with violent, dripping red spray paint scrawling SLUT across the top panel and BITCH across the bottom.

Knox went completely still.

For a fraction of a second, the cold, arrogant mask he wore so effortlessly fell apart. His eyes narrowed into pitch-black slits, his chest expanding as his breathing went heavy.

"What is this?" Knox asked, his voice dropping an octave, turning terrifyingly quiet.

"That’s my locker in the library corridor," I said icily. "The kind of attention I’m getting from your bitches wasn’t part of our bargain, Sheridan. I agreed to act like your girlfriend in public so you could fix your reputation and keep your eligibility. I did NOT agree to take public humiliation while you collect Instagram likes and impress Harold Orwell."

Knox stared at the photo for another long beat, his calloused fingers tightening around the edge of his leather gloves until the stitching strained under the pressure.

"Who did it?" Knox rasped out.

"How should I know?" I asked incredulously. "Vanessa Orwell strutted down the hallway three minutes later to give me a theatrical performance of false pity," I replied coldly, crossing my arms tight over my chest. "And Chloe was standing right in the front row recording the whole thing on her phone like it was a sports broadcast. Take your pick."

Knox didn’t hesitate.

He pulled his phone from his track jacket pocket, tapped a quick speed-dial number, and pressed it to his ear.

"Chief Reynolds," Knox barked into the receiver the moment Campus Security picked up. "I need the security camera footage for the second-floor humanities alcove near the library wing. Right now."

He paused, listening to the security chief on the line. I watched Knox’s jaw lock into iron as Reynolds spoke, his eyes darkening further.

"What do you mean it’s out of service?" Knox growled. "The camera facing that locker bay... since when? Twenty minutes ago?"

Knox let out a harsh, bitter scoff, pacing a short circle on the rubber matting. "Right. A convenient technical malfunction. Send Facilities up to the second floor right now with an industrial paint crew. I want that locker scrubbed, stripped, and repainted before twelve o’clock, or I’m taking this directly to AD Pierce and the Dean."

Knox ended the call without waiting for a reply, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

He ran a hand through his dark, sweat-dampened hair, letting out a heavy, frustrated breath that echoed in the quiet concrete tunnel.

He looked down at me, his sharp features illuminated by the harsh fluorescent hallway lights.

"Campus Facilities is on their way up," Knox said, his tone still rigid. "They are going to make sure the paint is stripped and repainted before your afternoon class."

I took a slow breath, stepping back slightly against the concrete wall.

The surge of adrenaline that had carried me from the humanities building to the ice arena was finally fading, leaving behind a dull, hollow ache in my chest.

"Thank you," I muttered quietly, looking down at my boots.

Knox watched me silently for a long beat.

The tension in his broad shoulders didn’t fully dissipate, but his eyes softened just a fraction as he studied my face, taking in the fact that I hadn’t cried or broken down under the harassment.

"Don’t ever pull me off the ice in front of my team like that again, Bennett," Knox said, establishing his arrogant boundary, though his tone held far less bite than before.

I snapped my head up, meeting his stare with a sharp glare of my own. "Then answer your phone when I call, Sheridan."

A faint, dangerous glint returned to Knox’s eyes, a small, wicked smirk tugging at the corner of his lips despite the heavy mood between us.

"Touché, Bookworm," Knox murmured. "Touché." He adjusted his track jacket, stepping back toward the metal fire doors leading to the rink. "Is our session still on at four?"

I adjusted my tote bag strap over my shoulder, keeping my face completely neutral. "Study Room 4C. Don’t be late."

"I’m never late," Knox replied coolly, shoving the fire door open and stepping back out toward the ice.