Chapter 61: I’ll Be There

NORA’S POV

"I lost the game, Bennett," Knox whispered. "My father pulled my draft endorsement... and half this campus probably wants my head right now."

He pulled me closer, his warm breath brushing against my face as he looked at me.

"Tell me I didn’t lose you too."

I looked up at Knox. The faint amber lights high in the rafters cast shadows across his sharp jawline, highlighting the raw emotion burning in his eyes.

My heart thudded against my ribs as I thought of how best to respond to this. I didn’t want to offer a promise... I didn’t want to pretend the fake-dating contract was something more than it was, and I certainly didn’t want to lie just to soften the blow of a lost game.

"If you’re asking whether I’m still here... then yes," I replied calmly. "I’m still here, Sheridan."

Knox went still, his eyes moving like he was searching for any sign of hesitation.

"I told you yesterday I’m in your corner," I added quietly, holding his stare without flinching. "I don’t break my word."

The tension in his broad shoulders finally faded. Knox let out a slow breath, closed his eyes for a second, and nodded.

"Okay," he growled softly.

He guided me back toward the home bench, keeping a firm grip on my waist until my skate blades cleared the ice and landed safely on the thick rubber floor mats. We sat side by side on the wooden bench in near darkness as we unlaced our skates.

The physical rhythm was quiet and familiar.

I unlaced the dark leather skates he had given me, while Knox untied his own, kicking them off and sliding his feet back into his dark sneakers.

Once our winter boots were back on, Knox stood up, slinging his heavy equipment bag over his shoulder.

He walked me back across the deserted campus to my dorm building under the freezing night air. A bitter autumn wind whipped across the quad, rustling the bare oak trees overhead.

We didn’t talk about the game, State, or his father’s brutal threat in the hallway.

Our silence was comfortable, not awkward... like two people facing the same storm together and understanding each other.

When we reached the front glass doors of my hall, Knox stood under the glowing yellow porch lamp, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark track jacket.

"Get some sleep, Bennett," he said softly, his voice gravelly from the cold air.

"Good night, Sheridan," I replied, stepping inside as the magnetic lock clicked securely behind me.

Through the glass door, I watched him turn and walk back into the dark plaza, his long strides cutting through the freezing wind.

—

KNOX’S POV

The fluorescent lights of the Athletic Center hallway flickered overhead as I walked toward Coach Brennan’s office early Saturday morning.

The athletic building was mostly empty, but the damage from Friday night was already exploding across campus. Briar Campus Buzz and regional sports outlets had spent the last twelve hours replaying my third-period hit on Drew Miller in continuous loops.

A couple of track athletes coming out of the weight room quieted down as I passed them, their eyes darting to my face before quickly looking away.

I ignored them, keeping my jaw set as I reached the athletic department doors.

I pushed open Coach Brennan’s office door without knocking.

Brennan was sitting behind his desk, a mug of black coffee in his hand and three thick scout evaluation folders spread out across the wooden surface.

"Sit down, Sheridan," Brennan said flatly, not looking up from his paper work.

I took the chair across from him, keeping my spine straight and my hands folded firmly over my knee.

"That third period was a total disaster," Brennan said, setting his mug down with a hard thud that rattled his pen holder. "You let Miller get under your skin from the first face-off. You abandoned defensive zone coverage, you hunted hits instead of playing the puck, and you sat in the penalty box while State took a 4-3 win on our home ice."

"I know," I said through clamped teeth.

"The scouts from Chicago and Boston were in the press box, Knox," Brennan continued, leaning forward on his forearms with a disappointed look. "They noted your temper, your lack of discipline, and your failure to control the ice in their official evaluation files."

"It won’t happen again, Coach."

"You’re damn right it won’t," Brennan snapped. "I’m not benching you because this team needs its top scorer if we’re going to make the post-season tournament. But starting Monday morning, you’re running 5 AM ice conditioning drills before regular team practice every single day next week. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Coach."

"Get out of my office," Brennan grunted, waving his hand toward the door.

I stood up, walking out into the empty hallway.

Barrett was waiting near the water fountain down the hall, his large frame leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his sweater. He looked up as I approached, genuine concern in his eyes.

"Brennan lay into you?" Bear asked softly.

"5 AM ice drills all week," I grunted without stopping.

"Could have been worse, man," Bear said, walking beside me toward the exit. "Team’s behind you, Knox. We just need to focus on next Saturday’s game."

"Yeah," I muttered.

As we stepped out into the crisp morning air, I pulled my phone out of my gray track pants. A single notification was glowing on the lock screen from my dad:

The Sheridan-Orwell quarterly business dinner is Sunday evening, 7 PM at the Grand Harbor Club. You will attend. Bring Vanessa. Do not embarrass this family further.

I stared at the black text on the glass screen, my fingers tightening around the metal casing until my knuckles turned stark white.

After our confrontation last night, he was already executing his next move.

He didn’t care about my season or the team... he just issued a command, expecting me to fall in line, put on a fake smile, and stand next to Vanessa Orwell like an obedient trophy son.

I typed back a single line:

I’ll be there.

I shoved the phone deep into my pocket, slamming the door of my truck shut.

—

The bell above the entrance of Rusty’s Diner chimed continuously as students flooded inside for late afternoon coffee and burgers.

I walked inside, skipping the vinyl booths near the front windows and taking a seat at the polished stainless-steel counter near the back grill.

Nora was behind the counter, wiping down the commercial espresso machine with a damp white towel. She wore her dark green diner apron over a white collared shirt, her curly chestnut hair pulled back into a neat tortoise-shell clip.

She paused when she saw me sit down, her hazel eyes assessing me for a brief second before she set her towel aside and walked over to my spot.

"Coffee?" Nora asked as she reached for a heavy ceramic mug.

"No," I said quietly, keeping my voice low.

Denise stepped through the swinging doors into the back kitchen, leaving the counter area temporarily empty between us.

I reached into my jacket pocket, pulling out my phone. I slid the device face-up across the stainless-steel counter until it stopped right beside her hands.

Nora looked down at the glowing screen. She read my dad’s text message, her fine eyebrows pulling together slightly as she processed the words.

"He wants you at a family business dinner on Sunday," Nora said as she looked up into my eyes. "With Vanessa."

"I need you Sunday night, Bennett," I said, my voice dropping into a low, raspy rumble.

Nora stared at me for two long seconds, her gaze steady and unreadable. "With Vanessa?"

"No," I growled softly, meeting her hazel eyes head-on without flinching. "With you."

Nora didn’t answer right away.

She looked down at the glowing text on my phone screen, then slowly pushed the device back across the polished counter toward me.

"NO."

She picked up her damp towel, turned around on her heel, and walked away to serve a table in the far corner booth.