Chapter 66: Rink 2

NORA’S POV

My thumb hovered over the glowing screen at the bottom of the Athletic Administration building steps, the morning breeze whipping chestnut curls across my forehead.

Two names. Two completely different worlds sitting side by side on my notifications list.

Knox Sheridan, who had secretly swallowed his immense pride to protect my academic future.

And Drew Miller, reaching out from the quiet, uncomplicated past of Oakhaven.

I took a slow, steady breath and tapped Drew’s name first.

I opened the conversation, staring at his last message. The memory of the daisies and the Kingston bakery chocolates flashed through my mind, but there was no hesitation in my fingers as I typed out my reply:

Thank you for the chocolates and the daisies, Drew. I appreciate the apology. Good luck with the rest of State’s season.

I hit send.

The message delivered instantly, leaving a clean, respectful boundary between us. No games, no lingering ambiguity, and no false hope.

Without pausing, I backed out of the chat and clicked on Knox’s name.

Where are you? We need to talk.

Three seconds later, the three typing bubbles flashed on the screen, followed by his immediate reply:

Rink 2. Penalty box. Bring your sharp tongue, Bookworm.

A faint, involuntary smile touched my lips. I locked my phone, slipped it into the pocket of my coat, and gripped the blue administrative folder tightly against my side as I turned toward the athletic complex.

—

The Briar Ice Arena was cold, and the hum of refrigeration units echoed through the space.

I stepped through the double glass doors onto the thick rubber floor mats, the sharp scent of cut ice and damp wool filling the air.

Down the main corridor, Rink 1 was loud with the sound of junior varsity practice. Whistles blew, skate blades bit into the ice, and pucks slammed against the perimeter boards.

I bypassed the main arena and pushed through the side doors leading to Rink 2.

Rink 2 was quiet and completely deserted. The overhead floodlights were dimmed, casting a cool silver glow across the pristine sheet of ice.

Sitting alone inside the home penalty box was Knox.

He was dressed in gray workout track pants and a fitted black Briar Hockey long-sleeve shirt that clung to his broad shoulders and chest. His dark curls were still damp from the shower following his brutal 5 AM conditioning drills with Coach Brennan.

Between his knees, Knox held his hockey stick, methodically wrapping a roll of black friction tape around the wooden blade.

I opened the low wooden latch of the penalty box door, the gate clicking shut behind me as I stepped onto the rubber flooring.

Knox didn’t look up immediately, but the corner of his sharp jaw softened as he pulled the tape tight across the toe of the blade.

"Arena’s open to the public at noon, Bennett," Knox murmured in a low, raspy rumble that bounced off the empty plexiglass. "You’re early for your scheduled scolding."

"I don’t recall scheduling a scolding, Sheridan," I replied, sitting down on the wooden bench beside him.

Knox snapped the friction tape with a sharp flick of his wrist, smoothing the end down with his calloused thumb before leaning the stick against the plexiglass wall.

He turned his head, his eyes locking onto mine with a lazy smirk.

"You texted me like you were ready to tear someone’s head off," Knox said, leaning back and resting his long arms across the top of the penalty box boards. "Did Denise make you work a double shift at the diner?"

"No," I said quietly.

I reached into my bag, pulled out the thick blue administrative folder AD Pierce had given me, and set it flat on Knox’s lap.

Knox’s lazy smirk froze. His gaze dropped to the gold university seal stamped on the front cover.

"What’s this?" Knox asked, though the sudden rigidity in his shoulders told me he already suspected the answer.

"I just came from AD Pierce’s office for my weekly compliance check," I said, holding his stare without blinking. "He gave me your updated academic file. Specifically, the confidential disability registration document signed over a week ago."

The empty arena became silent.

Knox didn’t pick up the folder. He didn’t open it. He just stared at the blue cover, his jaw clamping shut so tight I could see the muscle throbbing near his ear.

"Pierce shouldn’t be handing out private files," Knox grunted, his tone instantly shifting into defensive armor.

"I’m your official work-study tutor, Knox. He’s required to provide me with your learning profile," I countered, leaning forward slightly. "You voluntarily registered your spatial-visual processing difference under the Academic Accommodation Act."

Knox let out a dismissive scoff, looking away toward the empty ice. "It’s standard paperwork, Bennett. Don’t go psychoanalyzing an administrative check-box."

"Don’t lie to me, Knox," I replied, cutting right through his deflections. "You are the varsity hockey captain of this university. You guard your reputation like a fortress. You spent weeks pretending you were just lazy in macroeconomics because you were terrified anyone would find out you processed text differently."

Knox remained silent.

"You didn’t sign that form for yourself," I continued, stepping into the emotional space he was desperately trying to barricade. "Signing that form elevated my tutoring contract to an official university honors placement. It gave my position institutional immunity and guaranteed my stipend bonus. You swallowed every single ounce of your athletic pride just to make sure Garrison couldn’t touch my scholarship."

Knox clenched his hands into fists, tightening the white tape around his bruised knuckles.

For three long seconds, the only sound was the steady hum of the cooling units beneath the ice.

Slowly, Knox turned his head back to face me. The arrogant smirk, the lazy indifference, and the cocky bravado were completely gone.

In their place was a raw intensity that made my breath catch in my throat.

"Do you have any idea what it was like growing up in my house, Nora?" Knox asked.