Chapter 67: Let Him Try

NORA’S POV

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

I shook my head softly.

"My dad spent my entire life telling me I was defective," Knox said with a voice that seemed to carry years of buried resentment. "Every time I struggled to read a balance sheet or failed a reading comprehension test in high school, he hired expensive private tutors who sat across from me with disappointed looks, talking down to me like I was an idiot. He treated my brain like a broken investment."

My chest tightened as I listened to the raw truth pouring out of him.

"Then you showed up in Study Room 4C," Knox continued, his gaze searching my eyes. "You didn’t look down on me. You didn’t roll your eyes or treat me like a charity case. You figured out how my head worked in three sessions, handed me a dry-erase marker, and drew visual supply curves on the glass. You treated me like an equal."

Knox leaned in closer, his broad chest barely inches from mine, the faint scent of cedar and clean soap radiating off him.

"My dad tried to buy you off with a check, and you threw it in his face," Knox whispered. "He tried to intimidate you at the booster dinner, and you tore his arguments apart. When Harold tried to pull his corporate weight last night, you corrected his tax math in front of the entire board. I wasn’t going to sit back and let my father use my academic standing to destroy your life. I’ll sign whatever form I have to sign to keep you safe."

My throat felt tight. I felt a warm glow in my chest at the thought of how he had set aside his own pride just to protect my future.

I reached out, my fingers gently brushing against the white tape wrapped around his knuckles.

"Thank you, Knox," I said softly, the words carrying more truth than any contract we had ever written.

Knox looked down at my hand resting over his. He slowly turned his palm upward, his long, calloused fingers closing gently around mine, lacing our fingers together on the wooden bench.

"We’re in this together, Bookworm," Knox murmured, his voice softening into something undeniably real. "I told you that."

—

We walked out of Rink 2 side by side, our shoes clicking rhythmically against the rubber mats of the main corridor.

The electric tension from the penalty box still lingered between us, grounded in a new, unshakable foundation of genuine trust.

We were just approaching the double glass doors leading to the main lobby when a sharp voice echoed down the hallway.

"Sheridan. Bennett. In my office. Now."

Coach Brennan was standing outside the coaches’ lounge, dressed in his Briar tracksuit, holding a thick manila folder stamped with a red administrative seal.

His weathered face was set in a grim, stone-cold expression that instantly erased the quiet warmth of the morning.

Knox’s posture went rigid, his protective instincts immediately taking over as he stepped slightly in front of me. "What’s going on, Coach?"

"Inside," Brennan repeated bluntly, gesturing into his office.

We followed him into the small, wood-paneled room. Brennan walked behind his desk, tossing the red-stamped folder onto the blotter with a heavy slap.

"The Athletic Board just called an emergency executive session for Wednesday afternoon at four," Brennan said, crossing his thick arms over his chest.

Knox frowned, his eyes narrowing. "What kind of session?"

"A disciplinary hearing," Brennan answered. "Harold Orwell filed a formal grievance with Athletic Director Pierce and the board of trustees early this morning. He cited conduct detrimental to the university, destruction of private property at the Grand Harbor Club, and an alleged physical altercation between you and Vanessa Orwell in the executive lounge."

"Vanessa locked Nora in the restroom and tried to slap her, Coach!" Knox snapped, his voice rising in defense. "I broke the damn lock because she had her cornered!"

"I don’t doubt it for a second, Knox," Brennan said, lowering his voice slightly but losing none of its gravity. "I know Harold Orwell, and I know what Vanessa is capable of. But Harold has four major real estate trustees in his pocket, and your father is backing him on the board."

"What does Harold want?" I asked, stepping up beside Knox.

Brennan looked directly at Knox with a dead-serious expression.

"Harold has issued a formal ultimatum to the board," Brennan stated. "Unless you appear before the trustees on Wednesday afternoon and issue a formal, written public apology to Vanessa Orwell and the donor committee, the board will strip your captaincy and suspend you from all play for the remainder of the season."

The room went dead silent.

The air felt like it had been sucked entirely out of the office.

To strip Knox of the ’C’ on his sweater and bench him for the season wouldn’t just end Briar’s championship run... it would completely obliterate his standing with the NHL scouts before the upcoming draft.

"They can’t do that," I said sharply, my blood boiling at the sheer corrupt injustice. "Knox didn’t violate a single team policy, and Vanessa was the aggressor."

"On paper, Harold has the donor votes to push it through, Nora," Brennan said with a grim sigh. "Pierce is trying to push back, but Garrison and Harold have the leverage. If Knox doesn’t apologize on Wednesday, he’s off the ice."

Brennan looked at Knox, waiting for a response.

Knox stood tall in the middle of the office. He clenched his hands into tight fists, his shoulders squaring as a look of cold, sharp anger crossed his face.

"I’m not apologizing to Vanessa," Knox said with a chilling calm.

"Knox, be smart about this," Brennan urged, leaning forward on his desk. "Your NHL career is on the line. Swallow your pride for five minutes in front of the board, read the statement, and keep your sweater."

Knox met Coach Brennan’s stare with defiance in his eyes.

"Vanessa assaulted my girlfriend, and Harold tried to cover it up. If my father and Harold want a public apology, they can wait until hell freezes over."

Knox walked out of the office, and I rushed to follow him. I caught up just as he reached the sunlit arena exit.

"Knox, wait," I called softly, reaching out and catching his forearm.

Knox stopped under the bright morning sun. His chest heaved with anger as he looked down at me with a determined look.

"They’re trying to back you into a corner, Knox," I said, searching his face. "Garrison wants you to bend."

"Let him try, Bennett," Knox replied almost immediately, reaching down to close his fingers tightly around mine. "If my father wants that ’C’ off my chest, he’s going to have to tear it off himself."