Chapter 68: Brotherhood

KNOX’S POV

The pre-dawn wind was freezing as I pulled my truck into the parking lot behind the Briar Ice Arena.

The digital clock on my dashboard read 4:45 AM; the campus was pitch-black and dead quiet. My breath fogged thick in the freezing air as I grabbed my gym bag from the passenger seat, stepped out onto the frost-covered asphalt, and zipped my track jacket tight against my chin.

Five in the morning. Punitive conditioning laps ordered by Coach Brennan for losing my temper against Drew Miller on Friday night.

I expected the arena to be deserted. I expected cold, echoing silence, dimmed overhead floodlights, and thirty punishing minutes of skating baseline-to-baseline suicide sprints alone on the ice while Brennan watched with a whistle from the penalty box.

I pushed through the arena side entrance, walked down the dark rubber-matted hallway toward the varsity locker room and dropped my gear bag over my shoulder.

But when I turned the corner, light was spilling out from beneath the locker room double doors and the thud of rock bass rattled the aluminum frame.

I stopped.

I pushed the double doors open.

Bright fluorescent lights filled the locker room; the scent of fresh coffee, Tiger Balm, and new hockey tape hit me as I walked in.

Sitting in their individual wooden stalls, fully suited up in their purple Briar practice sweaters, shoulder pads, and freshly sharpened skates, was the entire varsity roster.

Thirty players. Every single forward, defenseman, and goalie on the team.

Barrett was sitting near the center stall, methodically taping his shin guards. Jake was adjusting his helmet straps, while Milo was laughing as he poured hot coffee from a thermos into a paper cup.

The music lowered as Bear looked up, his massive six-foot-five frame rising to his feet.

"You’re five minutes late, Sheridan," Bear said with a wide, easy grin spreading across his face.

I stood frozen in the doorway, staring at thirty guys who were supposed to be asleep in their dorms for another three hours.

"What the hell are you guys doing here?" I asked. My voice sounded raspy from the morning chill. "Brennan assigned these conditioning drills to me."

"You’re our captain, Knox," Jake said, standing up and grabbing his stick from the rack. "You skate, we skate. Nobody runs bag sprints alone on this team."

"Not on our ice," Milo added from across the room, banging his stick blade against the wooden floorboards.

My chest tightened with emotion.

I dropped my gear bag on the center bench, pulling off my track jacket and pulling my purple number nineteen sweater over my pads. I laced up my skates, slid my helmet over my curls and grabbed my stick.

We hit the ice together.

Cold mist rose around our blades as thirty pairs of skates stepped onto the ice.

Coach Brennan stepped onto the players’ bench in his winter parka, a stopwatch in one hand and a whistle in the other. He looked at thirty fully geared players lined up along the goal line, his weathered face showing a brief, approving flicker in his eyes before his expression hardened into granite.

"Goal line to blue line! Back to goal line! Goal line to red line! Back to goal line!" Brennan’s voice boomed through the empty arena.

TWEET!

We launched forward in unison.

The sound of thirty skaters pushing off the ice was thunderous. We skated until our lungs burned like acid, until our quads locked with exhaustion, and until sweat was pouring down the bridge of our noses.

Every time I turned at the red line, Bear was on my left flank, Jake was on my right, and the younger freshmen were digging in behind us. Not a single guy quit. Not a single guy complained.

When Brennan finally blew the triple whistle to end the session, thirty players leaned over their sticks at center ice, gasping for air under the bright floodlights.

Brennan looked down at us from the bench, nodding once. "Locker room. Twenty minutes."

—

Steam filled the locker room as guys stripped off soaked jerseys and dumped ice into recovery tubs.

I sat on the wooden bench in my stall with a towel draped around my neck, drinking cold water from a plastic squeeze bottle. My right knuckles, still wrapped in white tape, throbbed with a dull ache.

Bear walked over, pulled a wooden stool up in front of my stall and sat down with his elbows on his knees.

Jake and Milo pulled up beside him, the rest of the team quieting down as they packed their bags.

"Alright, Knox," Bear said, his tone turning serious and grounded. "We skated the laps. Now tell us what’s really going on. Coach pulled me and Jake into his office on Monday after you and Nora left... he told us Harold Orwell filed an emergency grievance over Sunday night’s dinner, and Garrison is backing him to take your sweater today."

The entire room went dead quiet.

I looked around at thirty pairs of eyes... guys I had bled with on the ice, guys who had just run suicides at 5 AM without asking a single question.

They deserved the truth.

"Harold and my father are trying to force me out," I said in a low voice. "He wants me to date Vanessa Orwell to lock in a fifty-million-dollar real estate development deal with Harold."

A collective murmur of disgust rippled through the stalls.

"I brought Nora to the Grand Harbor Club dinner on Sunday instead," I continued, holding Bear’s gaze. "Nora called out Harold’s corrupt tax numbers in front of the donor board. Vanessa threw a fit, spilled wine all over Nora’s dress, and lured her into the executive restroom."

"What happened in the restroom?" Jake asked.

"Vanessa locked the brass deadbolt from the inside and tried to assault her," I said coldly. "Nora defended herself, and I broke the door down to get Nora out."

"Holy shit," Milo breathed.

"Now Harold is claiming I committed vandalism and assaulted Vanessa," I stated. "He gave the board an ultimatum: either I read a public written apology to Vanessa at Wednesday’s four o’clock open media practice, or they strip my captaincy and suspend me for the season."

Bear let out a growl, his massive hands clenching into fists. "And your father is backing that?"

"That man doesn’t care about hockey, Bear," I said bitterly. "He cares about leverage and control. He’s trying to break me."

I paused, looking down at my taped knuckles before looking back up at my teammates.

"There’s one more thing," I said, putting everything on the table. "Three weeks ago, I went to AD Pierce and officially registered a spatial-visual learning difference under the Disability Act. That’s why Nora’s tutoring methods work for me. I did it so my father couldn’t touch her honors scholarship."

The locker room was silent for three long seconds.

Nobody laughed. Nobody smirked.

Bear stood up, his massive frame towering over the center aisle. He walked straight up to my stall, reaching down and clamping a hand on my shoulder.

"You protected Nora, and you’ve protected this team since the day you put that ’C’ on your chest," Bear’s voice rang out, filled with loyalty. "You’re the best captain this program has ever had, Knox. If Harold Orwell thinks he can walk onto our ice on Wednesday and take your sweater, he’s out of his fucking mind."

Jake slammed his locker door shut with a loud metallic crack. "Bear’s right. None of them run this locker room. We do."

"We ride with nineteen," Milo shouted, pounding his chest.

The locker room erupted with cheers and stick taps.

—

I walked out through the arena’s glass front doors into the brilliant morning sunshine.

My muscles were sore, but the suffocating weight that had pressed against my chest for a while now was completely gone. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t facing my father alone.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket.

A single red notification flashed on the screen... a new voicemail from Garrison Sheridan, left twenty minutes ago.

I held the phone to my ear, pressing play.

My father’s voice filled the receiver:

Harold has the trustee votes locked, Knox. You will appear at the four o’clock media showcase today, you will read the prepared apology to Vanessa, and you will fall in line. If you refuse, AD Pierce will strip that ’C’ from your sweater on live television, and I will personally ensure your NHL draft eligibility is dead.

You’ll withdraw from the hockey program, pack your bags, and report to Sheridan Global on Monday morning to take your seat as a junior associate where you belong. I never denied you had talent on the ice, but this game has always been an indulgence. It is time to join the family business. Make the right choice.

BEEP.

I didn’t hesitate; I tapped the screen and deleted the voicemail permanently.

Across the sunlit plaza, sitting on the low brick wall near the fountain with two hot cups of diner coffee in her hands, was Nora.

She was wearing her dark coat and thin-framed glasses, her chestnut curls catching the golden morning light. The moment our eyes locked, a soft, confident smile touched her lips as she stood up to walk toward me.

I slipped my phone into my pocket, a smirk spreading across my face as I stepped forward to meet her.

Harold and Garrison wanted a war at four o’clock.

We were going to give them one.