Chapter 69: The Standoff on Ice

KNOX’S POV

I walked across the sunlit plaza as the morning air cooled the heat still radiating from my skin after the five o’clock conditioning drills.

Nora met me halfway by the stone fountain, holding out a paper cup with a cardboard sleeve.

"Black coffee. Two sugars," Nora said, her hazel eyes studying my face with a faint, knowing smile. "I’ve served you enough morning shifts at Rusty’s to know what you order when you’re getting ready for a fight."

"You’re a lifesaver, Bookworm," I rasped, taking the hot cup and letting the steam warm my hands. I took a slow sip, the bitter caffeine cutting through the morning exhaustion. "What are you doing up at six in the morning?"

"I couldn’t sleep," Nora admitted softly as we started walking side by side down the brick pathway toward the library. "I knew Brennan had you running conditioning sprints at five."

"I wasn’t alone," I told her, the corner of my mouth tugging upward. "The entire team was waiting in full gear when I walked through the door. Bear, Jake, Milo... all thirty of them skated every single suicide lap with me."

Nora stopped on the pathway, turning her head to look at me in stunned surprise. A bright, genuine smile spread across her face.

"They skated with you?"

"Every lap," I said. "And after we finished, I told them everything. About Harold Orwell’s deal with my father, about Vanessa locking you in the restroom, and about the disability registration."

"You told them?" Nora’s voice caught slightly.

"I did," I replied, holding her gaze. "And Bear told me nobody is taking my sweater. The locker room is locked in."

"I told you they’d ride with you, Knox," Nora said with pride. "You’re their captain. You earned their loyalty on the ice, not through a trust fund."

I took another sip of coffee, my jaw tightening as I remembered the voicemail I had deleted moments earlier. "Garrison left a message. Harold has the board votes locked for four o’clock today. If I don’t read a public apology to Vanessa at the open media showcase, they’re stripping the ’C’ on live television and benching me for the season."

Nora’s eyes narrowed behind her thin-framed glasses.

"They want to ambush you in front of cameras because they think the public pressure will force you to break," Nora said, stepping closer and looking up into my eyes. "They think like corporate executives, Knox. But a hockey arena isn’t the boardroom. That ice belongs to you and your team."

I looked down at her, feeling an electric surge of determination ignite in my chest.

"We have practice at four," I murmured.

"Then go show them who really owns that ice," Nora replied softly.

—

By 3:45 PM that afternoon, the main arena was vibrating with thunderous energy.

The televised Open Media Practice ahead of Friday’s tournament showcase had drawn nearly three thousand students, local sports reporters, regional television camera crews from SportsCentral, and NHL scouts from Chicago, Boston, and Montreal into the bleachers.

Inside the locker room was silent. All thirty players were suited up in full purple gear, ready to play.

Bear was sitting on his stall bench, methodically taping his stick with black friction tape. Jake and Milo were standing near the exit doors with a hard expression.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting the captain’s ’C’ stitched in silver across the upper left chest of my purple home sweater.

A soft knock sounded at the side corridor door.

I turned.

Nora was standing just inside the entrance of the player tunnel, wearing her dark coat, her chestnut curls falling neatly over her shoulders.

I walked over to her, my skate blades clicking against the thick rubber flooring.

"You’re in the front row?" I asked in a low rumble.

"Row two, right behind the home bench," Nora said, her hazel eyes locking onto mine with unwavering confidence.

She reached up, her small, warm hands smoothing down the fabric over the ’C’ on my chest.

"Remember what you told me on the ice at midnight, Knox," Nora whispered, her gaze holding mine. "You don’t need their approval. Go lead your team." ℯℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

She stood on her tiptoes, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my cheek just below my temple before stepping back toward the arena tunnel. "Go get them, Sheridan."

I turned back to the locker room. Thirty pairs of eyes were locked on me.

"Helmets on, boys," I barked, grabbing my stick from the rack. "Let’s give them a show."

—

We hit the ice to a deafening roar from the packed bleachers.

Camera flashes erupted across the glass as thirty purple jerseys carved into the ice, moving through warm-up passing drills under the blinding arena floodlights. High in the press box, television commentators were broadcasting live across the region.

At exactly 4:00 PM, the arena music cut out abruptly.

A long red carpet was rolled out across the ice from the players’ bench to the edge of the center face-off circle.

Walking onto the carpet with microphones and university security were Harold Orwell, Garrison Sheridan, and Athletic Director Pierce.

In the front row of the VIP box right behind the bench sat Vanessa Orwell, wearing an ivory designer coat, her arms crossed, a smug, triumphant smirk plastered across her face.

The crowd went dead quiet, murmurs rippling through the three thousand spectators as Harold Orwell stepped up to a live broadcast microphone stand set up on the carpet.

"Good afternoon, Briar students, faculty, and media," Harold’s voice boomed through the arena PA system. "Before practice commences, the University Athletic Oversight Committee has convened to address a serious breach of student-athlete conduct regarding Sunday evening’s incident at the Grand Harbor Club."

Boos began to rumble from the student section, but Harold raised his hand to silence them.

"Captain Knox Sheridan has been issued a formal directive by this board," Harold continued, his eyes glaring across the ice at me. "To retain his sweater and maintain his eligibility for Friday’s tournament, Knox will now step to this microphone and deliver a formal, public written apology to Vanessa Orwell and the donor committee."

Harold held out a typed white document, waiting.

Garrison stood beside him in his tailored charcoal suit, his arms folded, his cold eyes daring me to defy him.

I didn’t hesitate.

I pushed off from the goal line, my skate blades gliding smoothly across the ice until I stopped right at the edge of the red carpet. I didn’t take off my helmet. I didn’t reach for Harold’s paper.

I leaned down to the microphone, my deep, raspy voice echoing off every corner of the packed arena:

"I will never apologize for protecting my girlfriend from an unprovoked assault," I said. "And I will never let corrupt donors use their money to hold this team hostage."

The student section exploded into a deafening roar of cheers.

Harold’s face turned bright, furious crimson.

"That is a direct violation of this board’s order!" Harold roared, turning furiously to AD Pierce. "Pierce, strip that ’C’ from his chest right now and suspend him from this program!"

Pierce hesitated, stepping back with a pained expression.

Harold’s eyes snapped with pure venom. "If you won’t do it, I’ll take it off him myself!"

Harold stepped off the red carpet onto the slippery ice, lunging toward my chest with his hands outstretched to tear the sweater from my body in front of three thousand screaming fans and live television cameras.