Chapter 70: Not Simple Anymore

KNOX’S POV

Harold stepped off the red carpet onto the slippery ice, lunging toward my chest to grab my sweater.

Before his hands could even reach my collar, a massive wall of purple slammed between us.

Barrett "Bear" crashed onto the ice in front of me, towering over Harold like a mountain, shoving Harold back onto the carpet with one massive gloved hand.

"Don’t touch our captain," Bear roared.

Then, in full view of three thousand screaming fans, twenty regional television cameras, and thirty NHL scouts, Bear reached down.

He grabbed the bottom of his purple number twenty-four sweater, pulled it over his shoulder pads, and ripped it off his body.

With a loud slap, Bear threw his Briar jersey directly onto the ice at Harold Orwell’s feet.

The entire arena gasped.

Before Harold could even process what had happened, Jake skated up, pulled off his number twelve sweater, and hurled it onto the pile.

Milo followed. Then our starting goalie. Then our defensemen. Then the freshmen.

One by one, all thirty varsity players stripped off their purple Briar sweaters, throwing them into a massive, defiant pile at Harold and Garrison’s feet on live regional television!

"If Knox doesn’t wear the ’C’, nobody skates!" Bear bellowed into the broadcast microphone.

The arena erupted into absolute, unhinged pandemonium.

Three thousand students leaped to their feet, stomping the bleachers until the entire building shook, chanting in unison:

"SHERIDAN! SHERIDAN! SHERIDAN!"

Coach Brennan stepped onto the ice in his boots, walking straight up to Harold’s microphone with a grim, lethal smirk.

"Harold," Brennan’s voice boomed over the PA system. "If this team doesn’t skate on Friday, Briar forfeits the televised tournament opener. That automatically voids the university’s fifteen-million-dollar regional broadcast contract. I suggest you and Garrison get the hell off my ice."

Harold Orwell looked around in utter horror as television cameras zoomed in on his pale, sweating face. Camera shutters clicked continuously, capturing his complete, televised ruin.

Garrison stood frozen, his jaw clamped in silent, humiliated fury as students in the front row began pelting the red carpet with paper soda cups and popcorn buckets.

Realizing they had lost on live television, Harold and Garrison turned around and retreated down the player tunnel in complete disgrace, shielded by security guards as the crowd showered them with boos.

AD Pierce grabbed the broadcast microphone, his voice echoing through the arena speakers with palpable relief: "Disciplinary action is officially dismissed. Open practice will proceed!"

A volcanic cheer shook the arena roof, rattling the championship banners hanging high in the rafters.

I stood at center ice, bare-chested under my black padded base layer, watching thirty of my brothers surround me in a storm of purple gloves and sticks, roaring in pure victory. Bear threw a massive arm around my neck, laughing as Jake and Milo pounded my pads.

"We told you, Cap!" Bear yelled over the noise. "Nobody takes this sweater from you!"

The raw, electric adrenaline rushed through my veins like fire. For the first time in my life, I had faced my dad head-on, and his money hadn’t won.

I turned my head toward the home bench.

Standing right behind the plexiglass partition near Row 2, clapping and smiling with tears of pure triumph shining in her hazel eyes, was Nora. She had stayed right there the entire time, watching every second.

I didn’t think twice.

I pushed through the swarm of my celebrating teammates, skating straight across the ice toward the glass boards in front of her.

I tossed my stick onto the ice, reached over the dasher boards with both hands, and hooked my arms securely beneath her waist.

With one effortless, powerful lift, I pulled Nora up over the glass barrier and down onto the players’ bench, hauling her straight flush against my chest.

Nora gasped, her small hands flying to my shoulders to steady herself as the three thousand screaming fans in the arena went absolutely berserk.

"Knox!" Nora breathed, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide as she looked up into my face. "What are you doing? There are television cameras everywhere..."

"I don’t give a damn about the cameras, Bennett," I growled softly, my voice rough with emotion.

I leaned down and captured her lips in a deep, breathless kiss right there on the bench in front of three thousand roaring students, thirty cheering teammates, and live broadcast cameras.

Nora gasped against my mouth for half a second, but she didn’t pull away.

Her fingers tangled deep into my damp curls, holding on tight as a tremor rushed through her frame.

The electric heat between us scorched right through the freezing air of the rink, blotting out the noise of the arena until there was nothing in the world except the taste of her lips and the frantic beating of our hearts.

When I finally broke the kiss, breathing heavily, Nora was staring up at me, completely dazed.

Her lips were flushed, her chest heaving beneath her dark wool coat, her hazel eyes searching mine with a mixture of shock, confusion, and something dangerously close to wonder.

She swallowed hard, trying desperately to find her usual analytical footing.

"Was that..." Nora murmured, her voice barely a whisper against the roaring crowd. "Was that part of playing the room, Sheridan?"

A slow, crooked smirk tugged at the corner of my lips as I reached up with my thumb, gently brushing a stray curl away from her heated cheek.

"You tell me, Bookworm," I rasped quietly.

Nora opened her mouth to argue, but the words caught in her throat. She looked down at my hand resting against her waist, her pulse fluttering visibly against her collarbone.

Before she could retreat behind her logic, Bear and Jake reached over the bench, hauling me into a massive group embrace as the entire team began chanting our names down the tunnel.

Nora stood on the bench, her hand pressed against her lips, watching me with a look in her eyes that told me our little deal wasn’t so simple anymore.