Chapter 276

JULIAN'S POV

The heavy metal blades of my skates sliced hard into the ice, spraying a white shower of frost against the thick plexiglass. My lungs were burning, each deep breath tasting like icy iron, but I didn't slow down.

With three minutes left in the third period, the score was tied two to two. The arena was an absolute cauldron of noise, twenty thousand fans screaming, stomping their feet, and pounding on the glass until the concrete floor under my skates seemed to vibrate.

I tracked the black rubber puck as it skittered off the boards near the blue line.

I leaned low into my stride, pushing off my right edge and cutting past their defenseman. He tried to shoulder-check me into the wall, but I absorbed the hit, my body moving on pure muscle memory.

I hooked the puck around his stick with a quick flick of my wrist, drove straight down the center channel, and brought my stick back.

The crowd held its collective breath. The opposing goalie dropped into a tight butterfly stance, trying to cover the bottom corners.

I didn't shoot low. I snapped my wrists hard, sending a sharp wrist-shot flying right over the goalie's left shoulder.

The puck hit the back bar of the net and bounced out before the goalie even had time to react. The red goal light flashed wildly behind the glass.

A split second later, the goal horn blared through the building, a deafening, mechanical roar that sent the crowd into total chaos.

"Vance scores," the arena announcer screamed over the PA system, his voice echoing through the rafters. "His second of the night. Unassisted!"

Seb came flying across the ice, jumping onto my back and slamming his heavy gloves against my chest. "That's what I'm talking about, captain," he roared over the noise, his face bright red under his helmet. "Clutch. Pure fucking clutch."

The rest of the guys on the line flooded in, crowding around me, slapping my helmet, and barking words of praise. I grinned, putting on the act automatically.

I threw my arm around Seb’s shoulder pads, raised my stick toward the box seats, and soaked in the applause as we skated slowly back toward the bench.

To the sports commentators sitting high up in the press box, I was Julian Vance—the golden boy, the elite co-captain who was pulling his team through a brutal stretch of the season with pure grit.

The media loved the story. They loved that I was staying focused on the game despite my personal life being plastered all over the news, despite Leonie being on the run from the law, and despite losing the custody fight for my daughter.

They thought I was strong. They thought I was channeling my heartbreak into the sport. They had no idea that every time my heart beat in my chest, it felt like it was scraping against broken glass.

When the final horn blew three minutes later, signaling our victory, the arena exploded again. I skated around the ice, taking off my helmet to let the cameras catch my face.

Sweating, smiling, perfectly composed. I gave a quick, charming interview on the ice to the local sports reporter, answering her questions about our power-play strategy with crisp, easy answers.

"Julian, another incredible performance tonight," the reporter said, holding the microphone toward me. "How do you manage to block out all the external noise and keep playing at such a high level?"

I looked right into the camera lens, keeping my voice smooth and humble. "I just focus on what I can control, Sarah. My team, my work ethic, and doing what's right every single day."

"A true professional," she said, beaming.

I gave her a polite nod, patted the side of the broadcast camera, and turned toward the dark tunnel leading away from the rink.

The moment my skates hit the thick rubber matting of the tunnel and the double steel doors swung shut behind me, cutting off the roar of the crowd, the fake, charming smile vanished off my face like it had never been there in the first place.

My shoulders sagged. The heavy adrenaline of the game drained out of me in seconds, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache in the middle of my chest.

I walked into the home locker room, the smell of leather, sweat, and tape filling the air. The other guys were laughing, blasting music over the speakers, and high-fiving each other as they pulled off their gear.

I walked past them quietly, heading straight to my private stall in the far corner. I sank onto the wooden bench, unlacing my skates with fingers that were cold and trembling.

My head was pounding again, the bitter taste of last night's whiskey creeping back into the back of my throat.

My phone was sitting face down on the small wooden shelf above my locker, next to my spare rolls of tape. I picked it up with a wet hand, wiped my thumb across the glass, and unlocked the screen.

There was a new text message from my lead attorney, sent twenty minutes ago while I was out on the ice.

Aria agreed to the sit-down. Tomorrow at 2:00 PM. Private dining room at the Grand Regency Hotel. Her security terms are non-negotiable.

A sudden, violent surge of raw hope shot straight through my chest, making my breath hitch in my throat. She agreed.*

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees and shoving both hands deep into my damp hair. She hadn't completely locked me out. She was actually coming to see me.

In my mind, this was the big breakthrough I had been praying for during every sleepless night in my empty apartment.

Leonie was gone, hiding out like a rat in some ditch. The long, ugly custody war in court was over.

Once Aria sat down across from me without Brandon whispering his subtle, arrogant poison into her ear, she would remember who we used to be.

She would see that I was playing great, that my name was clean, and that we could rebuild our family from scratch.

My phone vibrated violently in my hand, startling me out of my thoughts. A second message popped up on the display, coming from an unlisted, encrypted number.

Viktor here. I pulled the files you asked for. Old corporate documents from Brandon’s hotel expansion three years ago. It’s not enough to send him to prison, but there are plenty of shady offshore holding accounts and shell companies to create a massive financial scandal if it gets out to the press.

I stared at the glowing text in the dim light of the locker room, my eyes narrowing into a cold, lethal stare.

I was never going to ruin my own reputation. I was an elite professional athlete, a role model, and I had spent my entire adult life building a clean, respected name.

I couldn't afford to let my own hands get dirty with illegal moves. But Brandon? Brandon was a cold, arrogant billionaire who acted like he owned the entire city.

If I sat across from Aria tomorrow and subtly dropped a hint that I held enough corporate mud to drag Brandon’s name and business through the mud for months, she would finally realize how unstable his life really was.

She would see that staying with him meant endless press leaks, constant danger, and continuous chaos for Amelia. She would see that his billions couldn't actually keep her safe.

I typed back a fast, sharp reply to Viktor.

Hold onto the documents. Do not leak anything yet. I will use it as leverage tomorrow if I need to.

I locked the phone screen, threw it into my leather gym bag, and zipped it shut. I stood up from the bench, tossed my dirty, sweat-soaked jersey into the laundry hamper, and walked over to the mirror hanging above the vanity sink.

My eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and dark circles were bruised deeply under them, but the desperate, foggy confusion in my mind had sharpened into something icy and dangerous.

"Tomorrow," I whispered into the empty mirror, looking straight into my own reflection. "Tomorrow, you come back home to me, Aria.”