Chapter 283

JULIAN'S POV

The overhead fluorescent lights in the tunnel leading off the ice hummed with a cold, sickly buzz.

My chest was heaving, hot air whistling through my teeth as I dragged myself down the thick rubber matting toward the visitor locker room.

Up above, the stadium was still shaking from the deafening boos that had rained down on me from twenty thousand angry fans.

I couldn't feel my fingers around my stick. I could barely feel my face. All I could hear was the harsh, echoing voice of the head referee ringing in my ears: “Match penalty. Intent to injure. Get off my ice, Vance. You're done.”

I slammed my heavy composite stick against the concrete wall with every ounce of strength left in my body.

The shaft shattered into three jagged pieces, spraying sharp black splinters across the floor. I didn't care. I didn't care that the game was being broadcast live on national television.

I didn't care that three minutes ago, when an opposing forward shoved me lightly into the boards near the referee's crease, I had completely lost my mind.

I snapped. The red mist had taken over my eyes. Everything I had been desperately suppressing, the Cease and Desist sitting on my manager's desk, Brandon's icy legal threats, Aria's voice echoing in my head telling me Amelia called him Daddy, the wiped servers, my shattered family, had exploded in a single second of unhinged, violent rage.

I had turned around and brought my elbow full-force into the guy's helmet, cracking him across the jaw.

When the linesman jumped in to grab my shoulders, I shoved the official hard into the plexiglass, screaming obscenities into his face while the opposing bench leapt to their feet, shouting for my head.

The heavy steel doors of the tunnel burst open behind me. My talent manager, Dave, came sprinting down the hallway, his face completely drained of color. He clutched his tablet in one shaking hand, his silk tie pulled loose at his collar.

"Julian. What the hell was that?" Dave shouted, his voice cracking with pure terror as he caught up to me. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"Get away from me, Dave," I growled, my voice sounding like broken glass being ground under a wheel. I kept walking toward my locker stall.

"They're calling for a mandatory league review right now," Dave yelled, stepping directly into my path, his eyes wide with panic. "The league commissioner is already on the phone with the team owners. That hit was on live television, Julian. They are replaying you putting your hands on an official from four different angles. What were you thinking?”

"I said get out of my way,” I roared. I grabbed the front of Dave's tailored jacket with both hands and slammed him hard against the concrete wall.

Dave gasped, the wind knocked clean out of his lungs. He stared at me in absolute, paralyzing horror. He had managed my sports career for eight long years.

He had built my golden-boy image, booked my multi-million-dollar endorsements, and defended me to the press. He had never seen me raise my voice, let alone lay hands on him.

"Julian..." Dave whispered, his voice trembling as he looked into my bloodshot eyes. "Your contract... the moral turpitude clause... the board is meeting right now to suspend you indefinitely. Your primary sponsors are already pulling their logos off your endorsement deals. You're losing everything."

"Let them pull it," I screamed into his face, my chest heaving as tears of raw, toxic rage burned in my eyes. "Let them take it all. I don't give a damn about the sponsors. I don't give a damn about the league."

"You're destroying your life,” Dave pleaded, clutching my wrists. "You're the co-captain. You had a clean record.”

"I have nothing,” I bellowed, my voice echoing off the high concrete ceilings of the dark hallway.

"Brandon took my woman. He took my daughter. He bought off my lawyers, wiped my files, and threatened to throw me in prison! You think I give a shit about a hockey game?"

Dave went completely silent, staring at me like I was a madman who had finally lost his grip on reality.

I slowly let go of his jacket, letting him slide down against the wall. "Let them suspend me," I said, my voice dropping into an eerie, hollow whisper. "Let them ban me for life."

I turned around, unbuttoned my sweat-soaked jersey, and ripped it off my shoulders, tossing it onto the wet floor like a piece of garbage. I didn't wait for the rest of the team to come off the ice.

I didn't take a shower. I pulled my street clothes over my aching, bruised body, grabbed my keys, and walked straight out the back emergency exit into the freezing night air.

The press was already gathering near the team bus, their camera flashes popping in the dark like tiny fireflies. I ducked my head, cutting through the heavy shadows of the lower parking structure until I reached my sports car.

I unlocked the door, slid into the leather driver's seat, and slammed it shut, cutting off the noise of the city.

I sat there in the dark, resting my hands on the leather steering wheel. My phone on the passenger seat was lighting up endlessly, fifty missed calls, thirty text messages, breaking news notifications from every major sports outlet in the country.

“BREAKING: NHL Star Julian Vance Faces Indefinite League Suspension Following Violent On-Ice Incident.”

“FALL FROM GRACE: Vance’s Multi-Million Dollar Endorsements Plunge as League Reviews Outburst.”

A bitter, broken laugh escaped my throat. It was over. My pristine career was in absolute ashes. My reputation was completely destroyed.

Brandon had won. He had stripped me of my leverage, and my own uncontrollable rage had finished the job. The car door handle on the passenger side suddenly clicked.

My head snapped around as the passenger door swung open. A slim figure dressed in a long, dark trench coat and a black silk headscarf slipped effortlessly into the leather seat beside me, pulling the door shut with a soft, quiet thud.

The rich scent of expensive floral perfume and faint cigarette smoke instantly filled the warm air of the car. I froze, my hand reaching instinctively toward the gear shift. "Who the hell—"

The woman slowly pulled down the dark silk scarf, revealing a smooth, pale face, sharp cheekbones, and bright, calculated blue eyes that gleamed with cold malice in the dim dashboard light.

"Hello, Julian," Leonie Vance whispered, a sweet, toxic smile curling the edges of her red lips. "You put on quite a show tonight."

I stared at her, my heart slamming wildly against my ribs. "Leonie... What are you doing here? The police, the feds, they're looking for you everywhere.”

"Let them look," Leonie murmured, her voice smooth as silk. She leaned closer, her eyes scanning my pale, exhausted face with disturbing delight.

"I saw the news. I saw what Brandon's lawyers did to your little black-market friend, Viktor. And I watched you burn your shiny little hockey career to the ground on live television."

"Get out of my car," I spat out, though my voice lacked any real power. Leonie didn't budge. She reached out, her gloved fingers gently brushing against my bruised jaw, her touch sending a cold shiver straight down my spine.

"Why should I get out, Julian?" she cooed softly, her eyes flashing with a dark, dangerous light. "You have no team. You have no contract. You have no reputation left to protect. You tried to play nice, and Brandon took your daughter and turned your life into a joke."

She leaned in until her lips were inches from my ear, her breath warm and lethal.

"You wanted leverage, Julian. But I don't want leverage," Leonie whispered, her voice laced with pure venom. "I want to destroy them. And now that you have absolutely nothing left to lose... you're finally ready to help me.”