Chapter 148: Smiles in the Lion’s Den

Micah’s POV

We pulled into the parking lot of the university sports complex with less than two hours to spare.

The three-hour drive had felt like an eternity. My nerves were shredded from the gunfire on the highway, and my stomach had been tied in knots watching David pull surgical thread through the torn flesh near Noah’s ribs in the backseat.

Damon killed the engine, shoving the gear into park.

"One hour and forty minutes until warmups," Damon said, checking his watch as he unbuckled his seatbelt. "Coach is going to lose his mind if we aren’t in that locker room in five minutes."

Noah pushed his door open, stepping out onto the concrete. His face was still pale, and his jaw was locked tight against the pain, but his posture was completely rigid. He refused to show a single ounce of weakness.

"Take the high-potency painkillers, Master," David said, stepping out after him and pressing a small plastic vial into Noah’s hand. "They will numb the abdominal wall for three hours, but you will feel the tearing once they wear off."

Noah swallowed two pills dry without even blinking.

"Micah," Noah turned to me, his cold eyes scanning my face. "Head straight up to the media deck. Do not linger in the hallways, do not talk to strangers, and do not go near the ice level until the final buzzer sounds."

"I know, Noah," I said, clutching my heavy camera bag against my chest. "Please be careful out there. If your stitches tear—"

"I’ll be fine," Noah interrupted flatly, though his hand briefly reached out to pat my shoulder. "Go."

Damon grabbed his heavy hockey gear duffel from the trunk, slinging it over his shoulder. He gave me a quick, reassuring wink. "See you from the rink, darling. Take plenty of handsome pictures of me."

"Just focus on winning," I muttered, but a tiny flutter in my chest betrayed me.

They turned down the private players’ tunnel toward the home locker rooms, moving fast. I took a deep breath, adjusted the heavy strap of Raven’s camera bag over my shoulder, and headed straight to the main arena bowl.

When the doors opened, the noise hit me like a physical wall.

The stadium was already alive. Vendors were shouting over the rumble of arriving spectators, bass-heavy tournament music was blasting through the arena speakers, and banners for both universities hung from the steel rafters above the glistening ice sheet below.

I navigated through the press entrance and reached the designated media photo deck located just above the team benches. It was an elevated platform with a direct, unobstructed view of the entire rink, perfectly positioned behind the protective glass.

I unzipped the black bag, pulled out the heavy camera, and began mounting the telephoto lens onto the body.

"Look who survived."

A shrill voice sliced through the air behind me.

My hands froze on the camera mount.

I didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was. The sharp scent of expensive floral perfume was unmistakable.

I slowly turned around.

Jennifer Riley was standing five feet away on the concrete platform, flanked by her two usual followers. She was wearing a tight designer jacket, but I noticed immediately that she was wearing flat boots instead of her usual high heels. She was limping slightly... the result of the twisted ankle from when she fell flat on her ass in the quad yesterday.

The girl on her right sneered, taking an aggressive step forward. "You’ve got a lot of nerve showing your face here after what you did to Jenny, you little rat."

"Back off," I said, my voice completely cold.

Jenny’s eyes narrowed into slits, her painted lips curling in venomous hatred. "Do you think you’re untouchable because Damon let you ride in his car? You’re a pathetic nobody, Micah. A charity case."

She took a limping step toward my workstation, deliberately swinging her heavy designer purse outward, aiming straight for the delicate tripod holding Raven’s multi-thousand-dollar camera setup!

She was trying to knock it off the edge onto the concrete below.

Yesterday, I might have panicked. Yesterday, I might have shrunk back and let them ruin me.

Not today.

Today, I had dodged actual bullets on the highway. I had watched my brother bleed from a gunshot wound. My fear had completely burned out, replaced by exhaustion.

Before her purse could make contact, I lunged forward.

I caught the heavy leather strap of her bag mid-air with an iron grip, jerking it hard to the side. The sudden momentum pulled Jenny off balance, her bad ankle buckling beneath her.

She let out a sharp gasp, stumbling forward until her chest slammed hard against the concrete railing.

Her two friends shrieked in surprise, rushing to grab her arms.

"Don’t you dare touch my equipment," I snarled, stepping into her space, my eyes boring directly into hers.

Jenny stared at me, her chest heaving, genuine shock flickering behind her eyes. She had expected me to cower.

"Try me again, Jenny," I whispered, every word sharp enough to draw blood. "I’ve had more than enough today. You think three spoiled brats scare me? Push me one more time, and I won’t just slap you across the face. I will throw you over this railing."

Jenny’s lips trembled. The color drained from her cheeks, and for three glorious seconds, she couldn’t find a single word to say.

"Let’s... let’s just go, Jenny," the girl on her left muttered nervously, pulling Jenny’s arm backward. "The game is about to start anyway. Come on."

Jenny glared at me with pure, murderous hatred, snatching her purse out of my hand with a vicious yank. "You’re going to regret this, Miller," she hissed before turning on her heel and limping away toward the tunnel exit.

"Get lost," I muttered under my breath, shaking my hands to clear the adrenaline.

I turned back to my station, locked the camera securely onto the mount, and switched on the power.

The arena lights suddenly dimmed, and the overhead spotlights began sweeping across the white ice as the public address announcer’s booming voice came over the sound system.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the State Intercollegiate Championship Final!"

The entire arena exploded into deafening cheers. Thousands of students, alumni, and local fans were flooding into the bleachers, waving blue and gold flags, stomping their feet until the concrete deck beneath me vibrated.

I raised the heavy camera to my eye, resting my finger on the shutter, and began snapping pre-game test shots of the crowd to check the lighting and exposure.

I zoomed in on the reserved seating sections near center ice.

Through the lens, I spotted a familiar, imposing figure sitting in the lower luxury box. Mr. Silver was dressed in an immaculate dark coat, looking calm and authoritative. Sitting on either side of him were Lucas and Levi, both wearing oversized team jerseys and waving foam fingers in the air, grinning excitedly.

Seeing them there brought a faint, warm smile to my face. Damon’s father had actually kept his promise to show up.

I adjusted the manual focus ring, panning the long telephoto lens upward toward the private executive VIP box overlooking the blue line.

My finger froze completely over the shutter button.

The blood in my veins turned to liquid ice.

Sitting in the plush leather seats of the private suite, surrounded by university board members and city council officials, was Bernard Miller.

My father.

He was wearing an expensive navy suit, a polite, devout smile resting on his face as he shook hands with a local politician. He looked like the picture of an honorable, god-fearing pillar of the community.

Nobody in that room knew he was a syndicate assassin. Nobody knew he had sent hitmen to slaughter Noah last night, or that he was holding kidnapped college athletes in cages across the city for Plan Mayor.

Looking at his smiling face through the lens made a wave of sick, suffocating nausea rise in my throat. I felt like I was staring directly at a demon wearing human skin.

My hands trembled violently against the camera body.

I couldn’t stand the sight of him for another second. I violently jerked the camera away, lowering the lens and gripping the metal railing, panting for air as cold sweat broke out across my forehead.

Just breathe, Micah, I told myself desperately. Noah is handling him. Focus on the game. Focus on your job.

I forced myself to stand tall, wiping my damp palms on my jeans.

I told myself that all I had to do was get through the next two hours. If Noah and Damon won this match, our school would take the trophy, and Noah could finally execute his plan to tear Bernard down. Everything was going to go smoothly.

That fragile hope shattered into dust ten seconds later.

A loud, hostile roar erupted from the visiting section as the doors to the away team tunnel swung open.

The Jenson University contingent entered the arena.

Leading the pack of students and athletic boosters wasn’t just their coaching staff.

Walking right in the center of the group was George Jenson.

And wrapped tightly around his arm, clinging to him like a desperate leech, was Jennifer Riley.

My jaw dropped open in disbelief.

Jenny was leaning her head affectionately against George’s shoulder, laughing loudly at something he said, completely ignoring the fact that she had been begging Damon for a date just two days ago.

As they walked past the media deck, Jenny pointed a manicured finger directly at me.

George Jenson stopped.

He turned his head, his dark, arrogant eyes locking straight onto mine.

Beside him, four broad-shouldered guys from the Jenson athletic gang glared at me with open, savage malice.

I held my ground, forcing my expression into stone. I refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. After two seconds of holding his stare, I looked away, casually adjusting the lens ring on my camera as if he were nothing more than dirt on the glass.

Through my peripheral vision, I watched George walk toward the Jenson private bench.

He was wearing a team tracksuit, but his wrists and fingers were heavily wrapped in thick white medical bandages... the permanent reminder of the beating Noah had given him weeks ago. By all accounts, George should have looked defeated. His hands were ruined, four of his lackeys had been killed at the construction site, and his assassination attempt on the highway today had failed completely.

He was at an absolute disadvantage.

Yet George Jenson wasn’t scowling. He wasn’t nervous.

He had an eerie, chilling, utterly confident grin plastered across his face as he looked toward our team’s empty tunnel.

A heavy, suffocating knot of dread twisted violently in the pit of my stomach.

’What the hell is Jenson hiding?’ I thought, my heart thumping against my ribs. ’He’s up to something terrible... but what is it?’