Chapter 151: The Father's Trap

Micah’s POV

From up on the media deck, my hands were frozen on the metal railing.

The entire arena watched in dead silence as our university’s golden boy beat George Jenson into the concrete.

Noah didn’t hesitate. He swung the weighted hockey stick again, slamming the shaft across George’s collarbone. George shrieked, kicking wildly, his bandaged hands scraping uselessly against the cold floor. Blood sprayed across the stairs, painting the gray concrete in bright, jagged crimson.

“Stop! Get your hands off my son!”

A furious roar echoed from the lower VIP section.

George’s father, an influential municipal councilman and chief athletic booster, pushed past the security barriers. He marched down the aisle, his face purple with outrage as he pointed a trembling finger at Noah.

“You’re done, Miller!” Mr. Jenson bellowed, reaching for his coat pocket. “I will have you expelled and arrested before you leave this building! Back away from him right now!”

Noah didn’t flinch. He didn’t drop the stick.

He slowly turned his head, his cold blue eyes locking onto the older man. Noah rested the lead-filled hockey stick over his shoulder, stepping down one stair until he was hovering directly over George’s twitching body.

“Take one more step, Mr. Jenson,” Noah spoke, his voice low, level, and cutting through the quiet stadium like a guillotine. “And I will have David transmit the offshore transaction logs showing you paid three million dollars to hire the mercenaries who shot up my car on the highway this morning. Your son lives, or your entire family rots in a federal penitentiary before sunrise. Choose.”

Mr. Jenson froze mid-stride.

The color drained from the councilman’s face so fast he looked like a corpse. His mouth opened, closed, and his hands dropped limply to his sides. He knew Noah wasn’t bluffing.

Without uttering another word, George’s father took two slow, humiliating steps backward, completely abandoning his son on the stairs.

Noah turned back to George.

George was whimpering, crying out for mercy through cracked, bloody lips. Noah didn’t say a word. He raised his boot and drove the heel of his skate hard into the side of George’s jaw.

CRACK.

George’s head snapped sideways. His eyes rolled back, his body going completely limp as he lost consciousness in a widening pool of his own blood.

Nobody stepped in to help him. Not the guards, not the fans, and not his own father.

Only after Noah stepped back onto the ice did a pair of terrified emergency paramedics rush forward with a stretcher, strapping George down and hauling him away through the service exit.

Across the rink, the remaining Jenson players thought they were off the hook. They tried to slip quietly toward their visiting tunnel while everyone was distracted.

Damon had other plans.

“Where do you think you’re going, cowards?!” Damon roared, cutting off their escape route.

Holding his own weighted stick, Damon slammed a brutal body check into their lead forward, sending the guy crashing violently into the dasher boards. Our remaining teammates who could still stand swarmed the rest of Jenson’s squad. Fists flew, helmets shattered, and within sixty seconds, every single Jenson player who had wielded a lead-filled stick was lying flat on the ice, clutching broken noses and shattered ribs.

Retribution was complete.

Noah skated to center ice, wiped a smudge of blood off his cheek with the back of his glove, and thrust his hockey stick high into the air.

ROOOAAAR!

The arena exploded into a deafening, thunderous cheer.

Thousands of students leaped to their feet, screaming at the top of their lungs, banging against the glass, and throwing blue and gold confetti into the air. The varsity squad swarmed Noah and Damon at center ice, lifting them up and chanting their names in unison.

“MILLER! SILVER! MILLER! SILVER!”

Watching from the media platform, a genuine, breathless laugh escaped my chest. We had won. Against all odds, through gunfire, dirty sticks, and a bought referee, Noah and Damon had completely destroyed them.

My smile faded.

Down on the ice, as his teammates hugged him, Noah subtly pulled his right arm tight against his ribs. His face tightened in a silent grimace of agony.

The painkillers had completely worn off. The gunshot wound on his side was tearing open under the compression pads.

‘I need to get down there. I need to be with my brother,’ I thought, panic rising in my throat. ‘He’s bleeding so badly. And at this rate, he’ll fall unconscious.’

I spun around on my heel to sprint toward the concourse stairs—

I slammed directly into a broad, immovable chest.

My heart practically leaped out of my throat. I staggered back, my breath hitching as I looked up.

Standing right in front of me, blocking the exit of the media deck, was Bernard Miller.

My father.

He was dressed in his sharp navy suit, his hands clasped behind his back, looking down at me with cold, calculating eyes.

I almost fainted on the spot. My knees trembled so violently that I had to grab the railing to keep from collapsing.

Bernard stepped closer. He reached out and clamped an iron grip onto my right shoulder, his fingers digging painfully through my jacket.

“I never knew your brother was this bloodthirsty,” Bernard murmured, his voice smooth, dark, and utterly devoid of human warmth. He tilted his chin toward the exit. “Come with me, son. Let’s leave here immediately.”

A cold terror washed over me, but the memory of Noah bleeding on the ice flashed behind my eyes. If I went with Bernard now, I would never see Noah again. Bernard would lock me away, ship me to a monastery, or use me as leverage.

I set my jaw, took a sharp breath, and violently jerked my shoulder back, shoving my father’s hand away.

“No,” I said, my voice shaking but loud. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I want to remain with my brother.”

Bernard raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise.

For a second, the corridor was deathly quiet. Bernard stared down at me, studying my defiant expression as if examining a strange insect.

“Are you sure about that, Micah?” Bernard asked, his tone eerily soft.

I blinked, completely stunned.

My father never gave options. He gave orders, backed by violence and threats. For him to stand here and ask if I was sure felt completely wrong.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded firmly. “Yes. I’m staying with Noah.”

Bernard looked at me for three agonizing seconds. Then, a slow, terrifying smile spread across his lips.

“Fine,” Bernard said, nodding calmly. “Remain with your brother. Take care, Micah. I’ll see you very, very soon.”

He turned on his polished shoes and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the upper concourse.

I stood there shaking, gasping for air as if I had just escaped a wild beast.

I turned back toward the rink. The tournament directors were already setting up a podium at center ice, presenting the championship trophy to Noah and Damon. Cameras were flashing everywhere, reporters were crowding the boards, and our coach was crying tears of joy.

Noah was completely surrounded.

‘There is no way I could reach him on the ice right now,’ I realized.

“I’ll pack the camera and wait for him at the locker room entrance,” I muttered to myself. “David will have the first-aid kit ready.”

I quickly unplugged Raven’s telephoto camera, packed the lenses and extra batteries into the padded black bag, and zipped it shut. I slung the heavy strap over my shoulder and hurried toward the service elevator.

I climbed the small stairs down to the basement level.

The lower athletic corridor was dim, quiet, and completely deserted. The distant roar of the celebration upstairs was muffled through the concrete ceiling.

I walked briskly down the hallway, heading straight for the double doors marked HOME TEAM LOCKER ROOM.

Just as my hand reached for the metal door handle—

CRACK!

A heavy, blinding blow struck the back of my skull.

A sharp gasp ripped out of my mouth. My vision exploded into white static, and my knees buckled instantly beneath me. The heavy camera bag slipped from my shoulder, crashing against the floorboards.

I hit the cold floor hard, my cheek pressed against the linoleum, my body completely paralyzed.

Darkness encroached rapidly around the edges of my sight.

Through the blur, I saw two pairs of combat boots step out from the shadows beside me.

And standing at the far end of the hallway, illuminated by the dim red emergency exit light, was a tall, unmistakable silhouette.

Bernard Miller.

My father stood with his hands tucked casually into his pockets, watching me collapse like a piece of discarded trash.

He just lifted his head slightly and gave a cold, effortless command to the men standing over me.

“Add him to the other five kids we’ve captured today,” Bernard ordered smoothly. “But treat him well… after all, he is my dearest son.”

My eyelids fell shut, and the world went completely black.