Chapter 207: Sal’s Offer

KNOX’S POV

Available Balance: $162.18

One hundred and sixty-two dollars and eighteen cents.

That was everything I had left in the world.

In three weeks, December rent for my share of the SinBin was due. My truck’s gas tank was sitting at half, and while the athletic department covered team meals at hotels, road travel always came with unexpected costs... taped sticks, emergency skate repairs, diner runs when practices ran past midnight.

And next semester’s textbooks hadn’t even been ordered yet.

I sat down on the edge of the mattress, resting my elbows on my knees as I stared at the floor.

I didn’t regret my choice.

Not for a single, fleeting second.

Walking away from Garrison’s empire was the first real, honorable thing I had ever done.

Standing at Thomas Bennett’s memorial bench by the rushing water of Mill Creek, making that silent vow to protect Nora and what she loved... that was who I wanted to be.

Garrison thought cutting me off would break my resolve. He thought a trust-fund boy without a black card would come crawling back on his hands and knees, begging for an allowance.

He was out of his goddamn mind.

I’d starve before I ever asked that man for another dollar.

’But you can’t play hockey on an empty stomach,’ the practical voice in my head warned. ’And you can’t protect Nora if you fail out of school because you can’t pay for your room.’

I needed a job.

Immediately.

I rubbed a tired hand over my face, thinking through the impossible math of my schedule.

Varsity hockey captain. Mandatory 5:30 AM workouts. Full academic course load in economics and business management. Film sessions at two. Team practice at four. Mandatory study hall with Nora. Road travel every weekend from November through March.

No regular employer on campus would touch my schedule.

There was only one place that operated during the dark hours when the rest of the world was asleep.

The rink.

I grabbed my coat off the chair and headed downstairs, stepping out the front door into the freezing Saturday evening air.

Ten minutes later, I walked into the Briar Ice Arena.

The public skate had ended an hour ago, leaving the arena quiet and freezing. The smell of cold brine, polished ice, and damp rubber hung in the empty concourse.

I cut through the lower tunnel toward the maintenance bay.

The bay doors were open, and the rumble of the ice-resurfacer machine vibrated through the concrete walls.

Sal, the grizzled campus rink manager who had been maintaining Briar’s ice since before I was born, was wiping down the cutting blade of the Zamboni with an oily rag. He wore faded Carhartt overalls and a faded Bruins knit cap.

"We’re closed, Sheridan," Sal called out without looking up. "Team skate isn’t until tomorrow night."

"I’m not here to skate, Sal," I said, walking into the bay.

Sal paused, pushing up his fogged glasses to squint at me in the harsh fluorescent light.

"What’s the captain doing hanging around the depot on a Saturday night?" he grunted.

"I heard you lost your graveyard maintenance tech last week," I said evenly, keeping my hands shoved into my jacket pockets.

Sal’s eyebrows shot up into his gray hairline. "Davis quit to take a day job at an auto shop. Leaves me scraping the ice, sharpening rental skates, and cleaning the filter pumps at three in the morning by my damn self."

"Give me the shift," I said.

Sal stared at me as if I had just grown a second head.

"Give you the shift?" Sal repeated, letting out a rough, barking laugh. "You’re Knox Sheridan. Your old man’s name is engraved on the brass plaque in the front lobby. You don’t need work-study money, kid."

"My father doesn’t pay my bills, Sal," I said, my voice dropping into that quiet tone that brooked zero argument. "I do."

Sal stopped laughing.

He studied my face for a long, calculating minute, his keen eyes reading the tension in my jaw and the grim determination in my stance. In thirty years around elite college athletes, Sal had seen enough privileged kids flame out to know when one was genuinely fighting for his life.

"Three nights a week," Sal said slowly, pointing a grease-stained finger at me. "Midnight to four in the morning. Scraping the ice sheet, cleaning the blade filters, and sharpening seventy pairs of varsity and public skates. You miss a shift, you’re fired. You slack off on the ice quality, I tell Brennan you ruined his rink. Minimum wage. No favors."

"I don’t want favors," I replied instantly. "I want the hours."

"Starts the night you get back from Maine," Sal grunted, tossing his rag into a metal bin. "Show up at eleven-thirty sharp. Bring work boots."

"I’ll be here."

I turned and walked out of the depot, stepping back into the freezing night air.

My lungs burned with the cold, but beneath my ribs, a fierce, primal fire ignited.

Midnight to four.

Followed by 5:30 AM team skates. Full classes. Games.

It was going to be brutal. It was going to grind my body down to the bone.

But it was mine. Earned with my own sweat, without a single cent of Garrison’s blood money.

I drove back to the SinBin, walked up to my dark bedroom, and shut the door behind me.

On the nightstand, my phone screen lit up with a single, gentle glow.

I picked it up.

Nora: Safe in Room 304. Missing you already, captain. Still on for coffee tomorrow morning before Brennan locks you down for film?

A slow, tender smile softened the hard set of my jaw as I tapped the screen and typed back:

Knox: You couldn’t keep me away if you tried, Bennett. Meet me at the Commons at ten. Sleep well.

Nora: Ten it is. Get some rest, Knox.

I set the phone down.

Then I looked at the banking balance glowing on my screen: $162.18.

Tomorrow would give me a few quiet hours with Nora before Brennan locked the entire roster in the film room for six hours of tactical breakdown and road prep.

And then, come Monday at dawn, the real gauntlet would start.

A six-in-the-morning charter bus out to Vermont. Three hostile away games in four nights. An empty wallet. And Sal’s graveyard shift waiting for me the second we got back.

I tossed the phone onto the nightstand, my fists balling at my sides as the quiet room went dark.

Let the grind begin.