Chapter 4 - Old Money

The Blade is already shaking when Elias pushes through the door.

The bar erupts the second the team walks in—chanting, beer sloshing, the highlight reel from last night's win looping on every screen. The bouncer doesn't even check them. He just steps aside and grins.

"Elias does it all," someone shouts from the back.

"You mean he handles it all," Lucas fires back, waggling his eyebrows.

"Shut your mouth," Elias says, without heat.

The team's usual table is already cleared and waiting—a long stretch of carved wood near the center of the room, engraved with past players' names. Elias's signature sits dead center, like it was always supposed to be there.

Ben, the bar owner, appears with a full tray of beers before they've even settled in. "First round's on me. That shorthanded goal last night—God, Elias, it looked like you were showing off."

Elias takes his glass, tips it back, lets the cold slide down his throat. A drop catches at his collarbone and he doesn't bother with it.

"I was," he says simply.

The table loses it.

The cheerleaders arrive twenty minutes later—five of them cutting through the crowd, short skirts swaying.

Claire Nox leads. She always leads.

Her eyes find Elias before she's even fully through the door, and they don't leave him as she crosses the room.

She leans against the back of his chair, one fingertip trailing across his shoulder like she's testing the temperature. "I heard this win was fifty percent us."

Elias glances up, expression flat. "You were on the ice?"

Rick chokes on his beer. Lucas turns away to avoid being caught laughing.

Claire doesn't flinch.

She bends close, her lips almost brushing his ear. "You know what I mean. I spent all night getting ready for you. We could take this somewhere quieter. Just us."

She lets the last word hang, deliberate and warm.

Elias turns his head slowly, until his eyes meet hers at close range. "Not interested."

Claire holds his gaze for one beat. Then she straightens, smooths her skirt, and flips her hair over her shoulder with the ease of someone who has practiced not caring.

"Your loss, Weston. You know where to find me when you change your mind."

She walks away without looking back. The scent of her perfume lingers for a moment, then dissolves.

"You're unreal," Tyler says, watching her go with open admiration. "That's Claire."

"Maybe he's just saving himself for Tina Coleman," Lucas scoffs, throwing a smirk toward the rest of the guys.

The locker room goes quiet at the mention of Tina Coleman, the billionaire heiress everyone assumes is destined to wear the Weston diamond.

Elias has never once acknowledged the rumors. Not even to deny them.

"Stay out of my business," Elias says, calm and final.

Lucas turns on Tyler immediately. "And you—the second your pants come off you turn into a completely different person. Some of us have standards."

"That'll never be a problem for you," Tyler fires back.

"To Canada," Rick says, raising his glass before it escalates.

Every glass at the table goes up. The amber liquid catches the light.

The neon lights of the sports bar flicker, and the wall of television screens suddenly cuts to a local street interview.

A kid, maybe eight years old, face painted with the team skull logo, screaming into the camera, "Elias Weston is the best player in the world and I'm going to be just like him!"

"Look at your legacy," Ben says, laughing.

Elias drinks and says nothing.

His eyes move around the bar slowly—the framed jerseys, the photos of past champions, the row of personalized glasses behind the counter with players' names etched into the glass.

He's seen all of it a hundred times.

Hockey here isn't a sport. It's the closest thing this country has to a religion.

Near 2 AM, the crowd has thinned by half. Lucas finds Elias outside the bathroom, leaning against the wall, cold water still drying on his face.

"They want to do a drinking game." Lucas hands him a water bottle. "King's Cup."

"Tell them whoever loses runs extra drills tomorrow morning."

Lucas cackles. "That'll destroy Tyler." He drops his voice. "But seriously—Claire's still here. Still waiting."

Elias opens the bottle. "Good for her."

"Come on. After a win like that, you've got energy to burn. Nobody's going to say anything."

"The Weston name doesn't allow for it." His voice is even, like he's reciting something memorized long ago. "You know that."

Lucas does know.

He's not talking about himself, his is talking about the family. Richard Weston. The whole machinery of old money and older expectations that runs behind everything Elias does, quiet and absolute.

Jason's voice explodes through the hallway before Lucas can respond. "Champagne tower! Get back here!"

***

On his way back to the table, Elias stops.

A small boy, no older than nine, is standing at the bar in a handmade Raiders jersey two sizes too big, clutching a hockey stick with both hands. He looks up at Elias like he's looking at something he can't quite believe is real.

"C-could you sign this?" the boy manages. "Please. Mr. Weston."

Elias crouches down without hesitating. Takes the marker. As he signs, the boy leans in and whispers, "I want to play in the NHL someday. Like you."

The marker pauses on the stick.

Elias looks up, meets the boy's eyes directly. "Better than me."

The boy blinks. "What?"

"You should be better than me." He hands the stick back, and his voice is quiet, entirely serious. "Play without any of the things I carry. That's the goal."

The boy stares at him for a long moment, then hugs the stick to his chest like it's something precious. His face goes red. "I will."

The bar clears at 4 AM.

Elias stands in the alley out back, hands in his pockets, watching the first pale line of dawn appear behind the skyline.

Rick and Lucas spill out behind him, propping each other up. A few more stumble after them.

"Where next?" Lucas calls, arm sweeping wide.

Elias pulls out his phone. "Home. Sleep."

"It's four in the morning—"

"We have practice." He's already heading toward the parking lot. "Champions don't rest."

The groaning that follows him into the dark is loud and heartfelt. He doesn't turn around.

***

Across campus, the student activities office looks like a disaster zone.

Ellie is sitting at the conference table with her face buried in her arms, surrounded by scattered proposal drafts and an overturned cup of Earl Grey slowly soaking through a gold-embossed event title.

Her co-organizer, Marc Raffael, has pushed his glasses up his nose and is trying very hard to look calm. His bouncing left knee gives him away.

The International Culture Showcase has 37 registered acts. Last year they had nearly double.

"We're finished," Ellie announces, into the table.

"At least we have a strong guest judge," Marc says carefully.

Ellie lifts her head. "Who?"

"Richard Weston." He pushes his glasses up again. "Old money. The Weston family. He agreed to sit on the judging panel."

Ellie stares at him. "That makes it worse. If the turnout is embarrassing in front of him—" She stands abruptly and starts pacing, heels crushing discarded draft pages. "Why now? Why this year?"

She stops. Her eyes go wide.

"Wait...Mia!"

She already has her phone out.

***

In the medical library, Mia is surrounded by open journals and color-coded notes. She's been here since nine.

Her phone lights up. Ellie.

She answers quietly. "What's wrong?"

"Culture Showcase. I need a performer. Desperately."

Ellie doesn't pause.

"The school threatened to cut our budget if the program isn't diverse enough, and the guest judge is Richard Weston, and we only have 37 acts, and Mia, you are literally my only hope on this planet. Honestly, if you just stood on that stage and hummed, you'd still be the most captivating thing in the room!—"

Mia's thumb drifts to her wrist without her noticing, pressing gently against the joint. "Ellie. I haven't danced in five years."

A beat of silence.

"You dance?!"

"Formally, no. Not anymore."

"One act. That's all I need." Ellie's voice goes soft, which is somehow more effective than the desperation. "No pressure. If it's too much, I'll figure something else out. Honestly. I have contacts."

Mia's mouth curves despite herself. She knows exactly what Ellie is doing.

"I need to see the stage first," Mia says finally. "Tuesday. The performance hall."

She hears Ellie physically vibrate through the phone before the call even ends.

Outside the window, the campus is bright and quiet. Mia looks at her reflection in the glass for a moment—surprised, maybe, at the small smile she finds there.

She's been drafted. But maybe that's fine. Some memories are worth keeping, even the ones that cost something.

***

"Yes! Marc! We're back in the game!" Ellie slams her hand down on the desk, startling Marc so hard he nearly drops his coffee.

"She actually said yes?" Marc looks up from his monitors.

"Better than that—it turns out Mia is a dancer! Can you believe it? My best friend is a secret weapon!"

Marc lets out a long, slow breath, effectively dousing her fire. "That's one slot filled, Ellie. We still have a massive audience problem, and we're only sitting at 38 acts. That's not a gala, that's a rehearsal."

"I know, I know," Ellie groans, her energy vanishing as she collapses onto the table, her face buried in her arms. "I'll find more acts, but the audience...how do we get people to care about a university showcase in this economy?"

"We need a hook," Marc muses, tapping a pen against his chin. "Something with massive draw. Something that creates a ripple effect across the entire city."

Ellie bolts upright, her eyes wide with a sudden, dangerous inspiration. "Hockey. What is more iconic in this country than hockey? Why didn't we think of this before? If we get the pros involved, the funding would be limitless!"

"Because getting them to show up is impossible," Marc reminds her dryly.

"Forget impossible. I'll submit the request to the board and let them handle the heavy lifting. I'm sure they want The Raiders there more than anyone. Let them use their influence for once."

"Fine," Marc sighs, gesturing to the floor covered in discarded notes and empty energy drink cans. "But before you go hunting for hockey stars, clean up this disaster area."