Chapter 5: The Blue Line Grill

CLARA’S POV

The low rumble of Jaxon’s engine echoed across the VIP valet area of The Blue Line Grill as the sleek black sports car slid to a smooth stop.

Outside, the crisp autumn evening air swept against the tinted windows, but inside the heated leather cabin, my heart was hammering at an unbearable pace.

I looked down at the dress I had chosen. Ethan had commanded me to wear the black fitted number he had bought me months ago, an outfit designed entirely to please his ego and show off his ownership.

Instead, I had deliberately left that dress crumpled at the bottom of my closet.

Tonight, I was wearing a rich emerald green silk slip dress that I had bought with my own money during my summer trip to Europe.

The fabric skimmed smoothly over my curves, catching the amber glow of the restaurant lanterns, with a soft cowl neckline and a slit along my left leg that felt daring and completely mine.

Mia had helped me with my makeup before we left, adding sharp winged eyeliner and a deep berry tint to my lips. For the first time in months, I did not look like Ethan’s quiet shadow.

I looked like a woman who knew exactly what she wanted, even if my pulse was racing at a hundred miles an hour.

The engine cut out, plunging the car into sudden quiet.

Jaxon unbuckled his seatbelt with effortless precision. He had dressed in tailored all-black—a crisp dark button-down shirt with the top two buttons undone, black dress slacks that accentuated his long, athletic build, and a tailored coat that framed his broad hockey-built shoulders.

He looked dangerously handsome, completely commanding, and utterly lethal.

He stepped out into the evening chill and walked around the front of the hood with an easy, confident stride. When he pulled my door open, he offered me his hand.

I swung my legs out, stepping onto the concrete in my strappy heels. The cold breeze bit at my bare skin, but the moment my hand touched his, a jolt of steady warmth rushed straight up my arm.

I stood up, smoothing the emerald silk down my thighs, but I could not hide the slight tremor running through my fingers.

Jaxon noticed immediately. Instead of letting go, he tightened his grip, smoothly sliding his fingers between mine until our hands were fully laced together.

His palm was broad, warm, and rough with hockey callouses, anchoring me against the rising tide of my own nerves.

He stepped closer, closing the small distance between us until I was completely enveloped in his presence. The scent of cedarwood, clean citrus, and crisp evening air washed over me, instantly drowning out the sour memories of Ethan’s locker room betrayal.

Jaxon leaned down slightly, his dark eyes locking onto mine with steady, unwavering focus.

"Remember: you chose me," he whispered, his deep voice brushing against my ear with quiet conviction. "Keep your chin up and don't let go of my hand."

The raw assurance in his tone sent a shiver racing down my spine. It was not just a reminder of the deal we made in the arena parking lot; it was an unspoken promise that no matter what happened inside that building, he was not going to let me face it alone.

"I won't let go," I replied softly, meeting his gaze.

A faint, approving half-smile touched the corner of his lips. He shifted his arm, sliding his broad hand down to rest firmly against the curve of my waist. His touch was heavy, protective, and unmistakably possessive.

"Let's go," he said.

We walked side by side toward the heavy glass double doors of The Blue Line Grill. The restaurant had been completely rented out for the annual athletics kickoff dinner, and the muffled sound of rowdy laughter, clinking glasses, and booming conversation filtered through the entrance.

The valet held the door open for us, nodding respectfully to Jaxon.

The moment the glass doors swung open, the warmth of the crowded dining room hit us, along with the rich aroma of roasted steaks and garlic butter. But within three seconds of our arrival, the entire atmosphere of the room began to shift.

It did not happen all at once. It started near the hostess stand, where two sophomore defensemen from the Tier-A squad were laughing over drinks.

The moment their eyes landed on Jaxon, their laughter vanished, replaced by wide, stunned grins.

"Holy hell," one of them muttered under his breath.

The silence began to spread like wildfire across the floor, table by table.

The Blue Line Grill was packed with roughly seventy hockey players, assistant coaches, athletic trainers, and athletic department staff.

On the left side of the grand dining room sat Tier-A—the elite, championship-winning squad led by Jaxon.

On the right side sat Tier-B—Ethan’s team, the aggressive rivals who had spent the last two seasons fighting for the spotlight.

As we moved forward into the main aisle, conversation after conversation died down. The loud clatter of forks against porcelain suddenly ceased.

The athletic directors by the bar stopped talking mid-sentence.

Several Tier-A players at the large center table let out loud, appreciative whistles, tapping their glasses against the wood in unmistakable approval of their captain.

They recognized me from the parking lot, and seeing me walk in on Jaxon’s arm in emerald silk was a victory their side of the room was more than happy to celebrate.

On the Tier-B side, the reaction was dead silence.

Ethan’s teammates were staring with their mouths half-open, completely frozen. Disbelieving whispers broke out among them like static:

"Is that Clara?"

"Wait, isn't that Ethan's girl?"

"What the hell is she doing with Vance?"

I kept my head held high, just as Jaxon told me. Every muscle in my back was tight, but I matched Jaxon’s calm, measured pace as we walked deeper into the room.

His hand remained locked firmly against my waist, his thumb occasionally rubbing small, soothing circles against the silk of my dress to keep me grounded.

Then, my eyes drifted toward the raised central corner booth.

Ethan was sitting right in the middle of it, surrounded by his closest teammates and a couple of varsity cheerleaders.

He was lounging back against the red leather seat with one arm slung carelessly over the backrest, wearing his team polo and holding an open beer bottle by the neck.

A smug, arrogant smirk was plastered across his face.

He had been watching the front entrance all evening, clearly expecting me to walk through those doors alone, eyes puffy from crying, dressed in the black fitted dress he ordered me to wear, ready to sit at his side and beg for his attention.

He was waiting for his predictable victory.

Then his smirk began to freeze.

Ethan’s dark eyes locked onto my face. For a fraction of a second, confusion flashed across his features as he took in my emerald dress, my styled hair, and the calm, steady expression on my face.

Then his gaze dropped lower.

He saw Jaxon Vance towering beside me. He saw how closely my shoulder was pressed against Jaxon's chest.

And then, his eyes landed on Jaxon’s large, tattooed hand gripped tightly around my waist.

Every single drop of color drained from Ethan’s face.

The smug confidence melted into sheer, disbelieving shock. His knuckles went bone-white around the neck of his beer bottle as the truth slammed into him in front of every single player, coach, and booster in the room.

The girl who had spent the last year tolerating his dismissive excuses had not stayed home crying in her dorm. She had not come back to beg for scraps.

She had walked into his team banquet on the arm of his fiercest rival.

The entire dining room had fallen so silent that you could hear the low hum of the kitchen vents overhead.

Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Every pair of eyes in the restaurant was darting back and forth between Ethan's booth and the two of us standing in the center of the floor.

A violent, uncontrollable shudder ripped through Ethan's shoulders.

The heavy glass bottle in Ethan’s grip slipped and shatters against the hardwood floor with a deafening crash.

Amber liquid and sharp shards of glass exploded across the polished boards.

Ethan surged to his feet, knocking his heavy chair back against the wall, his eyes bloodshot and his jaw clenched with murderous rage as he stared across the crowded restaurant directly at Jaxon—who casually pulls Clara even closer against his ribs.