Chapter 4: The Price of Secrets

FEYA

A B-minus is a perfectly acceptable grade for an average student.

For Jaxson Rivers, it was the academic equivalent of turning water into wine.

"He passed, Feya," Coach Wallace said, tossing the photocopy of the grade sheet onto his desk. The tension that usually kept his shoulders up near his ears had visibly drained away. "Our deal is done. The server footage is gone. I’ve made sure of it."

My hand shot out, snatching the matte-black flash drive from the desk and pocketing it inside my oversized knit cardigan before he could change his mind.

A wave of genuine relief washed over me, lowering my baseline heart rate by at least ten beats per minute. I was safe.

My scholarship was secure. My father’s debts wouldn't claim my future this semester.

"Thank you, sir," I said, already adjusting my backpack strap to leave. "Our transaction is now complete. I will leave now."

I walked out into the corridor, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind me. It was over.

I could finally return to my predictable, quiet routine: the library archives, the darkroom lunches, and zero interactions with the St. Jude athletic elite.

And for the next two weeks, the data supported my prediction.

Jaxson Rivers and I exited each other’s orbits entirely. We became total strangers again. When I saw him walking down the quad, surrounded by his loud, heavy-stepping teammates, I looked at the pavement.

When he passed the library windows, he didn't look in. We were two parallel lines that had briefly bent to touch and had now snapped back to their default state.

Until the Saints began to lose.

I didn't follow hockey, but it was impossible to avoid the campus sports bulletin boards.

‘Saints Drop Crucial Game to Northport’.

‘Rivers Missing Key Shots at the Blue Line’.

The commentary grew increasingly hostile, with rumors circulating about the captain’s "sudden lack of focus."

Then, the hounding began.

It started on a Tuesday afternoon. I was leaving the science lab when a heavy shadow fell over my path.

Jaxson was blocking the exit, looking uncharacteristically disheveled. His hair was unruly, and he was squinting against the mild autumn sun.

"Ghost," he rasped, stepping into my personal space.

"My name is Feya," I corrected automatically, my stomach tightening as my flight response flared. I stepped back. "Why are you here, Mr. Rivers? Please move."

"I need your help again," he said, his voice low and tight. "Not with books. With the ice. I need you to work another miracle on me. Name your price."

"No," I said flatly, dodging past his right shoulder. "I dislike hockey, I have bigger problems to manage, and I will not suffer myself to have more interactions with you. Find another tutor."

His head jerked back in disbelief. “What?” But I was already walking away.

He didn't take the rejection. Over the next three days, he became a persistent, irritating and unpredictable chunk in my daily routine.

He tracked me to the darkroom hallway.

He waited outside my sociology lecture.

He hounded me through the dining hall, ignoring the stares of his classmates.

It was a sensory nightmare. His constant presence and attention was a weight that threw me off completely.

On Friday, when he cornered me outside the library archives for the fourth time, I finally snapped.

"One meeting," I hissed, my hands shaking inside my sleeves. "Tonight. Eight o'clock at the training rink. I will conduct a baseline assessment. If I find no viable solutions for you, you will remove yourself from my life permanently."

"Deal," he said, a visible wave of relief crossing his face as well as a grin.

The rink at 8:00 PM was freezing and cavernous. I sat on a metal folding chair in the equipment room, my chest tight with anxiety.

When Jaxson walked in, he wasn't wearing his gear, just a dark sweatshirt. He looked exhausted, the skin beneath his piercing blue eyes shadowed with fatigue.

"Sit," I commanded, pointing to the equipment trunk.

He sat. I pulled a standard black ballpoint pen from my pocket and held it out vertically between us. "Grab the pen, Jaxson."

He reached out, his large hand moving with practiced athletic grace…and missed the pen entirely, his fingers closing on thin air two inches to the left. He blinked rapidly, a sharp furrow appearing between his brows, and tried again, successfully snagging it on the second attempt.

I did the same thing again by giving him a ball and making him throw it into a basket a few feet away from him, taking note of how many times he missed and how off his aim was.

My brain was sorting through the data. "Your tracking is misaligned. You are failing to process spatial data in real-time."

“In other words?”

“In other words, your hand-to-eye coordination is shit.”

"Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Well, the lights in here are just cheap," he lied defensively, his jaw tightening as he rubbed his temples hard. "Look, the playoffs are in three weeks. My dad... he’s already calling me every night, screaming about the scouts. Hockey is my legacy, Feya. It’s all I have. If I fail, my family’s dynasty dies with me. I just need you to help me see the puck while I play."

"I cannot do that," I said, packing my notebook into my bag with rapid, precise movements. "You are experiencing a severe physiological deficit. You do not need me; you need a certified medical professional, a neurologist or an ophthalmologist.”

"Feya, wait!" he pleaded, standing up so fast the chair screeched. I flinched at the sound.

"Please. If I go to a doctor, the team logs it. The NHL scouts find out, and I'm done. You're the only one who can fix things without questions."

"I am a student, not a doctor," I snapped, keeping my voice flat despite the hammering in my chest. "This is beyond my abilities. I can’t do anything for you. You need to see a professional. Goodbye, Mr. Rivers."

I walked out of the rink into the freezing night air, my skin feeling entirely too tight. I thought that would be the end of it. I thought I was going back to my invisible life.

I was wrong.

By Sunday morning, the St. Jude Underground blog had updated its server.

Maya practically kicked my dorm door open, her neon-dyed hair messy and her face completely pale as she shoved her phone into my face.

"F*e, look at this."

My heart stopped. It was a gallery of photographs.

Grainy, long-lens shots taken from hidden angles around campus.

Me and Jaxson talking in the darkroom hallway.

Me and him leaving the rink at 9:00 PM on Friday night. The perspective and angles were intimate and made it like a scandalous, hidden tryst between the school’s golden boy and a nobody.

The headline above it was catastrophic:

‘THE ICE KING’S SECRET NOBODY’

‘ Is Jaxson Rivers dating the disgraced lawyer’s scholarship daughter?’

Beneath the post, the comment section was increasing quickly.

Isn’t her dad that criminal who stole millions?

What is a freak like her doing with Jax?

Look at how she looks, ugh she’s so weird.

Within an hour, my phone was buzzing with unknown notifications.

When I tried to walk to the vending machine, two girls from the hockey cheer squad stopped and stared at me, whispering loudly. Every look felt like a physical strike against my skin and I went back to the safety of my room.

I was sitting on the floor of my dorm room, my knees pulled tightly to my chest as I tried to block out the noise, when a heavy, rhythmic knock echoed against the wood.

Maya opened it, and Jaxson Rivers stepped inside. He didn't look at the room. His icy blue eyes locked onto me, curled in the corner, his face a grim, absolute mask of determination.

"We have a massive problem," he said, his raspy voice cutting through my panic. "But I have a proposal."