All Chapters of Behind the Ice Wall : Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

SKY’S POV Marchetti called two days later, no small talk this time, just straight into it the second I picked up. “That thread Calvin gave you,” he said. “The assistant near Marcus’s office. I followed it. Didn’t get much from her directly, she wasn’t willing to talk, but she mentioned enough in passing that I had somewhere to start digging.” “What kind of somewhere?” “Credentials. Every accredited photographer working games and practices has to register with the league office. If somebody’s been getting waved through side entrances without showing real ID, either he’s not registered at all, or somebody registered him under a name that doesn’t match what he actually does for a living.” “Can you find that out?” “Give me a day. Maybe two.” I could hear him already typing on the other end, the sound of keys clicking fast enough that I pictured him hunched over his laptop at whatever hour it actually was. It took him three, but by the end of the week, he had a name. Not the photog

SKY’S POV Marchetti spent the next two days working through everything Ray had given us, cross-referencing dates against my own schedule, against Amira’s, against every location where a photo had ever surfaced. He called me into his converted office at the rink, an old equipment room he’d claimed for exactly this purpose, papers covering every flat surface. “I want to show you something,” he said, sliding a folder across the desk. “This isn’t just one message anymore. It’s a pattern.” I opened it. Inside were printed screenshots, a dozen or more, each one timestamped and organized chronologically. Message after message from the same anonymous number Ray had described, confirming schedules and locations that only someone with inside access could have known. “Look at the language,” Marchetti said. “It’s not vague. It’s specific enough that whoever sent these had actual knowledge of team logistics. Practice times, travel schedules, even personal appointments that weren’t public info

SKY’S POV We met at Reyes’s place that Sunday, the same kitchen table where all of this had started weeks earlier with Amira’s first folder of documentation. This time the table couldn’t hold everything. Marchetti brought two boxes of printed records. Calvin brought his notes, still handwritten in a small notebook he guarded like it was worth more than his contract. And Amira walked in last, June right behind her, both of them carrying a stack of files I hadn’t seen before. Reyes cleared space on the counter for coffee mugs nobody had time to drink from, and for a few minutes the apartment felt less like a war room and more like the ordinary gatherings we used to have before any of this started. Seeing Amira in person for the first time in weeks hit harder than I expected. We hadn’t spoken much since the separation went public, careful phone calls here and there, nothing close to what we used to have. Standing in Reyes’s doorway now, she looked tired in a way that had nothing to d

SKY’S POV By morning, the story had stopped being sports news entirely. National outlets picked it up, the kind that never covered hockey unless something scandalous forced their hand. My name trended somewhere it had never trended before, sitting alongside politicians and celebrities instead of athletes, and none of the context attached to it was anything I recognized as my own life. I sat in my kitchen scrolling through coverage I knew I shouldn’t be reading, unable to stop myself. Somebody had built an entire narrative out of fragments never meant to be public. My panic attack, dissected by commentators who’d never played a competitive sport in their lives. My therapy sessions, described in language that made healing sound like weakness. Amira’s old case, dragged back into the light with none of the context that actually mattered, just enough detail to make her sound exactly like the villain Marcus had always wanted people to believe she was. A morning talk show ran a segment w

SKY’S POV The studio lights felt heavier than any arena I’d ever played under. No crowd noise, no rink chill, just a quiet room full of cameras and a host whose calm, practiced expression gave nothing away about which direction her questions might go. Somewhere behind the cameras, a producer counted down on her fingers, and then the room went live in a way that felt more permanent than any faceoff I’d ever stood for. Amira sat beside me, close enough that I could feel her presence without needing to look over, both of us dressed simply, neither of us performing anything beyond honesty. Calvin sat two chairs down, waiting for his turn. Marchetti and Reyes watched from just off camera, close enough to be a steadying presence even if they couldn’t say anything from where they stood. “Thank you both for being here,” the host said, once the introductions finished. “I want to start with the panic attack. The one from your college championship, the one that resurfaced in recent coverage.