11. Schemes and Machinations

Belgravia Dinner, Late April 2010

Elizabeth watches from across the mahogany table as Father wastes no time. She knew the moment she made the call last night that this dinner would bear its weight. Now, in the long dining room of their Belgravia townhouse, she sits with her back straight, every gesture rehearsed, every smile precise. Father presides at the head of the table, his voice cutting through the low conversation with the ease of a general issuing orders; Mother sits beside him, pearls snug at her throat, nodding at all the right moments.

Around them, trusted Ford employees and family friends hold their places—the senior aide from Father’s office, their long-time legal counsel, a trusted lobbyist, Mother’s closest friend from the charity board. These are the faces who have broken bread at this table for years; they know discretion is currency, and their presence is a reminder that what is decided here will ripple outward as strategy, not rumor.

“Elizabeth,” Father says, his tone deceptively warm, “our contacts at the NCAA have confirmed the whispers are gaining traction. But whispers aren’t enough. We need action.” He spears a cut of lamb, chews with the confidence of a man who has already decided the outcome.

Elizabeth forces her hand steady. “Action meaning a suspension.”

“Exactly.” His eyes remain steady as a metronome. “We need him besieged—questions about NCAA impropriety, whispers over who owns the AEGIS IP, and the inevitable chatter about the propriety of a young woman living under his roof. Tarnish the White Knight in everyone else’s story. Muddy the waters so he begins to look for help, or is too distracted to respond effectively when we move.”

Father sets down his fork and fixes her with a look that brooks no argument. “Elizabeth, when and if he asks for help, you must be the face he turns to—soft, steady, indispensable. Plant the seeds. He should want your counsel because it will feel safer than the unknown.”

The words settle like a stone. Besieged. The man she once loved—the boy who could make her laugh when the world felt unbearably scripted—is compressed here into strategy. She sips wine to conceal the heat at the back of her throat.

Mother leans in, her voice silk and blade. “Darling, this is for the good of the family. You’ve seen how the Queen favors him, how he gathers allies. If he is not turned shortly, we will miss the opportunity to profit from AEGIS.”

Elizabeth nods, outwardly compliant. The perfect daughter. The dutiful heir. Inside, her mind races. A trusted counsel gives a small, almost imperceptible nod—confirmation, concurrence.

Conversations swirl around her. Timing of legal inquiries. Calibrated alumni questions. A discreet leak here, an unflattering placement there. The room hums with efficient menace. Elizabeth adds a measured observation when pressed, the sort of comment that sounds useful without betraying her inner tumult.

Father watches her like a man testing a shaky floorboard. “You understand, Elizabeth. This is not about romance. It is about dynasty. You will thank me when the dust settles.”

She bows her head the fraction he requires. “Of course, Father.”

The confirmation slips easier than the wine. She has cast her lot and now must do her part to ensure success.

The rest of the dinner blurs into the machinery of plans. The trusted circle murmurs support: legalese and timing replace sentiment. Elizabeth smiles when expected, offers a polished quip when the conversation demands. But inside, the high road lies abandoned. If she fights Father, she loses her place in this family. If she performs as expected, she loses herself—and her hands guide the knife.

When the plates are cleared and cigars are lit in the drawing room, she slips away and retreats to her room. The journal waits on the desk, leather softened by the nights she buries thought in ink. She writes quickly, the words seizing the page before fear can quiet them.

They ask me to destroy him and call it strategy. I tell myself it is politics, that Michael will rise to our Machiavellian challenge. But the truth is I am complicit.

Her pen hovers over the page.

Am I daughter first, or a woman still capable of love?

Her fingers tremble over the last line.

Perhaps I am neither. Maybe I am a coward who nods at the table and weeps alone.

Inside, the war continues. Elizabeth presses her palm to the cold glass of the window and whispers, barely audible, “Forgive me, Michael. For my sins.”

Rika’s Shadows

Rika Sato’s task extends beyond sparring alone. Sensei Ogata’s words ring clear in her mind: know him, measure him, protect him. She follows, not openly, not with announcement—she moves as shadow.

At dawn, Michael leaves the condo, backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder, stride long and distracted. He does not scan the street before crossing. A mistake. She paces parallel across the block, slipping between students, pausing when he turns his head. His awareness is partial at best—eyes on the ground, mind already locked on whatever lecture or code waits inside the computer lab. She notes the routes he favors, shortcuts through courtyards, the way his hand tightens on the strap of his bag when strangers pass too close. He feels the press of eyes, even if he pretends not to.

She trails him to Yost. The rink swallows him whole, a cathedral of cold and noise. Here his spine straightens, stride widening on the ice. He belongs here in a way he does not belong elsewhere. He skates with teammates, laughter blending with the scrape of blades. They thump their sticks on the boards when his slapshot hammers home, sound reverberating like a war drum. Rika watches from the shadows above, arms crossed, tracking every habit: the way he grinds through fatigue rather than yield, the way he smiles only when he forgets to guard himself. This is the place he is most alive, and therefore most vulnerable. Adoration blinds as surely as fear.

When practice ends, he lingers, skating alone long after the others depart. Circles within circles, sweat beading on his brow. She waits in the rafters until the Zamboni hums onto the ice. He is the first to arrive and the last to leave, carrying his own bag when others scatter to trainers and home. Pride, or isolation? Both can cut deep.

Later, at class, she sits in the lecture hall’s back rows behind him. He taps out notes with speed, frowning when the professor strays from logic into theory. His focus is sharp here, honed, but his body slumps and his posture invites exhaustion—shoulders curled, chest closed. If an attack came, he would have no room to react. She imagines stepping down the aisle, testing him with a sudden strike. He would fail. For now.

Back at the condo, he locks the door but not the window. Foolish. His rituals are simple: cook quickly, eat, spread books across the table. Music sometimes, quiet, nothing to cover the silence that creeps in. Rika perches unseen on the rooftop across the street, watching the flicker of the screen against his face. His mouth moves when he codes, whispering like prayers—a man who builds machines of thought yet forgets to check the locks twice.

But he is not always alone. A girl appears often. Hanna.

Rika knows her name only because the clan spoke it once, without detail. She is small, delicate, shoulders curled inward as if bracing against the world. She carries groceries sometimes, her hands shaking slightly as she digs for keys. He opens the door for her, and though she barely looks up, Rika sees her expression soften—relief, trust, devotion.

She watches carefully. They never touch like lovers. Hanna hovers instead, setting out food, folding laundry, leaving notes by his desk. He speaks to her gently, almost like an older brother, his voice lowered in ways Rika does not hear at dojo or rink. Hanna laughs rarely, but when she does it is quiet, fragile, and he listens as if the sound itself matters.

Who is she to him? Not clan, not rival, not girlfriend—yet she orbits close, and he allows it. Whatever binds her to him, it is not a weapon Rika can see. More mystery than threat. Likely harmless—for now.

One evening, as she lingers near the condo, a ripple of unease brushes against her. Not danger, nor pursuit—just the faint pressure of someone else watching. Across the street, a man pauses under the lamplight, gaze sweeping with practiced ease. His stance is too measured for a casual passerby, his eyes too alert. She shifts deeper into shadow. He does not look her way, yet something in her instincts whispers she is not the only one keeping watch.

Perhaps Michael has other guardians. Or people spying on him. Maybe it is nothing. The moment passes, and the man walks on. Still, the impression lingers: she is not the only shadow near him.

Night comes. The condo darkens. From her vantage on the roofline, Rika sees shadows shift as they each retreat to separate rooms. He sleeps fitfully, turning often, as though dreams press too heavily. Hanna sleeps curled inward, a fortress of blankets around a body still learning peace.

Through all of this, Rika remains unseen. To Michael, she is sparring partner—the precise hand correcting his hesitation on the mats. But beyond those walls, she is the unseen guardian. Her presence is not comfort; it is test. To protect him, she must know every flaw in his rhythm, every opening an enemy would exploit.

Already she sees them clearly. He lowers his eyes when strangers confront. He trusts his teammates too easily. His strength is undeniable, yet it leaks away when memory clouds him—the women he lost, the loyalty betrayed. At the dojo, she shows him these truths with each strike that lands. Outside, she watches how the same shadows chase him in silence.

She will continue to follow until his body hardens, his spirit clears, and he learns that no enemy is more dangerous than the ones already inside him. Perhaps, with time, the mystery of Hanna will reveal itself—not as danger, but as another thread in the web that keeps him human.

The Suspension

Coach’s text hits my phone like a slap: AD’s office. Now.

I leave the dojo still damp, my forearms throbbing from blocked strikes. The drive to campus gives me time to shift gears, but not enough. Yost’s hallway smells like rubber mats and detergent—a cleaner, simpler world where outcomes get printed on scoreboards and you can skate the poison out of your head. The administrative wing smells like coffee gone bitter from sitting on a warmer too long.

Angie Dawson waits outside the conference room, her eyes scanning me head to toe with practiced clinical calm. “Thanks for coming on short notice,” she says.

Funny line to use on a student whose calendar she just casually obliterated.

Inside, Athletic Director Langley rises with that cultivated warmth that always makes me feel like I’m a headline instead of a human. Coach Benson stands beside him, coffee gone cold in his hand. There’s another man at the table in a navy suit I don’t recognize—legal, I guess. The kind that appears when things stop being about kids and start being about reputation and liability. A yellow envelope sits at Langley’s elbow.

I take the chair opposite, back straight. “What’s going on?”

Langley steeples his fingers. “Michael, I’m going to be direct. We received a formal notice from the NCAA late last night and a follow-up from the conference this morning.” He taps the envelope. “This is a preliminary determination regarding your eligibility.”

The room narrows. I force myself to breathe. “Eligibility for what?”

“For further participation in NCAA hockey,” Angie says, voice even, as if the temperature in the room didn’t just drop ten degrees. “Effective immediately, you are suspended from competition and team activities pending an investigation into potential violations.”

Coach’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t look at me at first—he looks at the envelope like he wants to body check it through the wall. “Read the damn thing,” he says to Langley, then finally meets my eyes. There’s no pity there, just the steadying weight of a man who’s seen storms and expects you to plant your feet.

Langley carefully slides the letter out of its envelope. He reads in that officious administrative cadence that drains blood from sentences: questions about amateurism due to “modeling-related compensation,” questions about “impermissible benefits” tied to travel and lodging, questions about third-party influence around “branding and publicity” after the Olympics. The words stack on each other until they stop sounding like words and start sounding like a net tightening.

Modeling-related compensation. I picture contract emails. I remember refusing Calvin Klein’s offer for the New York Fashion Show. Declining Ford’s money for AEGIS. Keeping my scholarship clean. Then I hear how a whisper becomes a rumor becomes a letter with a seal at the top, and I wonder how much truth matters when people with folders decide it doesn’t.

“How long?” I ask. My voice stays steady because I make it be.

“Indefinite,” Angie answers. “Initial review window can take four to eight weeks while they gather facts. Extensions are common. You cannot suit up, practice with the team, travel with the team, or access certain athletic facilities without approval.”

Coach mutters something under his breath I don’t catch, then says louder, “We’ll fight it.”

“We will respond,” Langley corrects, because he speaks fluent compliance, not locker room. “Michael, you’ll meet with compliance staff to compile documentation. We will coordinate statements from your modeling agency, financial records, travel logs. This matter requires complete transparency.”

Transparency. Right. Calvin Klein will use this to extract my cooperation or bury me.

“What triggered it?” I ask. “The NCAA hasn’t raised any concerns for the past year. They had to know about my modeling and playing for Team Canada in the Olympics. Also, why does this matter to the NCAA? I’m on an academic scholarship, not sports.”

The attorney speaks for the first time, all polished consonants. “Your point about your academic scholarship is valid, but the University, and our hockey team, is governed by the NCAA. The entire team is required to follow NCAA rules. Including you.”

I want to protest this bullshit, but I know it wouldn’t matter right now.

Angie’s eyes flick to Coach, then back to me. “The letter cites media exposure, unnamed sources, and materials provided by a concerned party.”

Concerned parties. For a fleeting second, I wonder if Rodrigo’s family is finally getting payback. I quickly discard the idea as too far-fetched. Could be Calvin Klein. Could be Elizabeth’s father trying to punish me. Could be anyone with a grudge and a folder.