Richard Voss held up the signed agreement.

“Sunday ice belongs to the families!”

Tanner stared at the net.

For the first time in years, nobody was looking at him.

They were looking at Monique.

And Briella was about to discover that losing Sunday ice was the smallest problem she had.

Richard Voss had spent the event upstairs with the board.

He had watched Briella’s budget before walking downstairs.

Not because of Monique.

Because of the VIP parties.

Something did not add up.

Harbor City Arena collected revenue from private events.

Yet a large percentage was immediately paid to an outside production company called BrightLine Experiences.

BrightLine was owned by Briella.

Not the arena.

Not the Voss family company.

Briella personally.

She had been booking arena space at discounted internal rates, then billing sponsors and VIP clients through her own company.

Sunday youth hockey was not being canceled because the arena needed money.

It was being canceled because Briella could make more money privately.

Richard walked onto the ice.

Briella smiled.

“Dad, we can talk upstairs.”

“The board already did.”

Her smile faded.

Richard looked toward the families in the stands.

“You canceled them for parties.”

“It was a business decision.”

“No.”

He held up the budget.

“It was your business decision.”

Briella went pale.

“Dad.”

“The VIP parties paid your own events company.”

Tanner looked at her.

“You told me the arena got the money.”

She snapped:

“Stay out of this.”

Richard continued.

“Do not come back Monday.”

The arena went silent.

“You’re firing me?”

“I’m protecting the company.”

Briella laughed in disbelief.

“I am the company.”

Richard’s expression hardened.

“That is exactly the problem.”

Tanner’s phone started vibrating.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

His agent.

Sponsor representative.

Another sponsor.

He checked the messages.

His face changed.

“My sponsor just dropped me.”

Briella stared.

“What?”

The drink video.

The bribe attempt.

The missing stick.

Enough cameras had recorded everything.

Richard looked at Tanner.

“Apologize.”

Tanner clenched his jaw.

“To her?”

Monique stepped forward.

“Don’t apologize to me.”

Tanner looked confused.

She pointed toward the Sunday youth team.

“Apologize to them.”

Dozens of children watched.

Tanner looked toward the cameras.

Then at Malik.

The boy whose sister he had mocked.

Tanner lowered his head.

“I’m sorry.”

Nobody cheered.

Good apologies sometimes deserved silence.

Then Monique’s legs suddenly weakened.

She grabbed the boards.

Malik shouted:

“Monique?”

She collapsed.

Henrik jumped over the bench.

“Dial 911!”

The crowd fell silent.

Monique could hear voices around her.

Malik crying.

Henrik telling her to stay awake.

Richard calling for the medical team.

Then nothing.

When Monique opened her eyes again, she was in a hospital room.

Malik sat beside the bed.