That Time We Faked It (Time On The Ice #3)

31. WADE

WADE

Bend and snap

I followed him like a loyal, lone wolf who had finally found its human—the one it would walk beside, hunt with, and protect at all costs. Every day, I watched him train, marveling at the sheer determination he poured into every movement. If his ankle was bothering him, you’d never know it on the ice. His jumps were sharp, his landings solid, his spins dizzying in their precision.

But it was what happened after the blades left the rink that told a different story.

I saw it all—the way he meticulously rubbed Icy Hot over his ankle, his jaw tightening like he was willing himself not to flinch. How he strapped it with the precision of a surgeon, his hands steady and deliberate, before settling into his post-practice ritual of icing it in careful intervals, counting the minutes under his breath. He was holding himself together with sheer willpower, maintaining a fragile balance that felt like it could tip at any moment.

And for that week, I kept my mouth shut.

Every instinct in me screamed to say something, to step in and stop him from pushing too hard, but I didn’t. Old habits die hard, I suppose. Sam had taught me that no amount of love could make someone change if they weren’t ready. I’d learned the hard way how to let people make their own choices, even when it hurt to watch.

So, I let Cal have his silence, let him hold onto whatever pride came from enduring it alone. I told myself he was a grown man, capable of deciding what was best for him. But that didn’t stop the gnawing unease that settled in my chest as I prayed—prayed to whatever gods might be listening—that this time would be different. That this time, I wouldn’t have to watch someone I cared about break themselves down, piece by piece.

Because deep down, I knew the truth: Cal was skating on thin ice. And with every practice, every stubborn smile, something was going to give. And the deja-vu that it was going to be my man that lost everything

… was a fear all too familiar, dragging me back to a time when the stakes of losing someone I loved had been just as high. The memory hit like a punch to the chest, making it hard to breathe, my teeth clenching against the brutal force of it.

The smell of gun oil and sweat was sharp in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of blood that always seemed to linger no matter how far we were from the battlefield. Sam was sitting on the edge of his cot, his back to me, methodically cleaning his rifle. His movements were efficient, practiced, but there was a stiffness in his shoulders I couldn’t ignore.

“Sam,” I said, my voice low enough not to carry past the tent.

He didn’t look up, just kept running the cleaning rod through the barrel of his rifle. “I’m fine, Wade.”

It was the same answer he’d given me three nights ago, after the last firefight left us shaken and covered in dust and ash. I’d seen the way his hand trembled when he reached for his weapon, the way he clenched his jaw as if sheer force of will could keep him steady.

“No, you’re not,” I said, stepping closer. “You haven’t been sleeping. You barely ate yesterday. I saw your hand shake during drills.”

“Jesus, Wade.” He turned then, his Hazel eyes flashing with irritation. “Do you think I don’t know my own body? I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

I crossed my arms, leaning against the post of the cot, not backing down. “You’re not fine. You’re pushing too hard. You think I don’t notice, but I do. And if you keep this up, you’re going to—”

“Going to what?” Sam snapped, cutting me off. His voice was sharp, but there was a tremor in it, something that spoke to a crack in the armor he always wore so perfectly. “Fall apart? Lose my edge? Put the team at risk?”

“Sam—”

“No,” he interrupted, his tone dropping. He set the rifle aside and rubbed a hand over his face, his movements rough, like he was trying to scrub the exhaustion away. “You don’t get it, Wade. I can’t stop. Don’t you understand? I got us into this. I’m the one who wanted us here, who convinced you to come with me. If I break, if I fall apart—then what the hell happens to us? To the team? I can’t be the one to break.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, my chest tightening as the weight of them settled.

“Maybe you don’t have to keep pushing,” I said quietly, my voice softer now, almost pleading. “Maybe if you let someone—”

“I don’t let anyone do anything, Wade.” His voice softened, but it wasn’t comforting—it was tired, resigned. “This is how I get through it. This is how I survive. You think I’m not scared? You think I don’t feel it every time we roll out?”

I stared at him, helpless against the emotions in his eyes. His jaw was tight, his posture rigid, but there was a vulnerability in his voice that he didn’t let show often.

“Alright,” I said after a long moment, though the word felt heavy on my tongue. “But if you need me—”

“I know where to find you,” he said, his voice softening just enough to take the sting out of the dismissal.

I left the tent feeling like I’d failed him, like I hadn’t done enough.

The next day, I leant I would be right.

We were on patrol, the air heavy with the kind of silence that screamed danger. Sam was in the lead, his rifle at the ready, his eyes scanning the terrain with the focus of someone who’d done this a hundred times before. I was right behind him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough to grab him if anything happened.

And then it did.

The crack of gunfire shattered the stillness, and everything slowed. Sam’s body jerked, a spray of red blooming across his chest like some horrible, vivid flower.

“Sam!”

I screamed his name, my voice hoarse, raw, but he was already falling, crumpling to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. My body moved on instinct, dropping beside him, my hands pressing against the wound, trying to stop the blood that was pouring out too fast.

“Stay with me,” I begged, my voice breaking. “You hear me? You stay with me!”

His eyes fluttered open, locking on mine, and there was something there—an apology, a regret that cut deeper than the bullet ever could.

“I told you…” he rasped, blood staining his lips. “I can’t stop.”

“Shut up,” I said, choking on the words. “You’re not going anywhere, you stubborn asshole. You hear me?”

But the light in his eyes was already dimming, the strength fading from his body as he struggled for breath.

“Wade,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I—”

And then he was gone.

The world blurred, the sound of gunfire distant and hollow as I held him, his blood soaking into my hands, my uniform, my soul.

I never got to hear what he was going to say.

That memory clung to me, sharp as the day it happened, as I watched Cal strap his ankle after practice, his jaw set with that same stubborn determination that had haunted Sam. The parallels cut deeper than I wanted to admit, fear twisting in my gut like a vice.

I just hoped that this time, I wouldn’t have to watch someone I cared about break themselves down, piece by piece.

Montreal was alive with energy, the kind that seeped into your bones and set every nerve humming. The arena buzzed with anticipation, the low hum of the crowd swelling as we waited for the show to begin. By some miracle—or sheer force of will—my family had managed to secure an entire row of seats, enough for all of us. Shane and Eli had flown in for the occasion, filling the seats left vacant by Tyler and Hunter, who were tied up in playoffs. Their absence was the only gap in what felt like a perfect gathering.

I sat between Benny and Wylie, with Shane and Eli on the other side. Eli, true to form, was practically vibrating in his seat.

“I’m so excited! I’ve never seen him skate before,” Eli chirped.

I opened my mouth to respond, but Shane beat me to it. “I went to as many competitions as I could last year. He’s seriously talented. Now I get why I was one of the only ones in the stands—well, except for Tyler when he could make it. It kind of makes me mad.”

Him and me both. My jaw tightened as I scanned the crowd, my eyes darting across the rows, searching. Hoping. This wasn’t just any competition—this was the competition, the one every skater dreamed of winning. If his mother was ever going to show up, it would be tonight.

“Well, he has us now,” Wylie chimed in, ever the optimist. “And if he wants an overbearing mother, we have that in spades.”

I scoffed, earning a sharp look from my own mother, who somehow heard Wylie’s remark despite the roar of the arena.

The lights dimmed, pulling us all into focus as the announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, calling out the categories. The suspense was excruciating, every name that wasn’t his stretching the wait into eternity. Finally, the announcer called Cal Johnson and Petra Novak, and our row erupted into cheers, cutting through the noise of the crowd.

Cal glanced to the side, surprise flashing across his face before he masked it with the polished composure of a professional. As he and Petra took their marks, I caught a flicker of nerves beneath his star-flecked leotard.

The music began, and the transformation was immediate. I’d seen this routine more times than I could count, but tonight, with the lights, the costumes, and the energy of the crowd, it felt brand new. Cal, shimmering like the night sky, moved in perfect harmony with Petra, her gold costume catching the light like the sun itself.

He’d once told me the routine was a love story between the sun and the moon—lovers forever apart, meeting only in fleeting moments between dusk and dawn. It was beautiful and bittersweet, and as they glided across the ice, the story came alive.

But my breath hitched as they approached the lift. The hardest one to master. The one that had caused the fall in training. My heart thudded painfully in my chest, my fists curling as I forced the memory of his ankle buckling out of my mind.

Petra spun through the air, seemingly weightless.

The arena held its collective breath, the silence deafening. Then they landed it—perfectly.

The crowd erupted into thunderous applause, but I couldn’t join in. My eyes were glued to Cal.

He was steady and strong, his movements as flawless as ever. But the smile he gave the crowd wasn’t his smile. It was practiced, polished—a mask.

Something was wrong.

Before I could stop myself, I was already moving. My family’s cheers turned to murmurs of confusion behind me, but I didn’t care. Something wasn’t right, and I couldn’t just sit there and watch. Not this time.

I slipped through the backstage chaos, dodging security like a man on a mission. Muffled protests faded into the background as I spotted him—Cal, sweat-damp and ghostly pale, just steps away from the locker room. I grabbed his clammy hand, and his eyes snapped to mine, wide with surprise.

“Wade… what are you doing here?” he asked, his voice light, his brows bouncing in mock playfulness. “Here to congratulate me early?”

He tried for humor, but I couldn’t muster a flirt back. Not with how pale he looked, like he’d used up every ounce of energy just staying upright.

“What’s wrong, Cal?” I asked softly.

His smile faltered, the mask slipping for a second before snapping back into place.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, frowning as if my question was absurd. “Didn’t you see me out there? I killed it. Well, mostly—I’ll nitpick every move later.”

I shook my head, stepping closer.

“You know what I mean. Don’t lie to me. Something’s wrong.”

His frown deepened, frustration flickering in his eyes.

“I don’t know what this is, Wade, but I need to get changed and ready for my next skate. And this? This isn’t helping.”

“Pretty Boy,” I sighed, “I know something’s bothering you. I’m guessing it’s that ankle. If it is, you need to think about skipping the next competition.”

The fire in his eyes flared, and I recognized it immediately. It was the same stubborn, defiant look Sam used to give me when he’d told me he was joining the Army, despite every argument I’d made. That same reckless determination. And just like with Sam, I felt a pang of dread.

“This competition is all I have, Wade,” he said, his voice rising, every word edged with steel. “I have to win this. I’m not sitting it out.”

“Oh, darling, you have so much more,” I said, reaching for him, desperate for him to understand. “You just don’t see it yet. Don’t hurt yourself for a woman who doesn’t even care.”

The moment the words left my mouth, I knew I’d gone too far.

His face shifted, his eyes darkening as his jaw clenched.

“Go back to your seat, Jack,” he said, his voice low and cutting.

Before I could say anything else, he turned on his heel and disappeared through the locker room door, leaving me standing there like a fool.

I cursed under my breath, spinning around to find an annoyed security guard glaring at me.

“You’re not supposed to be back here,” he said sharply.

I plastered on a fake smile,

“My boyfriend forgot something, that’s all,” I said, even as I wondered if, after this, I still had a boyfriend at all.

As I made my way back to my seat, I was met with a dozen concerned eyes. My family—and now Shane and Eli, who had somehow been adopted into their chaos—were all watching me expectantly.

“Everything okay?” Shane asked first, his tone careful but probing.

“Mm, we’ll see,” I muttered, keeping my answer vague. It wasn’t the reassurance they wanted, and their expressions made that clear, but I couldn’t offer more. Not when my own chest was tight with unease.

We settled back in as the competition resumed, but my focus remained razor-sharp on the ice. The murmurs of my family faded into the background, drowned out by the thundering beat of my pulse. When Cal’s name was finally announced for his solo skate, I was on the edge of my seat.

This was the performance he’d been most excited about—his moment to truly shine.

The haunting strains of Taylor Swift’s Haunted filled the arena, and Cal moved with a grace that stole the breath from everyone in the room. Every leap, every spin, every extension of his limbs told a story. He was magnetic, a star burning bright and pulling everyone into his orbit.

By the time the music concluded, the crowd was on its feet, roaring their approval. My family was cheering alongside them, clapping and whooping. But I couldn’t celebrate. My eyes were locked on Cal, watching the shaky breaths he took, the wan smile he forced as he began skating off the ice.

And then he crumpled.

It happened so fast, I barely registered it—a single stride, then his body giving out, collapsing in a heap. His head hit the ice with a sickening thud.

I was up in an instant, shoving past the row of seats and sprinting toward the rink. Everything blurred as adrenaline took over. Shane and Eli flanked me, their presence a steadying force as we pushed through the growing crowd.

When we reached the tunnel, the same security guard from earlier stepped in front of me, his hand raised to block my way.

“I told you, you can’t be back here,” he said, his tone curt, like he was scolding a child.

“My boyfriend just collapsed on the ice,” I snapped, my voice rising. “I need to see if he’s okay.”

The guard opened his mouth to argue, but I didn’t hear him. My foot tapped impatiently against the cold concrete, the energy in my chest too wild to contain. Then I saw it.

The stretcher.

My heart plummeted as my eyes landed on Cal’s motionless form being wheeled down the corridor. His face was ghostly pale, his chest barely rising with each labored breath. Without a second thought. My legs carried me forward before my brain could catch up, ignoring the yells of the security guard behind me.

I reached the stretcher, grabbing Cal’s hand without hesitation. Relief washed over me as I felt his warmth—clammy, yes, but alive. I held on tightly, willing him to feel me, to know I was there.

His eyelids fluttered weakly, and when his brown eyes met mine, they were hazy, clouded with exhaustion and something deeper—something heavier.

“Darling, what is it?” I asked softly, leaning closer. My voice was low, urgent, but gentle.

Cal shook his head, the motion slight but enough to send a wince across his face. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks in silent streams. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t have to.

His gaze told me everything.

It wasn’t over between us—not us . But the thing he’d built his life around, the thing that had defined him for so long, was slipping away.

His career.

My grip on his hand tightened, grounding us both in the moment. I didn’t know what words to offer—if there even were words that could soften the weight of what he was feeling. So I leaned closer, brushing my thumb over his knuckles.

“I’m here, Pretty Boy,” I whispered. “I’ve got you.”

His tears fell harder, and for the first time, I didn’t try to stop my own from slipping free.