Chapter 10
Chapter ten
It doesn’t feel empty anymore
Logan
The door barely swings open before Dusty launches at me, paws skidding on the hardwood, tail swishing fast enough to power a small engine.
His whole body wiggles with the kind of joy no human has ever greeted me with, and I crouch down, letting him shove his nose against my neck until I smell more like retriever than cologne.
“Miss me, bud?” My voice is rough with travel, but he doesn’t care.
What I do notice, the second the door clicks shut behind me, is what doesn’t belong.
The faint trace of coconut and something floral hangs in the air as I walk into the kitchen, the way it clings as if someone’s just slipped out the door ahead of me. A neon splash of pink bobs out the back window where my pool used to be flamingo-free.
The flamingo I left in its package is now blown up and very much in the pool. Only it’s not alone anymore. A swan, massive and regal, floats next to it, wings curved in some ridiculous parody of grace.
I’m gone four days, and my backyard’s been turned into a zoo.
Dusty noses my leg farther into the kitchen, where another reminder waits: a pink Post-it, stuck to the fridge with looping handwriting.
Don’t let him trick you into thinking he hasn’t been fed. Good luck tonight! – Lu
I peel it free, thumb lingering on the curl of her L, then tug out my phone. It’s habit at this point to check my messages before I even drop my bag.
Our text chain is ridiculous, filled with pics she’s sent me over the past few days.
Dusty, at the top of Birch, where she says she goes to clear her head, his ears flapping against the wind as he bounds about.
Dusty on Betty’s porch, Lulu at his side, the two women clinking glasses filled with something fizzy and blindingly pink.
A shot of Dusty next to a child’s drawing that looks more like a shaggy potato with legs than a retriever, her caption: Modern art from class. He’s flattered.
And then the one I keep going back to: Dusty standing guard by the pool while she floats on that fucking flamingo. Pink bikini straps tied at her neck, sunlight flashing across water and skin, her grin wide enough to make me forget how to breathe.
Her commentary on several other photos is no better.
Dusty is the goodest boy.
Dusty misses his dad.
Dusty looooves Summer Shoreline, too. Such a cultured boi.
FYI your pool has officially been christened Flamingo Lagoon.
Every photo and every line is like a breadcrumb trail into her life. And all week, I’ve followed it, smiling at my phone like an idiot, getting more of Lulu from a handful of messages than I have in the year I’ve known her.
I barely have time to shower, let alone think about what all of that means, before I’m back out the door.
Quick wash, game-day suit, a hand through my hair.
Dusty farewelled, flamingo and swan still bobbing in the pool, Lulu’s Post-it burning a hole on my table.
Then it’s straight to the rink, adrenaline already sparking before I even hit the players’ lot.
Home opener. There’s nothing like it.
The locker room is a wall of noise when I step inside. Music pounding, sticks clacking against the floor, the sharp rip of tape, along with the smell of fresh sweat.
“About time, Pookie,” Chase calls. “Thought you were gonna sleep through puck drop.”
“Had to remind Dusty who his favorite is,” I mutter, tugging my jersey over my pads.
Eli snorts from across the room. “Good luck. That dog’s traded up.”
I don’t rise to it. Not when I know exactly who he means. Not when I agree.
The tunnel swallows us next, our skates biting against the rubber mat, crowd rumbling overhead. Warm-ups blur by, the anthem locks everyone into place, and then the horn sounds.
We burst out into floodlights and noise that rattles the rafters. The arena is shaking, thousands of fans on their feet, pounding against the glass.
“Let’s go, Storm!” someone yells from the boards. The noise is deafening, a roar that shakes the ice under my blades.
First shift and the puck’s in our zone. Their winger cuts across the blue line, eyes locked on the net. I angle wide, lower my shoulder, and step into his lane. Steel collides with steel as I hip check him through the body. He spins out, the puck squirts loose, and Reid sweeps it clear.
“Nice one, Pooks!” Hutchy hollers, stick banging against the post.
Next whistle is a faceoff at center ice.
I glance up, scanning the stands out of habit, looking for a familiar face.
My mom and dad don’t attend the games, though.
Never have. Too much noise and chaos. Easier to watch it from their living room in Minnesota with the remote in hand, so they can rewind every mistake and call me after.
Tonight, though, my eyes find her.
Lulu.
Second row, right behind the bench with Zoe, Charlie, Claire, and Tamara.
She fits into their WAG cluster so easily—leaning in to hear Zoe over the noise, laughing when Charlie tugs her arm, scarf slipping from her lap to the floor.
The Storm jersey she’s wearing has PARNELL stitched across the back in bold white.
My gut twists. Of course, she’s wearing Eli’s name. It’s her name, too. But it doesn’t stop the burning in my chest at the sight of it stretched across the back of her shoulders.
The ref drops the puck, play explodes again, and I force myself to move with it. One of their forwards drifts up to Eli at the dot, voice pitched low.
“Parnell,” he sneers, eyes bouncing toward the glass. “That’s your sister, Lulu, in the stands, eh? Bet she looks good on her knees.”
Eli bristles, his shoulders squaring and jaw flexing, ready to take the bait.
I get there first.
Boards shake as I hammer the guy clean into the glass, his helmet cracking against Plexi hard enough to rattle teeth. Controlled and legal, but my stick pins him there, forearm across his chest so he feels every ounce of pressure.
“Put her name in your mouth again,” I snarl, “and you won’t have teeth left to keep it there.”
The ref’s arm stays down as I spring off him, and he skates off. Eli glides past, brows drawn tight, shooting me a look that could mean a dozen things. Suspicion. Thanks. Maybe both. I just set my jaw and push off, resetting my stance. It’s a defenseman’s job—cover your guys. End of story.
From there, it’s muscle memory. Clearing the crease, eating a hit to break up a rush, leaning on their top line until their legs burn.
In the third, the puck slides clean to me at the blue line, so I wind up and fire it low.
It clips a shin pad and bounces straight to Chase, who buries it top shelf.
The goal horn blares, and the crowd detonates.
“Atta boy!” Chase slaps my helmet as we circle back.
The final buzzer is bedlam. Storm take the win. Helmets off, sticks raised to the glass, the roar deafening as though we’ve already lifted the Cup.
I glance back to the row where I saw her, searching for one last flash of blonde hair, but the seat’s empty now. Makes sense. The wives and girlfriends will be waiting in their lounge, but Lulu doesn’t belong there. Not officially.
So she’s gone—slipped into the crush of the crowd, leaving nothing behind but the echo in my chest.
The locker room is chaos—steam rising from showers, guys hooting and hollering, music blasting so loud my ribs vibrate. Chase is in the middle of it, shirt half off and dancing until Hutch sprays him with a water bottle. The whole place rattles with victory.
“Walton’s acting like he didn’t just finish a sitter I handed him,” I call, snapping my towel out against his calf.
He yelps and hops away, grinning like an idiot. “You sad you didn’t get the finisher, Pookie?”
“Pretty sure Miller got the finish,” Hutch cuts in, smirking as he chugs the rest of his drink. “Saw him finish that poor bastard on the boards in the second period.”
The whole room erupts again, someone chanting Pooks! Pooks! until I’m half-tempted to throw my glove at them, but instead I just grin, shaking my head.
Coach Benson steps in, arms crossed, and the noise dims fast. The respect for this man runs bone-deep.
“Good win,” he says. “Home opener’s a bitch to play, and you boys earned it.” He sweeps a hard look around the room, pausing on Chase long enough to make the guy sober a little. “Enjoy it tonight, but don’t get comfortable. The league doesn’t give a damn about the last game.”
“Yes, Coach,” echoes around the room, rough but unified.
Benson’s gaze cuts back to me for half a beat with sharp and wordless approval, before he turns toward the door. I let out a silent sigh of relief, especially after last season and how badly we were playing.
The noise ramps back up once he’s gone. Someone cranks the music higher, Ryan’s being pulled toward media, and everything feels loud, messy, and golden. The kind of victory chaos you don’t forget.
By the time I’ve showered and stepped into the quieter hum of the tunnel, it’s already dulled into a low thrum in my veins.
Eli’s name echoes down the hall as reporters call for him, and I don’t doubt Tamara’s waiting on the other side of security.
Charlie will be there for Jake, Zoe for Chase. Everyone’s got someone.
Except me.
As I slide into the driver’s seat of my truck, my phone rings. Right on cue. I almost let it go to voicemail, but that only makes it worse later. So I answer.
“Lucky win,” Dad says, and for half a second, it almost sounds like pride, until the next words drop. “But you let their winger get too deep on that second-period rush. Could’ve cost a goal if Hutchinson hadn’t bailed you out.”
My grip tightens on the wheel. “We won, Dad.”
“Doesn’t mean you played clean. Watch your positioning, and don’t get sloppy with your stick. The refs will call that if you’re not careful.”
I sigh. “Okay.”
“And that cross-check? You can’t let chirps get the better of you, Logan. They’ll bait you into penalties every time.”