Chapter 15
The sight hit me like a blindside check.
I was doing my pre-game skate, the familiar routine of loops behind the net, the cold air burning my lungs in a good, clean way. I was trying to focus, to lock in, to be the player I was supposed to be. The player Henry had claimed to admire.
Then I looked up.
There, in the owner’s box, behind the pristine glass, was Henry. And tucked against his side, a vision in sleek white wool and a smile that could sell anything, was Kira.
My skates dug into the ice, stopping me dead.
The world narrowed to that little rectangle of glass.
She was laughing at something he said, her hand resting lightly on his forearm.
He was leaning down, his head tilted toward hers in that intimate way I knew too well.
He looked relaxed. He looked... appropriate.
The breakfast. The soft kisses. The quiet promise in my sunlit kitchen. It all curdled in my stomach, turning into something toxic and sharp.
It was a business meeting. Don’t be dramatic.
Right. A business meeting that required her to be here, now, touching him, on the most public night of my week.
The first period was a disaster. I was a step behind every play.
I fumbled a pass so badly it led to a breakaway goal against us.
Coach’s roar from the bench was a distant buzz in my ears.
All I could see was her hand on his sleeve.
All I could hear was the phantom echo of his voice saying “You are mine.”
Mine. But who was he, up there in his glass castle with a supermodel on his arm?
The second period wasn’t much better. I took a stupid penalty, slashing a guy out of pure frustration.
In the box, I stared at the ice, but my eyes kept drifting up.
They were still there. Now she was pointing at the ice, and he was nodding, explaining the game to her. The perfect, patient billionaire.
The horn sounded for the second intermission. We were down 2-1. The locker room was a tomb, Coach’s furious silence worse than any shouting. I couldn’t stay in there. I pushed out into the hallway, needing air, needing to move, needing to break something.
And I ran right into him.
Henry stood in the sterile corridor, alone for once. He looked out of place, a king in the servant’s quarters. His eyes found mine, and for a second, I saw something flicker in them—concern, maybe. Guilt.
It was all the invitation I needed.
“What the hell is this, Henry?” My voice was a low, shaking thing. I stepped into his space, not caring who saw.
“Charlie.” He held up a placating hand. “It’s not what you think.”
“You brought her here? To my game? After everything?” The hurt was boiling over, scalding my throat. “What did you archive your goal of fucking a hockey player?”
“Stop it,” he said, his voice hardening into that controlled tone I hated. “It’s for optics. To quiet the gossip before it starts. If I’m seen publicly with her, the narrative resets. It protects you from becoming a headline.”
“Protects me?” A jagged laugh tore out of me. “From who? No one knows about us! Not the press, not the team—just my two best friends who would rather die than sell me out. So what you're saying is bullshit, Henry. Complete, polished, billionaire bullshit.”
For the first time, he looked unsettled. A crack in the marble. “It’s not that simple. Rumors spread. People talk. This is about controlling the narrative—”
“And what’s our narrative, Henry? Huh?” My voice cracked, betraying me. “The one where you fuck me in private and parade her in public? What am I, your dirty secret? Was I just... convenient?”
“That is not what this is,” he said, his jaw tight.
“Then what is it?” I was shouting now, tears of rage pricking my eyes. I didn’t care. “You let her touch you. You let her hang all over you in front of ten thousand people. After everything you said to me. After you...” I couldn’t say it. After you marked me. After you stayed.
His expression shifted, confusion cutting through the frustration. “When did she touch me? It was a public box, Charlie. There were cameras—”
“Don’t,” I spat. “I saw it. I saw you lean in. I saw her kiss your cheek when she arrived. You let her.” The image was seared into my brain: her lips brushing his skin, his slight, accepting nod.
“You claim me in the dark and let her kiss you in the light. So what’s the truth?
Do you want us both? Is this some rich guy game to you? ”
“Charlie, that’s enough.”
“No, it’s not! It’s not nearly enough! You don’t get to do this to me! You don’t get to make me feel like I’m everything and then show me I’m nothing!”
The heavy door to the locker room banged open. Felix emerged, his face grim. He took in the scene in a second—me, vibrating with fury, Henry, a statue of tense restraint.
“Holt,” Felix said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He stepped between us, his back to Henry, his eyes locked on mine. “The period starts in three minutes. Coach is looking for you. This?” He jerked a thumb behind him. “This can wait. The game can’t.”
He put a firm hand on my shoulder, his grip grounding. “Don’t let him fuck up your game, Charlie. Don’t give him that power.”
The words were a bucket of cold reality. I was a professional. This was my job. My life. Henry Emerson, for all his power, didn’t get to take this from me too.
I looked past Felix, meeting Henry’s stormy gaze one last time. “You’re right,” I said, my voice now frighteningly calm. “It can wait.”
I turned and walked back into the locker room, leaving Henry standing alone in the hallway.
The third period, I played angry. Not the frantic, messy anger from before, but a cold, focused fury. I channeled every bit of hurt, every ounce of betrayal, into my skates, my stick, my body. I became a weapon.
I scored less than two minutes in, a wicked wrister top shelf that evened the score. The arena roared, but the sound was hollow. I didn’t look at the owner’s box.
Five minutes later, I stole the puck at our blue line and took off on a breakaway. The defenseman hooked me, but I fought through it, falling as I shoveled the puck past the goalie. A penalty shot was awarded. I scored again. 3-2.
When the final horn blew, we’d won 4-2. I had a hat trick and a game-winning goal. The guys mobbed me, but their cheers felt distant. My body was buzzing with adrenaline, but my heart was a lump of lead.
There was a press conference. Star of the game. I sat at the table, a mic in front of me, and gave the most generic, team-focused answers of my life. “Just glad to help the team get the W.” “Credit to my linemates.” “We’re taking it one game at a time.”
All the while, I could feel a presence at the back of the room. I didn’t have to look to know he was there. Watching.
When it was over, I pushed through the small crowd of reporters and staff, heading for the sanctuary of the locker room. I needed a shower. I needed to wash the night off me.
“Charlie.”
His voice stopped me in the dim tunnel leading to the locker rooms. I didn’t turn around.
He moved in front of me. He looked tired. The impeccable control was still there, but it was frayed at the edges. “We need to talk.”
“No,” I said, my voice flat. “We don’t.” I tried to move past him.
He caught my arm. His grip was firm, but not painful. “Please.”
I finally looked at him. I let him see the emptiness in my eyes, the ice where the fire had been. I slowly, deliberately, pulled my arm from his grasp.
“Isn’t this what you wanted, Mr. Emerson?” I asked, my voice a quiet, deadly thing.
He actually flinched.
“The press just saw you with your beautiful, appropriate date,” I continued, each word a carefully placed shard of glass.
“They saw me give a generic, team-focused interview. No one knows. No one suspects a thing.” A smile that didn’t reach my eyes touched my lips.
“Your narrative is perfectly controlled. Congratulations.”
I took a step back, creating a chasm between us with the motion. “You got exactly what you asked for.” I turned to leave, the final words dropping behind me like stones. “Now leave me alone.”
I didn’t look back. I walked into the noisy, steamy chaos of the winning locker room, where the laughter and the cheers were loud enough, for a little while, to drown out the sound of my own heart breaking.