Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Helm shouts, still dripping with sweat as he slaps Fox on the back. “Nine in a row, baby!”
Nine straight wins since Christmas. We’re on a three-week run. Home games, road games, against teams at the top of the standings and the bottom—we’ve taken them all. A streak like this hasn’t happened in three years.
My first year with the team, we were on fire. The year after, I became captain, and we were able to keep the momentum going. But the last three have been tough.
Three years of grinding. Of watching other teams celebrate while we packed up our gear in April with nothing to show for it.
And now? I’m playing the best hockey of my career. We’re fifth in our division, only three points out of a playoff spot with plenty of the season left.
Fox grins, working the laces on his skates loose. “Keep this up and we’re drinking out of a big silver cup this summer.”
“You don’t even drink,” Logan reminds him.
“If you don’t think I’m gonna drink fucking apple juice out of that thing, you’re mistaken.”
Volk shakes his head, sitting in his stall and peeling off his pads without a word. But there’s something different in his expression, too. Pride, maybe. Or relief.
“Don’t jinx it,” I warn, but I can’t keep from smiling. I drop onto the bench and start tearing off my gear.
“Anyone wanna grab a late lunch and a drink?” Helm asks the room.
I wave him off, but two of the younger guys, plus Logan and Fox, agree.
Today’s afternoon home game means I’m showered and dressed by four, heading out of the arena while the sun’s still up.
Summer’s at the studio. Boone can’t even give her Sundays, of all days, off. And I thought my schedule was brutal.
I’ve started timing my days around hers. I grab my coffee earlier than I need to, just to see her before she leaves. And when I’m home at night, I cook dinner, so I have a reason to sit across from her and eat.
I can’t get enough of her. Her smile alone has the ability to turn my whole day around.
An hour after leaving the arena, I unlock my front door. Grace isn’t waiting on the other side. She’s probably withholding affection as punishment for being abandoned all day.
I find her stretched out on one side of the L-shaped couch, belly exposed. I give her a quick scratch. “Rough life.”
I drop onto the opposite end, scrolling through the group chat. Logan and Fox are posting photos of Helm trying to pick up the waitress. I swipe out without responding and stare at the home screen.
Summer hasn’t texted me since this morning. Just a simple Good luck today with a four-leaf clover emoji, the same one she’s sent me the last nine games.
Nine games. Nine wins.
As much as I tell myself not to be a superstitious cliché… I can’t help thinking it contributes to our wins.
Not the texts. Her.
I open one of the social media apps I rarely use. My page is mostly photos that the team’s content manager tagged me in. I type Summer’s name into the search bar.
Call it curiosity. Call it a bad idea. Call it whatever you want—I’m doing it anyway.
Her profile loads. It’s a public account, and she’s got almost three hundred thousand followers. I add one more, tapping the little blue button.
In the first video, she’s sitting with her guitar in her lap, singing a cover. It’s intimate, like she’s playing just for me… and the nearly seventy thousand people who’ve liked it.
Seventy thousand people see what I see. Boone should see it too, instead of making her doubt herself. For the past three weeks, Summer’s been coming home from the studio quieter, flatter, a little more down every time. Christ, I’d love five minutes alone with this jackass.
I scrub a hand over my jaw and focus back on her voice.
One video turns into five, then ten.
The recent ones look like they were filmed in her room here, the sloped ceiling behind her, and the lamp throwing warm light across the wall. My favorite is her sitting on my guest bed, singing a rendition of Jolene.
Fuck, she’s talented.
And beautiful. And funny. And caring. The way she looks at me sometimes, like I’m more—
The wanting hits me so suddenly I have to put the phone down.
Grace curls up at my side and purrs, finally granting me some attention. But it’s short lived. Her ears prick when the front door opens, and apparently, Summer isn’t on her shit list because she trots toward the sound without hesitation.
“Hey, Gracie girl,” Summer says, somewhere behind me. “At least you’re happy to see me.”
Something in her voice makes me turn. “Summer?” But she doesn’t hear me over the clatter of her guitar and bag hitting the floor.
“You know what Boone said today?” Her voice is watery, talking to the cat like she’s her best friend.
“He said I’m thinking instead of feeling. Like that helps. ‘Just stop overthinkin’, Summer.’ Oh, wow, thanks, I’m magically cured.”
A cabinet opens. Closes. Something clanks against the counter.
“And then Kendra called, asking for an update, and I lied.” Her voice climbs higher, tighter. “It’s not great, Gracie. It’s a disaster. I’m a disaster.”
I’ve never heard her sound so small. Summer’s all grit and sunshine, the kind of woman who lights up a room without trying. She sees the best in everyone, even those who don’t deserve it.
She’ll hate that I’m hearing this, but I’m halfway across the room before I can second-guess myself.
Summer’s at the island with her back to me, and her shoulders are shaking. Grace sits on the counter in front of her, tail swishing.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.” She’s crying, trying to muffle the sound and failing. “I thought I could do this. I really did. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe I’m—”
Fuck. I hate seeing her cry.
She must hear my movement, stiffening before she spins around. “Oh.”
Her eyes are red-rimmed, mascara smudged down her cheeks. She wipes at her face, like she can erase the evidence if she’s fast enough.
But I already saw.
And I can’t walk away and pretend I didn’t.
“C’mere.” I open my arms. “What happened?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.” She wraps her arms around herself. “How was the game? I didn’t think you’d be home yet.”
I’m not surprised by her deflection.
“Starling.”
She shakes her head. Won’t look at me.
“Come here.” I keep my arms open, waiting. I’ll stand here all night if I have to.
“I’m a mess. I’ll get snot on your shirt,” she says through hitched breaths.
“I don’t care.”
When she doesn’t move, I step closer and pull her to me. Her arms fold awkwardly between us, and she presses her forehead to my chest. But her muscles stay tight under my hands.
“Is this okay?” I check.
I haven’t hugged her since Christmas. Three weeks ago. Twenty-four days, if I’m counting. Living in the same house, orbiting each other, maintaining the careful distance we agreed on.
It hasn’t gotten any easier.
I hate that she’s upset. But I’d be lying if I said part of me wasn’t grateful for the excuse to hold her again.
She nods, then finally melts into me. The tension leaves her body as she loops her arms around my middle and clings to my back.
Her breath catches. Her lashes flutter. My shirt grows damp beneath her cheek. I press my lips to the top of her head and keep her close through it all.
This is new territory for me. I don’t stick around long enough for the messy parts. But with Summer, I want to.
I want her sunshine and her storms.
Eventually, her breathing evens out, and she pulls back, eyes still red but dry.
“Let’s sit.” I guide her to the couch.
I want to pull her onto my lap. I want her curled into me, her mouth at my neck, her breath hot on my skin. But I settle for turning toward her as she takes the cushion next to me.
Her lip trembles. Not quite a smile, but trying for one.
Grace takes her other side, nose nudging Summer’s elbow like she wants to make her feel better, too.
“Talk to me. What happened?”
“Boone…” Her chest rises on an uneven inhale. “He’s losing patience with me. And he’s right. I have more to give, but I can’t get to it.”
I reach out, thumb brushing away a tear still clinging to her cheek.
She follows the movement, her eyes tracking my hand as it drops back to my lap. Then she looks up at me through damp lashes. “What if I put everything I have into this and it’s still not enough? What if I’m not enough?”
“Stop.” I grip her knee. “You are more than enough.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually.” My voice comes out rough. “I’ve heard you sing. I’ve watched you work yourself to exhaustion every day for weeks. I’ve seen you pour everything you have into this.”
I lean closer, making sure she’s looking at me when I say, “You’re a fucking gift to anyone lucky enough to know you, Starling. Boone’s a fool if he can’t see it.”
She bites her bottom lip, but holds my gaze as she nods.
“Boone’s right though. The song is missing that raw, lived-in truth.
All good love songs have it.” She settles into the cushions, her fingers tracing absent patterns on the fabric.
“I don’t think I was actually in love when I wrote it…
I thought I was, but I’m not so sure now. It was a long time ago.”
The relief that moves through me is immediate, and I have no right to it.
I started counting the days. I’m not sure when it became a habit, only that each morning I wake up one closer to her leaving, and the dread is getting harder to ignore.
148 of them left.
I nod slowly, not trusting myself to speak.
She pulls her knees up to her chest. “Thank you. For this. For listening.”
“Always.” The word comes out like a promise. And I realize I mean it.
I clear my throat, then curse myself for doing it. “You have off tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah, thank God.” She runs a hand down Grace’s back, and the cat arches into it. “I need a day to emotionally recover.”
She needs a break. Needs to remember there’s more to life than that studio and Boone’s impossible standards.
“Can I take you skating?”
She raises a brow. “Don’t you remember how that went last time?”
I chuckle. I wish I remembered more of that day. But I was too wrapped up in my own head, still recovering from my injury, blinded by studio lights, and the chaos of a film set.
I wish I’d really seen her back then.
“This’ll be better,” I promise. “Trust me?”
Her gaze moves across my face. “Yeah,” she finally says.
Then softer: “I trust you.”