Chapter 26
Nick
I walked into the rink with my jaw already tight, shoulders braced like I was heading into a goddamn war instead of practice. The locker room buzzed with the usual noise—guys laughing, chirping each other, tossing tape across the room like we were still in college. I didn’t say a word.
The screen in the corner glowed like a curse.
That same fucking video—Kennedy and Gary outside his place, her face twisted in frustration while that bastard dragged her like she was something he owned.
I’d seen it this morning. Once. Then again.
And again. Until my knuckles were raw from clenching my fists.
I forced myself to look away, slamming my locker closed harder than necessary. She hadn’t said much this morning. Smiled like nothing was wrong. But I could feel it—that shift in her, like she was slipping behind glass and locking the door.
And I hated it.
I shoved my pads on in silence, barely hearing the guys jawing around me.
“Yo, Maddox,” Toshi called out from across the room. “You good? Or still picturing your girl in that dress from the club?”
I gave him a look that could’ve curdled blood. “Say that again.”
He just laughed. I didn’t.
By the time I hit the ice, I was already wound too tight. The first few drills were a blur—feet moving, hands on autopilot—but nothing landed. Passes were off. Shots had no bite. The puck felt like it had a grudge against me.
I heard someone mutter behind me after I missed my second shot in a row. “Jesus, he’s off today.”
No shit. I was off. Because instead of thinking about the play, I was thinking about her. Kennedy. Her silence. That tight smile. The way she said she was fine but wouldn’t meet my eyes.
The whistle blew sharp, and Coach’s voice cut through the noise like a blade. “Maddox. Off.”
I skated over, jaw set. “I’m good.”
“You’re benched,” he said flatly. “You wanna skate like your head’s somewhere else, that’s fine. But not here. Not two days before a game.”
Someone behind me snorted. I didn’t care who.
“Fuck off,” I muttered under my breath as I skated off the ice, stripping my gloves off finger by finger before I hurled them at the boards.
Something was wrong. And I wasn’t going to wait around another second pretending like everything was okay.
As soon as my skates hit the rubber mat, disappointment churned in my gut like acid.
Not just because I’d screwed up—hell, that happened.
But because this week mattered. The game against Gary’s team wasn’t just another notch on the schedule.
It was personal. And I was skating like I had my damn laces tied together.
The locker room buzzed behind me, but I felt detached from it—like I was watching the whole thing through a pane of glass. We were supposed to be dialed in, locked and loaded. Instead, I was coming apart at the seams.
Coach walked over, arms crossed, his usual unreadable stare locked right on me.
“What’s going on?” he asked. Not barked. Asked. Which was worse. “You’re not focused today.”
“I’m fine,” I said, too fast, too sharp. The kind of fine that wasn’t fine at all.
His eyes narrowed like he could smell the lie. “Doesn’t look fine.”
I held his gaze, jaw tight. “I’ll figure it out.”
I didn’t want to talk about Kennedy. Or the video.
Or how it felt seeing her yanked into the spotlight like that—spun into someone else’s story without her permission.
I didn’t want to admit that I was thinking about her face when she lied to me this morning—eyes too big, smile too careful.
I knew she was holding something back, and I’d let her.
Because I was scared if I pushed, she’d break.
Practice kept rolling around me, sticks clashing, blades cutting the ice, laughter echoing off the glass. Normal noise. But it felt distant. Like I wasn’t even there.
The knot in my chest just kept getting tighter.
I shoved my helmet back on and hit the ice again—not because Coach told me to, not because I had something to prove—but because if I didn’t skate, I’d explode.
I needed to move. To hit. To bleed.
Because maybe if I gave everything I had out here—left it all in the paint—I could silence the rest. The headlines. The doubts. The look in her eyes this morning.
Maybe then, I’d be the guy she believed in again. The guy who could protect her from all of it.
Even if she wouldn’t let me in.
I sat on the bench, heart still hammering from the drills, but the adrenaline felt different now. Not the high of the ice. This was sharper. Heavier. Like a fuse burning low and fast toward something I wasn’t ready for.
The room buzzed around me. Jokes flying. Gloves smacking against lockers. Normal stuff.
“Maddox and Delgado are trending like crazy,” one of the rookies said, like it was just another stat line.
My jaw locked so tight my molars ached. Drama.
That’s what they were calling it? They didn’t see how Kennedy flinched when her phone buzzed.
Didn’t hear the edge in her voice when she said she was fine.
Didn’t feel her pulling away from me, little by little, like she was trying not to bleed on anyone.
“Shut your mouth,” I snapped.
The rookie blinked, feigning innocence. “Just saying…”
I didn’t answer. Just stared until he turned away, hands raised like I was the one causing the problem. Coach caught my eye from across the room—his look said everything. Focus. Don’t start something.
Too late.
The laughter dipped just enough for the whispers to slip in.
“She dumped Gary for him, right?”
“Think she was cheating back then?”
I didn’t move, but my whole body went hot. My fists curled on instinct, tight enough to sting. Every part of me itched to swing, to shut them up with one hit.
“Watch your mouth,” I said again—low, calm, lethal.
The same rookie gave a half-smirk and looked away, but the tension lingered like smoke. I leaned back against the bench, every muscle coiled like it was waiting for a fight.
Coach slid onto the bench beside me. “You need to get your head in the game,” he muttered, voice low.
“I know,” I said through clenched teeth.
But I didn’t. Not really.
Because all I could think about was Kennedy—curled into me last night like she finally felt safe, then slipping away this morning like the world was cracking beneath her feet. She wouldn’t meet my eyes. Wouldn’t let me in.
Had I missed something? Pushed too hard? Not hard enough?
My gaze drifted to the ice, where the team skated easy and clean like nothing outside these walls mattered. But it did. It mattered to her. And that meant it mattered to me.
I didn’t know what Gary was playing at, or what Kennedy was keeping from me, but I sure as hell knew this: the next time someone tried to touch her, drag her name through the mud, or twist our story into some cheap headline?
They’d have to go through me first.
But silence wasn’t going to fix this.
Not when everything already felt like it was teetering on the edge. Not when I could feel her slipping through my fingers a little more every time she said “I’m fine” and wouldn’t look me in the eye.
If she couldn’t trust me with whatever was eating at her—if she didn’t think I could handle it, carry some of the weight—then what the hell were we doing? How were we supposed to survive everything coming for us?
The whistle shrieked again, cutting through my thoughts like a blade. Coach barked for players to line up for scrimmage drills. Skates scraped the ice as the rest of the team moved into position, chasing victory like nothing outside the rink existed.
I sat there, burning with the kind of frustration that couldn’t be cooled by cold air or a clean hit.
Because I wasn’t just fighting for points on a scoreboard—I was fighting for us. For something real. And right now, it felt like I was the only one showing up for that part of the game.
She had to know—I needed her to know—that I wasn’t going anywhere. Not when it got messy. Not when it got dark. I didn’t back down. Ever.
Even if it meant breaking through that wall she’d started to build again since yesterday’s shitstorm hit.
Even if it meant facing off with demons she wasn’t ready to name.
I’d fight every one of them for her.
But she had to let me.
I stepped out into the hallway, leaving the roar of the locker room behind me. The door clicked shut, but the noise still echoed in my skull—too much noise, too many distractions, and none of it mattered.
Only she did.
I pulled out my phone, fingers already dialing before my brain caught up. The line rang once, twice—then she answered.
“Nick?”
Her voice was off. Tight. Like she was trying too hard to sound normal. I didn’t hear the warmth I usually did. I heard distance. I heard… walls.
“Hey,” I said, keeping my tone even, careful. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just tired,” she said quickly, like she had the answer ready. “Maybe overwhelmed with the press. Aren't you supposed to be on the ice?"
Bullshit.
Not all of it—but the way she said it? That wasn’t just media stress. I could hear the caution, the way her words tiptoed around something bigger.
“You sure you’re okay?” I pressed, not ready to let it go. I needed her to give me more. Anything.
Another pause. “Yeah.” Just that. Then, “Just tired. Come home when you’re done.”
The way she said it… it hit different. Like she wanted me there, but didn’t believe it would help. Like she needed me to come home and simultaneously couldn’t handle it if I did.
That kind of helplessness pissed me off—not at her, but at whatever was making her feel like she had to carry this shit alone.
“Are you sure? Because I can—”
“No.” Her voice was soft, but final. “I just need a little space right now.”
That word. Space.
It was like she’d sucker-punched me through the phone.
I stared down at the floor, jaw tight, breathing hard through my nose like that would keep the frustration from spilling out.
But I didn’t argue. I couldn’t—not when she was already this closed off.