Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
LUKAS
The quiet after a win always feels different.
The adrenaline doesn’t leave all at once.
It lingers at the edges, in the hum beneath my skin, in the way my body still feels switched on even as everything around me slows.
By the time I get back to my flat, the city has settled into that late-night lull, when the noise drops just enough to notice the silence.
I kick the door shut behind me and drop my bag by the wall, rolling my shoulders as I step further inside.
My muscles ache in that familiar, satisfyingly hard-earned, well-used way.
Sweat has long since dried on my skin, leaving a faint tightness that makes a shower feel less like a routine and more like a necessity.
I stand there for a moment as the game flashes back in my mind; smooth passes, hard hits, and the sharp crack of the puck hitting the boards. The rush and mastery of it, where everything simplifies to instinct and timing. We played well tonight.
I exhale slowly, running a hand through my hair before heading to the kitchen.
The fridge door opens, casting a glow as I look for a quick snack.
There’s some leftover pasta, which will suffice.
I don’t bother warming it thoroughly, just enough to take the chill off, then lean against the counter and eat directly from the bowl.
The silence around me feels comfortable.
Being alone after a game used to feel like a drop, sharp and sudden, a leap from noise to silence. Now, it feels different.
My phone buzzes against the counter, and I glance at the screen and smile despite myself. Maman, of course. I wipe my hand on a towel before answering, switching to speaker as I move through to the living room.
“Bonsoir,” I say.
“Lukas,” she replies immediately, her voice warm and familiar. “You called your mother earlier, yes?”
I huff a quiet laugh, dropping onto the sofa. “I was busy. We had a game.”
“You always have a game,” she says, but there’s no bite to it. “Did you win?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” she replies, satisfied. “You scored?”
“One.”
“Only one?” There it is, the gentle push.
I shake my head, smiling. “It was enough.”
She hums softly, like she’s deciding whether to accept that answer. “You sound tired.”
“I am.” She doesn’t miss a trick. She’s always studying me and second-guessing what’s going on in my life.
“But you are happy?”
I hesitate for a fraction of a second because I do miss my parents. I miss home, but I am happy here. “Yes.”
She catches it, and there’s a pause on the line before she speaks again, more carefully now. “And what is making you happy, hmm?”
I lean back against the sofa, staring at the ceiling. “We played well.”
“Lukas.”
I laugh under my breath. “It’s nothing.”
“It is never nothing,” she says gently. Then, like she’s just remembered something completely unrelated, which she hasn’t, she adds, “Do you speak to Camille?”
I close my eyes briefly. “Ah, no Maman. That’s best left alone now.”
“I liked Camille, she was good for you,” my mother continues, her voice light in that way that is anything but accidental. “I hear she has a new position. Doing very well apparently.”
“I am sure she is.”
There’s a soft sigh on the other end. Not frustrated or quiet, but persistent. “You had something good there,” she says. “You do not always have to run away from serious things.”
I let that hang between us for a moment. Camille was easy. Predictable and safe in a way that didn’t ask too much of me beyond showing up when it suited us both. It worked until I received the contract offer, and then it became impossible.
“I’m not running,” I say finally.
“No?” she asks gently. There’s another pause before she asks, softer now, “There is someone else?”
I don’t respond immediately, and that itself is an answer.
“Oh,” she says, and I can hear the lightness in her voice now. “Tell me.”
“It’s new,” I say carefully. “And not like before.”
“Better?” she asks.
I think about Kate and how she observes me, as if she’s trying to unravel something instead of simply appreciating the view. The way she listens, not falling into the usual rhythm.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “Better.”
My mother is silent for a second, and when she speaks again, there’s something softer in her tone. “Then do not ruin it.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “That is the plan, Maman.”
“Good. And Lukas?”
“Yes?”
“Be kind.”
“I’m always kind.”
She makes a noise that suggests she absolutely does not believe that. “Be more kind than usual.”
“I’ll try.”
We talk a bit more after that, about home and the weather. It’s nothing major, yet it feels all-encompassing. It resolves something within me that I hadn’t realised needed fixing. When I hang up, the flat is quieter, but it doesn’t feel empty.
I push myself up from the sofa and head for the shower, stripping off my clothes as I go. The hot water hits my skin, and I let my head drop forward, bracing my hands against the wall as the heat melts the tightness in my muscles.
This is the moment when everything slows to the steady rhythm of water and breath.
And her. She slips into my thoughts without permission.
Kate, with her careful words and steady presence.
The way she holds herself slightly apart from everything, as if she’s measuring it before letting it close.
And how she didn’t rush into anything, didn’t flirt the way most women do around me.
She made me work for it, and she’s still making me do it.
And I don’t mind that. Not even a little.
I run a hand through my hair, rinsing out the last of the shampoo as tension settles low in my chest. Nerves.
I huff out a quiet breath. I’ve played in front of thousands of people.
I’ve taken hits that would drop most players and carried the pressure of entire games on my shoulders.
And yet the idea of sitting across from her at dinner is what has my pulse picking up.
She is not a puck bunny waiting for a story to tell her friends, nor is she someone looking for a night and nothing more. There’s weight to this. Not heavy, not yet, but enough that I don’t want to get it wrong.
When I step out of the shower, towel wrapped low around my waist, my phone lights up again from the counter with a video call from Callum. I answer it, propping the phone up as I move to my room.
“Please tell me you’re decent,” Callum says immediately.
“Always.”
The camera shifts, and I catch sight of Rose beside him, curled into his side with a grin already forming. “He’s not decent,” she says. “He’s naked and preening.”
“I do not preen.”
“You absolutely preen,” Callum counters. “We’ve seen it.”
I roll my eyes, pulling on a clean t-shirt. “Why are you calling me?”
“To make sure you don’t ruin this,” Callum says simply.
Rose nods, far too seriously. “This is important.”
“It’s only dinner,” I point out.
“With a woman you actually like,” she shoots back.
Callum leans closer to the camera, it’s as if he’s trying to get my undivided attention. “Which means you are not allowed to be your usual self.”
“My usual self is excellent.”
“Your usual self is a menace,” he corrects.
Rose laughs softly. “Be nice,” she says. “And not just surface-level nice. Real nice.”
“I am always real nice.”
“Lukas,” Callum says flatly. “You know what we mean, she’s not your usual puck bunny.”
I sigh, dragging a hand through my damp hair. “I know that because I don’t take those to dinner first. Fine, I’ll behave.”
Rose gasps and screws her eyes up tight before she says, “Be a gentleman.”
“I’m always a gentleman.” My hands are raised as I shrug my shoulders, and I offer Rose a wink.
“That’s debatable,” Callum mutters.
I shake my head, but there’s no irritation in it. “Go,” Callum says finally. “Don’t be late for her.”
“Good luck,” Rose says, smiling.
I end the call before they can say anything else, setting the phone down as I turn back to my wardrobe.
I take my time getting ready, not in the way I would for a night out, because this is different.
I pull out a pair of dark jeans and a simple, fitted shirt.
It’s clean and simple, and it feels like me without trying too hard.
By the time I finish, the mirror shows a more focused reflection. Still me, but more defined. I pick up my keys, glance at my phone one final time, and then step out into the night.
The air is cooler now that the city is quieter, but not asleep. Lights spill from windows, and streetlamps cast long shadows across the pavement as I make my way toward the restaurant.
The place isn't very big. Gentle light streams in through the windows, creating a warm and welcoming atmosphere that feels just right. I pause outside for a moment, adjust my sleeves, and exhale slowly to settle my nerves. It’s silly to feel nervous.
I’ve dined before, but never with someone like Kate.
Then I step inside, and the host greets me and leads me to a table near the back. It’s quiet and a little more private, which is good. I sit, resting my hands lightly on the table as I glance toward the door, and I find myself waiting. Not for a game to start. Not for a puck to drop.
For her.
And that feels bigger than anything I’ve ever stepped onto the ice for.