Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LUKAS
The rink smells the same every morning. Cold air, sharpened steel, and sweat already starting to build before we’ve even properly begun. It settles into your lungs and your skin until it feels like part of you. Something I’ve always relied on to keep things simple.
Today, it doesn’t quite land the same. Not because anything here has changed, but because I have.
“Devereaux!”
I glance up just in time to catch a towel flying straight at my face. I lift a hand, catching it without breaking stride as I head toward the bench.
Callum grins at me from across the locker room, already half-dressed, tape wrapped loosely around one wrist. “You alive, or are we planning your funeral?”
“I am here, no?” I toss the towel back at him.
“Barely,” he shoots back. “You’ve been quiet all morning.”
“Maybe he’s finally learned to shut up,” someone mutters from the other side of the room, and a few of the guys laugh.
I shake my head, drop onto the bench, and reach for my gear. “That would be a tragedy for all of you. You would miss me too much.”
“Mate, we’d throw a party,” Callum says, stepping closer. “Big one.” His laugh rattles around the locker room as he slaps my shoulder.
“Of course you would. You need an excuse.”
“Don’t we always?”
The energy in the room builds quickly, the usual rhythm settling in as we lace up, tape sticks, throw insults around like it’s part of the warm-up. It is, in a way.
“Hey,” Brennan calls from across the room, nodding toward me. “What’s going on with you, then?”
I don’t look up as I tighten my skates. “Nothing is going on.”
“That’s a lie,” Ryan says immediately. “He’s been like this for days.”
“Like what?” I ask, glancing at him.
“Soft.”
The word lands with a few exaggerated oohs from the others.
I snort. “You do not even know what that means.”
“It means,” Brennan jumps in, leaning back against his stall, “you’ve got that look.” I stare at him with my brow creased in question. “That look,” he repeats, gesturing vaguely at my face. “Like you’re thinking about someone instead of hockey.”
A couple of the guys whistle under their breath. “Dangerous,” someone mutters.
I roll my eyes, pushing to my feet. “You are all very dramatic this morning.”
“Deflecting,” Callum adds, falling into step beside me as we head toward the ice. “Always a good sign.”
I bump his shoulder as we walk. “Focus on your own problems, mon ami.”
“I don’t have problems,” he grins. “I have solutions.”
The doors open, cold air hits instantly as we step onto the ice, and the familiar bite of it settles me in a way nothing else quite manages.
The noise sharpens, blades carving into the surface, pucks ricocheting off boards, voices echoing across the rink.
This part is easy and always makes sense, no matter what else I have going on.
We run drills hard, no easing into it. Coach doesn’t believe in that, especially not with an away game coming up. He wants us sharp, fast and aggressive.
“Again!” he shouts as we cycle through passing drills, his voice cutting clean through everything else. “Faster! You think they’re going to wait for you on Saturday?”
I push harder, my legs burning as I chase the puck down the boards, cutting inside and snapping a pass across the ice. It lands clean, exactly where it should.
The noise fades into focus, the rhythm of movement taking over, muscle memory and instinct driving every shift. This is where I’ve always been able to lose everything else. But today, it doesn’t disappear completely.
She’s still there, not distracting but definitely still present. I shake it off, pushing through another sprint, cutting hard at the blue line before firing a shot top shelf. The puck slams into the net with a sharp crack.
“Better,” Coach calls.
I don’t slow down or let up at all. If anything, I push harder.
By the time we break, sweat is already dripping down my back, my lungs burning in a way that feels clean, earned. The guys crowd near the bench, grabbing water, shoving each other lightly as the banter picks up again like it never stopped.
Callum nudges me with his elbow. “Alright, I’ll admit it.”
I take a long drink, raising an eyebrow. “This should be good.”
“You’re still playing like yourself,” he says. “So maybe you haven’t completely lost it.”
“Merci,” I reply dryly.
“But,” he adds, holding up a finger, “you are definitely distracted.”
“I am not distracted,” I counter, capping my bottle.
“You just missed a chirp from Brennan,” he says.
“I ignore him on purpose.”
Brennan skates past then, pointing his stick at me. “You smiling at your phone between drills now, yeah?”
I scoff. “I don’t even have my phone on the ice.”
“Metaphorically, mate,” he grins.
“Your English metaphors are terrible.”
“Still right though.”
A few of the guys laugh again, and I shake my head, but there’s no real bite to it. They’re not completely wrong.
Callum watches me for a second longer, his tone shifting slightly. “All good, though?”
I glance at him, but he doesn’t push or make a joke this time; he simply waits for me to answer. I look back out over the ice, the marks from our skates cutting into the surface, messy but purposeful.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “It’s good.”
He nods once, like that’s all he needed. “Good.”
Practice picks up again, faster this time, more physical. Scrimmage mode is engaged, and the hits come harder, passes are sharper, and every mistake is punished immediately.
I take a check along the boards, absorbing it, pushing back harder as I fight for the puck. There’s a familiarity to it, a clarity in the contact, in the push and pull of it all.
This is what I know. What I trust. But even as I drive forward, cutting through the defence, something sits steady underneath it all.
After practice, the locker room is louder, looser, the edge of intensity giving way to the usual chaos. Gear gets tossed as the showers start running, and Ryan’s music blasts from a speaker in the corner.
Callum drops down beside me, shoving my shoulder lightly. “So what’s the plan, then?”
I glance at him. “For what?”
“For whatever this is with Kate,” he gestures vaguely. “You going to keep pretending it’s nothing?”
I take a second, pulling my jersey over my head, tossing it into my stall before answering. “No,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow as he studies me, then grins. “Well, that’s new.”
I breathe out deeply. “Yeah, I know.”
“You like her.” It’s not a question, I don’t bother pretending otherwise.
“Yes, I like her. A lot.” The words sit heavier than I expect.
Callum leans back, nodding. “Alright.”
“That’s all you have to say?” I ask.
“What do you want me to say?” he shrugs as he continues to get changed. “You’re allowed to like someone.”
“It’s not usually like this.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I know, but that’s not a bad thing.”
I glance at him again, but he’s already looking away, giving me space. And that’s when it hits properly, not in a dramatic way and not all at once. This isn’t temporary. It’s not something I’m going to walk away from after a few weeks when it gets complicated or inconvenient.
I think about her laugh and the way she looks at me when she’s trying to figure me out and failing slightly. The way she fits beside me makes sense.
And then I think about her son, Hudson. I exhale slowly, running a hand through my hair.
“Tabarnak,” I mutter under my breath.
Callum glances back at me, smirking slightly. “That serious, yeah?”
I shake my head faintly, but there’s no denying it now. “Yeah,” I say. Because it is.
And now I’m not looking for a way out, I’m thinking about how to stay.