30 - Sage
Sage
My living room felt too small for everything that had followed us inside it. Too much noise. Too much heat. Too many things unsaid that pressed against the walls as if they were trying to claw their way out.
Aiden stood in the middle of it, still in his Surge hoodie, hair damp from a rushed shower, looking like he’d come straight from the rink and forgotten how to breathe somewhere along the way.
With me.
“You should be at the arena,” I said, because it was the only thing that made sense. The only thing that didn’t feel like it was about to break something wide open.
“I know,” he shot back, pacing once, then stopping like he couldn’t decide whether to stay or bolt. “I know where I’m supposed to be, Sage.”
“Then why are you here?”
He looked at me like the answer should’ve been obvious.
“Because you’re leaving.”
There it was.
The thing we’d been dancing around since the tunnel. Since the hotel room. Since that email cracked something open that I didn’t know how to close again.
“I’m not leaving,” I said, but even as the words came out, I knew how they sounded. Thin. Technical.
He let out a harsh laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “New York, Sage. That’s not just… a quick trip down the block.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” he snapped, stepping closer. “Because it feels like you made this decision without me. Like I didn’t even factor into it.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” His voice dropped, rougher now, less anger and more something else. Something that scraped. “We just— we just figured this out. Us. And now you’re…” He gestured helplessly, like the rest of it didn’t even need words.
Throwing it away.
I felt it land between us even though he didn’t say it.
“I’m not throwing anything away,” I said, my own frustration flaring now. “I got a scholarship, Aiden. This is what I’ve been working for.”
“And I get that!” he shot back. “I do. But what about us?”
“What about us?”
He stared at me like that was the whole point. Like I’d just proven something he didn’t want to be right about.
“That’s what I’m asking you,” he said. “Because from where I’m standing, it feels like I don’t fit into that picture anymore.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then what is it, Sage?” His voice cracked, just slightly, but it was enough to strip the edge off the anger and leave something raw underneath. “Because I’m standing here trying to figure out how I’m supposed to play the biggest game of my life when it feels like I’m about to lose you.”
The words hit harder than anything else he’d ever said to me. Any of the other admissions and confessions.
And God, that did something to me.
“You’re not losing me,” I said, but it came out softer now, less defensive, more… real.
He shook his head, like he didn’t believe me. Like he couldn’t. “It feels like it.”
I let out a breath, dragging my hands through my hair the same way he had. Because I didn’t know how to say this without it coming out wrong. Without it sounding like I was choosing one thing over the other.
“I don’t know how to do this perfectly,” I admitted. “I don’t know how to make it all fit neatly together so it doesn’t hurt or get complicated. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want it.”
He watched me, silent now. Waiting.
“I want this,” I said, stepping closer. “I want you.”
His jaw tightened. “Then why does it feel like you’re walking away from me?”
Because I’m scared, I almost said. Because I don’t know how to hold onto you without losing myself. Because everything about this is bigger than me.
Instead, what came out was louder. Messier.
“I love you, you idiot!” The words ripped out of me before I could second-guess them.
They hung in the air like a shockwave.
Aiden froze.
“You—” He blinked, like he was trying to catch up. “You love me?”
I huffed out a breath, half laugh, half disbelief at myself. “Yes. Obviously. I thought that was clear?”
“It was not clear,” he said, still staring at me like I’d just rewritten the rules of gravity.
“Well, it is now.” I threw my hands up, pacing the length of my living room before turning back to him. “I love you. And I’m not walking away from you. I’m just… trying to not walk away from myself.”
Something in his expression shifted. The panic, the frustration… it didn’t disappear, but it loosened. Made room for something else.
Hope.
“We can make this work,” I said, stepping back into his space. “I don’t know exactly how yet, but I have to believe it’s possible. That we can have this without losing who we are. Without fading into something smaller just to make it easier.”
He searched my face like he was looking for cracks in it. Like he needed to be sure this wasn’t going to disappear the second he stepped out the door. Replaced, like he used to believe everything could be.
“You really think we can do that?” he asked quietly.
“I have to,” I said. “Because I’m not giving you up. Not after everything.”
Something in him gave way.
He stepped into me, hands coming up to my face, pulling me in like he needed to make sure I was real.
And then he kissed me.
“I love you too,” he murmured against my mouth, like it had been sitting there waiting for the right moment to exist.
My heart did something ridiculous in my chest.
“Good,” I said softly, because anything else would’ve been too much.
We stayed there for a second longer than we should’ve. Just breathing each other in. Letting it settle.
Then reality came knocking again.
Game 6.
He pulled back, forehead brushing mine for half a second before he stepped away. I felt the loss of him immediately, like the room had cooled by a few degrees.
“I have to go,” he said.
“I know.”
I followed him to the door anyway, because of course I did. Because there was no version of this where I just stayed still.
He paused, hand on the handle, looking back at me like he was committing something to memory.
“I’ll see you there,” I said.
And this time, when he nodded, it wasn’t weighed down by doubt.
*
I pressed my hands to the railing, leaning as far forward as I could without toppling over. The ice below was a blur of gold and navy, Surge jerseys slashing across the rink, sticks snapping, skates squealing. My heart was a fist in my chest. I barely breathed.
Aiden was out there. My Aiden. My pulse staggered whenever he got near the puck.
And then he did, he took it hard down the right wing, weaving past a Colorado defenseman, a clean cut toward the crease.
I flinched as the Avalanche player leaned into him, shoulder-first. The hit was brutal.
Aiden wobbled but didn’t go down, skating out of it with that stubborn tilt of his chin. My breath caught anyway.
The first period was chaos. The puck ricocheted off the boards, bounced off sticks, and then—bam—Aiden sent it across to Grayson in the slot.
Grayson’s slap shot rang off the post. The crowd gasped.
I slapped my palm to my mouth. The puck clattered free.
Landon swooped in, stick flicking, but the Avalanche goalie had it covered.
The clock ticked mercilessly. Surge were scrappy but sharp; their chemistry, honed all season, was like watching a living organism. Aiden was in the thick of it, taking hits, feeding passes, skating into angles only he could see. And every time a defender swung at him, my stomach dropped.
They weren’t giving him a second to think. Avalanche hit hard too, checking Surge into the boards, driving the puck deep into the corner, forcing turnovers. I could hear Coach’s voice cutting through the roar occasionally. “Get it up! Get it out! Eyes on the puck, boys!”
Score after the first period: Surge 1, Avalanche 1. Grayson had tied it just before the buzzer, a clean wrist shot through traffic that made the entire crowd erupt. I cheered so hard my voice was hoarse by the time the period ended.
The bench was chaos. Players panting, towels over shoulders, sticks clattering. And then I heard him through the noise. Mason still on crutches in the players’ box.
“Aiden,” he said, voice rough but steady. “I’m sorry for being an ass. Really. You… you deserved to be here all along. Happy someone like you could step into my spot.”
Aiden’s hand went up, and they bumped fists, a short acknowledgement of a shared goal, and I swear the world tilted a little. He deserved this. He had worked for this. And here was Mason finally acknowledging it. I felt tears prick the corners of my eyes.
The second period opened with Surge coming at it like a storm.
Aiden intercepted a cross-ice pass from Colorado, spun, and fed Landon in the slot.
Landon’s wrist shot rang against the crossbar.
The crowd groaned, and I leaned forward so far I thought I’d fall onto the ice.
But Aiden, undeterred, skated hard, forcing a turnover in the neutral zone.
He lifted a long pass to Grayson, who was cutting down the left wing, then dumped it back to Aiden in the slot.
The Avalanche goalie slid just in time to block it, but the crowd’s roar rattled my chest.
The physicality was insane. Hits that would have broken lesser men were shrugged off.
Grayson got leveled along the boards by a late hit; Landon took a hard shoulder to the chest near the blue line.
Players shouted, gloves flying, sticks swinging for leverage, calling lines for passing.
And through it all, Aiden stayed in the thick of it, ducking checks, intercepting passes, skating through traffic like a man possessed.
“Push! Push, boys!” Coach’s voice cracked over the uproar. “This is our game!”
And they answered. Surge were everywhere.
Pressure on the puck, fights along the boards, slap shots, rebounds.
One Avalanche defenseman collided with Tucker, sending them both sliding into the boards.
My hands flew to my face. The puck popped free, Aiden swooped in, and he barely missed a one-timer shot into the net.
I leapt to my feet for nothing because the score was still 1-1.