Chapter 2 #2
Most people deleted unknowns. Spam. Wrong numbers. Digital garbage cluttering up space better used for things that mattered.
I never deleted anything.
Information was leverage. Numbers were patterns. Even wrong numbers told you something—who was looking, who was searching, who'd gotten close enough to guess.
I saved the voicemail without listening to it. Pocketed the phone. Grabbed my keys.
The decision had already been made.
I just hadn't said it out loud yet.
The rink smelled like rubber and cold sweat and the kind of violence that came wrapped in rules.
I hit the ice before anyone else. Not performance. Habit.
Blades carved lines into fresh-Zambonied surface while my body remembered what my mind refused to think about. Crossovers. Backwards edges. The muscle memory that separated men who played from men who lasted.
"Early bird gets the puck." Hades coasted up beside me, grinning like he knew something I didn't. His dark hair was slicked back, even under his helmet. "Or the worm. Never could remember which."
"Worms don't survive on ice."
Jeremy appeared from the tunnel, stick already taped, expression carved from the same ice we skated on. "Touching. Really. Should I get the violins, or are we pretending to work today?"
"We're pretending you're pleasant," Hades shot back. "Harder lift, but I believe in miracles."
"Belief's for churches." Jeremy's blade sliced between us, effortless and sharp. "I deal in facts."
"Fact: you're still bitter about the All-Star snub."
"Fact: politics matter more than points." Jeremy's eyes cut to me. "Right, Barnaby?"
James drifted past before I could respond, stick balanced across his shoulders like a yoke. "Now, now. Let's not bloody the ice before we've had our morning skate. Bad form. Worse optics."
"Since when do you care about optics?" Jeremy countered.
"Since my publicist threatened to quit." James winked. "Third one this year. Starting to think I'm the problem."
"You are the problem," Jafar said from the bench, not bothering to look up from his phone. His voice cut through the banter like a knife through silk—precise, measured, absolutely certain. "The question is whether you're our problem or theirs."
"Theirs," James confirmed cheerfully. "Always theirs."
Gang Lu stepped onto the ice. Didn't announce himself. Didn't need to.
The temperature dropped five degrees just from his presence—not cold, exactly. More like the moment before a fight when everyone stopped pretending and started calculating angles.
He skated once around the perimeter. Silent. Deliberate.
Then took position at center ice and waited.
"Right then." James pushed off the boards. "Shall we?"
The others followed. Not because anyone gave orders.
Because that was what happened when Gang Lu decided practice had started.
I fell into formation, muscle memory overriding the part of my brain still cataloging last night's mistakes. The glass. The mess. The voicemail I hadn't listened to.
Hades grinned at me across the face-off circle. "You good, Jones? Look a little distracted."
"I'm fine."
"Fine's what you tell reporters." His eyes gleamed. "I'm asking what's true."
I dropped the puck between us. "Skate."
The puck dropped. I won the draw clean, sending it back to Jeremy, who snapped it cross-ice without hesitation. Muscle memory. Patterns drilled so deep they bypassed thought entirely.
We ran the play three times before James circled back, that shit-eating grin still plastered across his face.
"So," he started, because Hook never knew when to shut up. "Anyone catch the blonde in section 112 last night? Held up a sign with my number on it. Very creative placement of the digits, if you know what I mean."
"We know what you mean," Jeremy muttered. "Subtlety died when you learned to talk."
"Subtlety's overrated." James winked at me. "Right, Jones? When's the last time you did subtle?"
I let the question hang for exactly two seconds—long enough to seem considered, short enough to keep it casual.
"Last Tuesday. Lasted about an hour."
James barked a laugh. "An hour? Christ, you're getting sentimental in your old age."
"Generosity." I shrugged, stick resting easy across my knees. "She earned it."
"And then?"
"And then I had an early skate." I met Hades's eyes, let the smirk touch my mouth but not my voice. "Women come and go. Schedule's permanent."
"I don't know, man." Hades scoffed. "Marriage is…"
"Fucking whipped," James muttered. "Marriage is for bastards who peaked in high school."
"Or got trapped," Jeremy added darkly.
"Trapped implies you couldn't see the cage." I pushed off, circling back toward the blue line. "I prefer keeping my exits clear."
"Smart man." James followed, effortless as always. "Nothing worse than expectations. They want dinner, then breakfast, then suddenly you're meeting parents and pretending to care about wedding colors."
"Wedding colors," I repeated, letting disbelief color the words. "The fuck would I know about wedding colors?"
"Exactly." Jeremy spread his arms wide, nearly clipping Gang Lu, who swerved around him without comment. "We're athletes. Built for performance, not permanence."
The line landed perfectly. Got the laughs I'd calculated it would.
Gang Lu's eyes tracked me for half a second longer than necessary.
Then he turned away.
I kept skating. Kept the easy smile on my face. Kept being exactly what they expected—the man who never stayed, never wanted to, never needed anything he couldn't find in a new city with a new face.
It's easier to be desired than known.
The ice stretched ahead, clean and predictable.
Nobody questioned it.
Nobody ever did.
The puck skipped past my stick.
Not by much—inches, maybe. But on ice, inches were failures. The kind that showed up on film, got replayed in team meetings, turned into questions about focus and commitment and whether age was finally catching up.
Hades retrieved it, eyebrows raised. "You sure you're good?"
"Fine." I reset my position, shook out my shoulders. "Again."
But my blade caught on the next crossover. Minor. Barely noticeable. Except Jeremy noticed everything.
"Jones." His voice cut across the ice. "You're dragging."
"I'm warmed up."
"You're distracted." He fired the puck at my chest. I caught it, barely. "Whatever she did, forget her. We've got Minnesota in three days."
James circled back, grinning. "Speaking of forgetting—saw the prettiest thing yesterday. Brunette, legs for days, works at that little bookstore off Westwood. You know the one?"
My stick stilled against the ice.
"The one that sells used books?" Jeremy asked. "With the chalkboard quotes outside?"
"That's the one." James executed a lazy figure-eight. "Went in looking for a birthday gift for my mom. Girl behind the counter didn't even look up. I gave her the smile—you know, the smile—and she just asked if I needed help finding anything."
"Tragic," Jeremy deadpanned.
"Right? Not a blush. Not a giggle. Nothing." James shook his head, genuinely baffled. "Pretty sure she had no idea who I was."
"Maybe she doesn't follow hockey," Hades offered.
"Maybe she's dead inside," James countered. "Either way, never seen someone care that little about being charming."
The conversation drifted. Someone mentioned the Minnesota game. Someone else bitched about the new strength coach.
I kept skating. Kept my expression neutral. Kept my breathing steady.
Every woman I'd ever had was optional. Interchangeable. Another name, another hotel, another morning I'd forget before the next game.
Replaceable.
Belle wasn't.
She'd looked at me a year ago and seen through the smile, the charm, the carefully constructed performance I'd spent a decade perfecting. She'd measured me against some internal standard I'd never know and found me wanting.
Not good enough.
Not real enough.
And she'd walked away.
"Jones!" Hades called. "You coming, or you planning to live here?"
The others were filing off the ice. Practice over.
"Go ahead."
I stayed. Pushed harder. Faster. Let the burn in my thighs drown out everything except the sound of blades on ice and the cold air tearing through my lungs.
She'd rejected me. She'd thought the story ended there. Thought she could dismiss me like every other man who'd wanted her and move on with her quiet life in her failing bookstore, untouched and untouchable.
She was wrong.
My blade carved a hard stop at center ice, spraying snow across the red line.
No one ever walked away from me forever.