Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Scrum - Post-whistle pushing or confrontation between players.
Cole
Hockey practice had always been my refuge, but today, the ice couldn't freeze the chaos in my head. Practice was never intense in season, but Coach wanted to go over our face-offs, saying we were getting sloppy. Tomorrow we were traveling to St. Louis and playing the Sentinels.
"Again!" he bellowed as I missed a pass, the puck skittering away uselessly. "Armstrong, what the hell was that? My grandmother could make that connection, and she's been dead twenty years!"
I gritted my teeth and reset. The exhaustion wasn't physical—I could skate for hours without breaking—but my mind kept drifting back to Phoenix and the way he'd looked at me before I left. Like I was the enemy. Like I was my father.
"Heads up!"
The warning came too late. Max won the face-off and I miscued it. Max's pass hit me square in the shin guards, the impact jarring me back to reality. Coach's whistle shrieked across the ice.
"Armstrong! Locker room! Now!"
I skated to the boards, my teammates carefully avoiding my gaze. Getting kicked out of practice was unprecedented for me. Coach followed me down the tunnel, his face thunderous. "What the hell is wrong with you today?"
"Nothing," I muttered, pulling off my helmet. "Just distracted."
"Distracted?" He barked a laugh. "You're a ghost out there. We've got a shot of getting a wild card, and you're skating like you're at a public session." I couldn't argue with him. I'd been useless since I stepped on the ice.
"Whatever's going on—fix it," he said, jabbing a finger into my chest protector. "You've got until tomorrow to get your head straight. If you can't, you're sitting the next game out."
The threat should have terrified me. Instead, I felt a strange detachment, as if the division suddenly mattered less than what had happened in my apartment this morning.
"Yes, Coach," I said mechanically.
He studied me, his anger giving way to something closer to concern. "This have anything to do with your father showing up at the celebration?"
I stiffened. "No."
"Bull." Coach crossed his arms. "I've seen how you get when he's around. Like you're carrying the weight of the world."
I stared at the floor, unwilling to meet his eyes. Coach Kincaid was perceptive, I'd give him that. But he had no idea how heavy that particular weight truly was.
"Go home," he said finally. "Get some sleep. Clear your head. I need you at a hundred percent tomorrow." He hesitated. Looked like he was going to say something else, but he ended up just nodding.
I headed for the showers, stripping off gear that suddenly felt too confining. The hot water pounded against my back, but I couldn't wash away the memory of Phoenix's words.
"This is a guilt project, isn't it? Makes you sleep better with your millions, saving a broken homeless guy."
The worst part was, I wasn't sure he was wrong. What had driven me to help him? Guilt over throwing him out? Some savior complex my father had always accused me of having? Or something deeper I wasn't ready to name?
I shut off the water and toweled dry, my movements mechanical. The locker room was empty, the rest of the team still on the ice getting thrashed by Coach. I dressed quickly in jeans and a hoodie, avoiding my reflection in the mirror.
My phone buzzed with a text from Nancy: How's the patient?
I stared at it for a long moment before typing: Gone. Walked out this morning.
Her response was immediate: Stubborn ass.
I didn't bother asking which of us she meant.
It applied equally well to us both. The drive home was a blur of traffic and my own circling thoughts.
I kept replaying our argument, wondering what I could have said differently, what I should have done.
The truth was, I hadn't expected Phoenix to still be there when I got back.
Part of me had known he would run the moment he could stand.
The question was why I cared so much.
My building's underground garage felt cavernous and empty as I parked. I sat in the car for a moment, reluctant to go upstairs and face the empty apartment. The silence would be worse now, knowing what it had been like with someone else there, even for just four days.
My phone buzzed. The building's doorman, and I answered it.
"Mr. Armstrong, there's someone in the lobby asking for you. Says his name is Phoenix? Pretty banged up. Wouldn't give a last name. Security protocol says I can't let him up without your approval."
My heart stuttered. "How long has he been there?"
"Couple of hours. Been sitting on one of the lobby benches. Management's getting antsy."
"I'll be right up."
The elevator ride to the lobby felt endless. When the doors finally opened, I saw him—hunched on a bench near the security desk, knees drawn to his chest, face still a mess of bruises. He looked up; at least he could see out of both eyes now.
"Hi," he said quietly.
I stopped a few feet away, uncertain. "You came back."
He nodded, wincing slightly at the movement. "I didn't get very far."
"You could have called," I said, gesturing for the doorman to let him through the security gate.
"I didn't exactly have you on speed dial."
Right. Another wave of guilt washed over me.
"Why did you come back?" I asked as we waited for the elevator.
Phoenix looked away, something flickering across his face I couldn't read. "Because you were right," he said finally. "I was too proud to accept help. And too scared to believe it was real."
The honesty in his voice caught me off guard. I'd expected excuses, maybe another fight. Not this raw vulnerability.
"Let's go up," I said as the doors opened. "Before management decides you're loitering."
He shuffled to his feet, moving like an old man. I resisted the urge to help him, sensing he needed to do this on his own.
The ride up was silent. I kept my eyes fixed on the floor numbers, aware of Phoenix standing a careful distance away. When we reached my floor, he followed me down the hall, each step measured and deliberate.
"Thank you," he said as I unlocked the door. "For letting me come back."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The apartment was exactly as I'd left it—the untouched mug of tea on the counter, a note beside it. I picked it up, reading the five words: You were right about me.
"I didn't mean it," Phoenix said, noticing what I held. "Not the way it sounds."
"What did you mean, then?" I asked, setting the paper down.
He lowered himself carefully onto the couch, exhaustion evident in every line of his body. "Maybe I do... I'm exactly what you think I am. Damaged. Difficult. Someone who runs when things get too real."
I sat across from him, maintaining the distance he seemed to need. "Is that why you picked that fight this morning? To have a reason to leave?"
Phoenix stared at his hands. "Maybe. I don't know. Everything felt... too much." He glanced up at me. "Why did you let me back in?"
It was the question I'd been asking myself since the doorman's call. Why did I care what happened to this stranger who'd tried to con me? Who'd left without a backward glance? The answer that came to mind was too honest, too real to say aloud.
"Because everyone deserves a second chance," I said instead, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears.
Phoenix's mouth twisted into something between a smile and a grimace. "Even someone like me?"
"Especially someone like you." I stood and walked to the kitchen, needing space to think. "Are you hungry?"
"Always," he admitted.
I pulled ingredients from the fridge, grateful for something to do with my hands. " I have soup I can heat up, and I have sandwiches, or I can order." I huffed apologetically. "I don't cook."
"Whatever you want," Phoenix said, carefully. I didn't like careful. For a second I imagined him wild. Pupils blown, fair hair mussed…and naked, very naked.
"Cole?"
I looked up and managed not to adjust myself. "Yeah?"
"What happens now?" The question hung between us, heavy with implication.
"Now you rest. Get better." I focused on the soup, not meeting his eyes. "After that... we'll figure it out."
"I can't stay here forever." His voice was quiet but firm.
"No, you can't." I stirred the soup more vigorously than necessary. "But you don't have to leave today. Tomorrow I’m going to St. Louis with the team, you can stay here."
The silence stretched between us, punctuated only by the soft bubbling of the soup. I wasn't ready to examine why I wanted him to stay, why the thought of him leaving again made my chest tighten uncomfortably.
"Why are you doing this?" Phoenix asked, his voice barely audible over the soup bubbling on the stove. "The truth this time."
I turned off the burner and braced my hands against the counter. The question deserved an honest answer, one I wasn't sure I had. When I looked at him—bruised, exhausted, still somehow defiant—something twisted in my chest that had nothing to do with pity.
"Because when I look at you," I said finally, "I see someone fighting to survive against impossible odds. And I respect that."
His eyes widened slightly, as if this was the last answer he'd expected.
"And," I continued, pouring soup into two bowls, "because I know what it's like to be trapped."
Phoenix's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
I carried the bowls to the coffee table, setting one in front of him before taking a seat in the armchair across from him.
"My father controls everything. My money, my career, my entire life.
Has since I was thirteen." I blew on a spoonful of soup, not meeting his eyes.
"I have a multi-million-dollar contract and can't access a penny without his approval. "
"But you're—"
"An adult? Doesn't matter." I tasted the soup, though I couldn't really taste anything. "He has leverage, so he pulls the strings."
Phoenix watched me carefully as he lifted his own spoon. "What kind of leverage?"