Chapter 25 #2
“You are not staying here alone,” he said firmly. “You are not wandering the city with no coat, no plan, and no sense of your own worth. And you are certainly not leaving Cole to process this alone while you’re out here falling apart.”
“He hates me.”
“And yet,” Ignatius said, “he needs you.”
A silence stretched between us, heavy and frightening.
Ignatius narrowed his eyes slightly, the assessment in his gaze unmistakable.
“Phoenix, the man who approached you does not work for Wells. He is someone else entirely, and I intend to find out who. But right now—what matters is that Cole is hurting, you are lost, and neither of you should be left alone with your thoughts.” He glanced at Doryu fondly.
"You two are roughly the same size, so pack some extras, perhaps the gray suit. "
Doryu chuckled and in less than five minutes was back with another suitcase. “Come on. Before Ignatius changes his mind and leaves you standing on the porch.”
Ignatius sighed dramatically. “I never change my mind. But I will get irritated.”
Despite everything—despite the ache in my chest and the weight of what I’d done—a small, broken sound of laughter escaped me.
“Come,” Ignatius said, softer now. “You'll come with us.”
And for the first time in hours, my legs carried me forward toward something that wasn’t destruction.
Cole
The arena was loud in the way only an All-Star weekend could be—bright lights, thunderous music, kids screaming for autographs, cameras flashing like a strobe against the boards. Everywhere I looked, players were smiling, laughing, talking trash in good-natured bursts.
It should have felt electric.
Instead, everything around me felt slightly muted, as if I were watching my own life through the wrong end of a telescope.
I kept moving anyway. Autopilot had always been my superpower.
I shook hands. Nodded at people I barely recognized while they congratulated me.Answered media questions with the same professional charm I’d perfected in the last two years.
I could almost hear Phoenix teasing me about it—saying I had two smiles, one for the cameras and one that was real.
I shut that thought down hard and tied my skates.
The dragon under my ribs pressed uncomfortably outward, pacing in a way that made it harder than usual to breathe.
It wasn’t anger. Not heat. Just…restlessness.
A sense of absence. A wrong note humming under my skin.
I laced tighter and stood. Ignore it. Focus.
The Skills Competition was first. I was slotted into three events: accuracy shooting, the passing challenge, and a trick-shot sequence designed to amuse the fans.
I could do these half-asleep.
Which was convenient, because half-asleep was the closest I could get to functional.
The crowd roared when I stepped onto the ice, my name blaring through the speakers, my stats flashing across the jumbotron.
“All-Star debut for Cole Armstrong of the Colorado Dragons!”
They made it sound like triumph.
I took my position at the top of the circle, stick in hand, shoulders loose, breath steady. Cameras crowded the glass. Kids held homemade signs with my number. A girl with glittery face paint screamed something that sounded like “I love you, Cole!” The dragon inside me flinched.
Focus.
The whistle blew.
The commentators went wild. The crowd surged to its feet. A wave of applause rolled over me like heat when I didn't miss a single one. I barely felt any of it. My body knew what to do. My hands knew what to do. My heart had no idea where it belonged anymore.
The last event was something I normally avoided—showmanship wasn’t really my style—but the fans were excited, and my team liaison begged me to do something “fun.”
The rink lights dimmed and spotlights swept across the ice. Music pulsed from the speakers. Cameras zoomed in on me as I skated slowly toward center ice. Someone in the crowd shouted my name with so much enthusiasm it stung. I swallowed hard and flicked the puck onto my blade.
Fine. Perform.
I launched into a controlled spin, keeping the puck glued to my stick despite the rotation, then popped it up and smashed it mid-air toward the tiny top-center target.
Direct hit.
The roar was deafening. But it wasn’t enough, not for the fans. They started chanting—rhythmic, thunderous. “One more! One more! One more!” The coordinator gestured frantically for me to go again.
So I did.
This time I weaved between props, flipping the puck behind my back, dragging it heel-to-toe, then ending with a cross-body swipe no one expected. Hit. The jumbotron froze on my face—cold, composed, perfect for the cameras—and the arena erupted into something close to hysteria.
I lifted a hand in acknowledgment and skated off. Inside, I felt nothing but exhaustion. And pain. So much pain I was surprised the ice didn’t crack under me.
The hotel room was too quiet.
Downstairs, the All-Star festivities were still going strong—music drifting faintly through the walls, bursts of laughter rising from the lobby, the muffled thud of someone dropping their gear bag in the hallway.
Normally, that kind of energy would keep me wired, buoyed by the rush of a good performance, and I knew I should be there.
I sat at the edge of the bed, the dragon kept shifting under my ribs, restless and uneasy, and I couldn’t tell whether it was reacting to the day’s exertion or the ache in my chest.
Probably both.
The lights of the city spilled through the window in fractured gold. I stared at them without seeing anything. I should have been proud. I should have been riding the high every other All-Star dreamed of. But all I felt was a low, twisting ache in my stomach I couldn’t shake.
And underneath it—shame.
The word surfaced slowly, like something rising from deep water.
I’d been avoiding it all day, pushing it down every time it threatened to break through, but now that I was finally alone, it spread through me like cold. I’d told Phoenix to leave.
The dragon inside me recoiled at the memory, pressing outward as if trying to undo it, to reach for someone I’d pushed away with my own hands. I scrubbed both palms over my face.
“What did you do?” I muttered to myself. “What did you do, Cole?” I replayed the scene—the envelope, the money, the way Phoenix had looked at me like his whole world was falling apart. My anger had been white-hot, blinding.
And that old, familiar terror that I was being used again—like when I was a kid, when my father had paraded me in front of investors and donors like a prop.
But none of that excused what I’d done. I leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. Phoenix had grown up in boxes and shelters, stealing heat from radiators in abandoned buildings, living on scraps from diner dumpsters.
And when I’d told him to leave, I hadn’t thought about any of that. Not once. I’d reacted like a man who’d never missed a meal. Like someone who’d always had a roof over his head—even when it was paid for and controlled by a father who treated me more like an investment than a son.
The realization hit me slowly and then all at once:
I had punished Phoenix for surviving the only way he knew how. I pressed my hands to my eyes until stars sparked behind them.
God.
What kind of person did that make me?
Yes, he’d taken the money. Yes, he’d lied by omission.
But desperation did strange things to people.
Desperation narrowed the world until survival was the only language left.
Phoenix had spent his whole life fighting to stay alive.
And I’d acted like he’d had the same choices I'd had.
Like desperation was some kind of moral failure instead of the reason he was still breathing.
A tightness built in my throat, painful and sharp. I’d told him he “always had a choice.” But I knew better than anyone—some choices weren’t choices at all. If Phoenix had truly believed Ricky’s family was in danger…
He would have done anything.
Anything. And I, who had grown up shielded by privilege I couldn’t escape but still benefited from, judged him like I had any right to. My stomach twisted hard. I’d pushed him out into the cold. And he had nowhere to go.
A second time.
I swallowed, breath shuddering, and stared at my phone again.
No messages. The dragon in me pressed harder, a low rumble beneath my ribs, worried in the way I’d only ever felt when I was small and terrified.
“I screwed up,” I whispered to the empty room. Images of Phoenix kept flashing in my mind—his soft smile when he thought I wasn’t looking, the way he curled into me when he slept, the wound-deep panic in his eyes when the truth came out.
I’d thrown all of that away.
And for the first time all day, the adrenaline finally drained out of me, leaving nothing but a hollow ache.
He was out there somewhere. A fresh wave of shame rolled through me.
“I should have listened,” I said quietly.
“I should have let him explain.” I hadn’t even asked who the man was.
I’d assumed. Jumped to conclusions. Made everything about my own wounds.
And Phoenix—God, Phoenix—he had looked so small when he said I love you.
I let out a long, shuddering breath. I had been cruel. And I would have to own that before I could fix any of it.
Satisfied with nothing—ashamed of everything—I lay back against the pillow, the city buzzing faintly outside the window, and whispered into the dim light:
“I was wrong.”
I leaned over the bed and grabbed my cell. I was stuck in Toronto, but I needed Phoenix safe. Even if he never wanted to see me ever again.
And I dialed Ignatius's number.