Chapter 25
TAYLOR
It was the final minute of the game, and we were up by one against San Francisco. Their goalie had just been pulled, and an extra attacker had hopped over the boards to the roar of the crowd.
Our center, Dylan Mercer, lined up at the dot and lost it clean back to their point. Bell collapsed low toward the hash marks to help, his stick cutting through the passing lane, while I planted myself at the top of the crease and Monroe shaded toward the shooter.
The shot fired through traffic, and I got a piece of it with my stick—just enough to knock it off line. It ricocheted off someone’s skate before whipping hard around the boards to my side.
I pivoted and tracked it off the wall. I could hear their center digging in behind me, his skates chewing up the ice, his stick tapping for the turnover.
The puck hit the boards a stride ahead of me. I cushioned it on my backhand and pulled it just far enough off the wall to create space—
Sebastian’s voice from three nights ago intruded, uninvited. “I need space, Taylor.”
On the ice, I hesitated for only a fraction of a second, but it was long enough to cost me the advantage. Now, instead of snapping the puck high and safe off the glass, I floated it up the boards toward Bell, who was cheating toward the blue line, hoping to chip it out.
San Francisco’s bruising defenseman, Tom Carbone, pinched hard down the wall and batted the puck out of the air, keeping it in at the line.
The barn exploded.
It cycled high again, and a shot came from the top of the circle that slammed into Monroe’s shin pad and dropped straight into the slot.
Our goalie, Connor Hale, dropped into a butterfly, his pad flush to the ice.
I spun to find my guy, but he’d already slipped inside my hips, his stick free.
He jabbed at the puck.
Hale kicked his right pad out, trying to seal the post, but the rebound popped loose. He lunged forward, but couldn’t trap it clean. The puck trickled over the line, and the lamp lit up with seven seconds left on the clock.
Fuck.
The team was somber as we boarded the plane, no music blaring from someone’s speaker, no rookies chirping each other across the aisle, no Bonesy trying to get a rise out of Bell.
Just the soft thud of carry-ons being shoved into the overhead compartment and the hiss of the air vents.
You’d think we’d be used to losing by now, but it never got better.
Especially not when I was the reason.
I kept my head down as I moved down the aisle, my shoulders tight and my jaw set so hard my teeth ached, my bag heavy in my hand like it was trying to drag me down through the floor.
I reached an empty row and stopped, taking the seat nearest the window and figuring no one would want the aisle. Not because they were mad at me. I knew that, even if my brain was trying to twist tonight’s loss into something uglier. They were giving me space.
And there was that fucking word again.
Space from the man I loved. Space from the guys I played alongside.
I wanted to scream.
I stowed my bag and dropped into my seat, my knee bouncing uncontrollably.
A few rows up, I heard Monroe chuckling over something, but it was subdued, his usual energy dialed down ten notches.
A shadow fell across my field of vision, and I glanced up.
Wordlessly, Bonesy reached out and squeezed my shoulder as he passed. A way to say “you’ll get it next time.” He’d been there before—puck on the wall, clock bleeding out, his legs on fire.
My eyes began to burn. I blinked hard and stared straight ahead until the feeling passed.
The plane eventually taxied away from the gate, and then we were climbing high into the night sky, the engines deepening into that steady, relentless hum that always made time feel somewhat unreal.
As soon as we leveled off and the seatbelt sign clicked off, signaling we'd reached our cruising altitude, I reached into my pocket, telling myself I was just going to check the time.
There were no new messages. Why would there be? Sebastian and I hadn’t spoken in days.
I opened our last exchange and stared down at it.
Me
I know you need space, and I’m trying to respect that.
I am.
But I need you to know how sorry I am.
I handled that conversation badly.
I was an asshole.
The words “need space” swam in front of me, and I could practically hear Sebastian telling me he couldn’t do this right now.
“I think it’s better for both of us if we take a step back,” he’d said, his voice flat. “It’s time to take a beat and think about what we both really want—and if we’re even capable of having that.”
I’d begged him not to do this. Promised I’d find a way to get past my jealousy.
And I nearly thought I’d gotten through to him until he said, “I need space, Taylor. Please respect that.”
I’d said something in response, but I didn’t even remember what now. Something defensive, probably. Something that proved his point, I was sure.
I scrolled up a little further, to the message I’d sent the morning after I watched him walk out of my house.
Me
Just tell me you’re okay.
I stared at my words for a long time, then I did the thing I promised myself I wasn’t going to do.
I started typing.
Me
I hate how we left things
I hate that I hurt you.
My thumb hovered over the send button, debating whether this was a bad idea ... debating whether this would make everything worse. But before I could talk myself out of it, I pressed it.
When three dots instantly appeared, my heart lodged in my throat. I held my breath without meaning to, my fingers tightening around the phone.
My mood soured, instantly going from self-pity to anger … outrage at myself for the way my body curved over the phone like I was protecting something fragile and precious.
Sebastian’s response came through a couple of minutes later.
Sebastian
This isn’t you giving me space.
It’s the opposite.
He was right, of course. And the fact that he was right made it hurt even worse.
I flipped my phone facedown on my thigh and pressed the heel of my free hand to my forehead, breathing through the urge to type back something mean and petty.
Something that would definitely make this worse.
I closed my eyes and counted to five before opening them again.
By the time we landed in L.A., I felt like I was vibrating out of my skin. I’d been living on too much caffeine and too little sleep, and it was starting to catch up with me.
At the hotel—some marble and glass high-rise that was way too cold for this time of year—my teammates peeled off in small clusters, some heading for the bar, others to the elevators.
When I reached my floor, I found my room at the end of a long, narrow hallway that smelled of carpet shampoo and something intensely floral, masking other scents.
Inside, I tossed my keycard on the dresser, kicked off my shoes, and just stood there trying to remember what I needed to do next.
Shower. Food. Stretch. Sleep.
All of it felt so fucking impossible.
A quick knock sounded at the door.
My stomach dropped, and for one stupid moment, my brain tried to trick me into thinking it’d be Sebastian. But then reality caught up with me, and I bit back a sob.
The knock came again, louder this time.
I crossed the room and yanked the door open to find Bell standing on the other side, dressed in sweats and a team hoodie, his long hair pulled into a bun.
He stared at me for a beat—long enough that I knew he’d clocked everything I’d been trying desperately not to show the past few days—and then lifted his chin.
“Invite me in.”
"What are you, a vampire?" I stepped back, gesturing for him to enter.
Bell nudged the door shut with the heel of his sneaker. He didn’t move far, just stood there for a second, hands in his hoodie pocket, his eyes sweeping the room before settling back on me. “You gonna tell me what’s going on, T?”
I swallowed around the lump in my throat, the action painful like I’d been yelling, even though I hadn’t.
“Nothing’s going on,” I told him, turning away so he wouldn’t see the lie on my face.
But not before I saw his eyebrows lift, his expression telling me that he knew I was full of shit.
I ran a hand through my hair, my fingers snagging on a knot I didn’t realize was there. “Okay. It’s not nothing, but I’m dealing with it.”
“Like hell you are.”
I managed to huff out a laugh—the first one in days. Leave it to Bell to give it to me straight.
“I fucked up,” I admitted, turning back to him. “Not just tonight against the Rush, but before that, too. With Sebastian.”
“You guys fought,” he said, crossing the room.
It wasn’t a question.
I nodded once in reply.
He dropped into the armchair, one ankle braced over his opposite knee, his chin tipping toward the bed—an unspoken directive for me to take a seat.
“Start at the beginning.”
I sank down, and my leg started bouncing again. I gripped my knee, forcing my leg still. “It was a bad one.”
Bell leaned forward, planting his forearms on his thighs. His eyebrows drew together, deep lines forming between them. “You comfortable telling me what about?”
“I said shit I shouldn’t have,” I admitted, pressure building behind my sternum like something was trying to crack through. “He trusted me with something, and I threw it back at him when I got jealous. And then he threw some shit back at me and left.”
My nose burned, and I swallowed hard, fighting the stupid, traitorous sting in my eyes.
“We’ve only talked once since then, and now he’s told me not to contact him again. That he needs space.”
“So what—you think you lost him?” Bell dragged a hand over his mouth, thumb pressing briefly into his lower lip.
“Pretty much,” I said, my voice breaking.
He leaned back, humming and linking his fingers over his stomach, the very picture of calm, cool, and collected. Bell was younger than me by a couple of years, but you’d never know it from looking at us now.