Chapter Twenty-Five
SCOTTIE
Playoff push or not, I’ve never wanted to be in the locker room less.
The air is the usual pregame mix of tape glue, sweat, and cheap motivational spray deodorant Bozeman swears by.
Guys are half-dressed, joking too loudly to hide nerves.
Coach gave the speech. Wolf’s already in his zone, headphones on, rolling out his shoulders with that dead-eyed focus he gets before he wrecks people.
Me? I’m staring at my stall like it’s going to give me answers.
Helmet, gloves, jersey. All there. Everything exactly where it’s supposed to be.
Except my head.
There’s a knock on the hallway door, muffled under the noise.
“East,” Luka says. “Kat needs to see you out in the hall. She said it can’t wait.”
Something in my chest loosens and tightens at the same time. I tug my jersey the rest of the way down, grab my gloves, and head for the locker room exit.
The second I see her, I know something’s wrong.
She’s standing against the concrete wall, coat buttoned to her throat, arms folded neatly. Her spine is straight, her shoulders back. Her hair is swept into a perfect ballerina knot. She looks like she’s waiting to negotiate a ceasefire, not say hi to her husband before a home game.
And she’s not wearing the ring.
A cold, sick feeling rises up my throat like stomach bile.
“Hey,” I say, trying to smile, trying to act normal. “Didn’t think you’d be down here before warmups.”
She looks up at me, and it hits me full force—the Popovich mask. The one she had on the first time I saw her step off the jet. Cool. Composed. Eyes like polished steel.
“Hi,” she says. Her voice is soft, but there’s distance in it. “We need to talk.”
Those four words never mean anything good.
I swallow. “Okay. What’s going on? How’d it go with your grandmother?”
There’s the smallest flicker in her gaze, like a crack in glass, then it’s gone.
“She’s… giving us her blessing,” Katerina says. “For the marriage.”
Relief hits me first, sharp and bright. “Wait, really? That’s—Kat, that’s huge. That’s—” I take a setp closer to hug her, wanting to kiss her before I have to get on the ice, but she takes a step back and looks away.
“And she’s agreed to let me stay here,” she cuts in gently. “As long as I honor my career obligations. She spoke with the company in New York.”
Something in my chest twinges. “New York?” I repeat. “What do you mean?”
She takes a breath, eyes flicking back to me. “They want me back, Scottie. The company. They offered me something… big. A principal contract. It’s the kind of spot people wait their whole lives for. It would be stupid to turn it down.”
The words feel like a check to the ribs.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “But we can make that work. People do long-distance all the time. We’ll figure it out. You fly, I fly, we—”
She shakes her head once. No emotion in it at all. “No. We won’t.”
I stare at her. “What do you mean, we won’t? Kat—”
“This was always temporary,” she says, and I swear I feel the ground tilt under my feet.
“You know that. We talked about it from the beginning. This was about my visa. About helping me stay long enough to dance. About you blocking off my father’s ability to force me into marriage and getting my grandmother’s blessing. We did that. It worked.”
“Yeah. It worked,” I say, my voice rough. “And somewhere in there I fell in love with you, so forgive me if I’m not thrilled about sticking to the original exit strategy.”
Her throat works like she’s swallowing something sharp. “Scottie…”
“You can’t just throw ‘temporary’ at me like it cancels everything,” I push.
“We share a bed. We share a life. I know you, Kat. I know how you take your tea before shows. I know the sound you make when you’re stretching your hips, and your joints pop.
I know the face you make when you’re trying not to laugh at one of Hunter’s idiot jokes.
Don’t stand here and act like this is some transactional thing we can just… clock out of.”
Her gaze flickers again, but she clamps down on it fast.
“This is my career,” she says softly. “My life. This is what my mother wanted for me, what I’ve worked for since I was three. I can’t pass this up to play house in Seattle. I’m sorry that sounds harsh, but it’s the truth.”
I feel the words like a slap.
“Play house,” I repeat. “Really.”
She flinches almost. “You know that’s not what I meant. I’d never ask you to give up a trade to the NHL team of your dreams.”
“That’s because I’d never give you the chance to ask me to give it up.
I’d either take you with me, or I would give it up for you,” I say.
My voice is getting tighter, harsher, and I’m trying like hell to rein it in because the last thing I want is to hurt her.
“So what? You got the call from New York, decided you’re done, and that’s it? You just… turn this off and go back?”
“Maybe your mother was right,” she says, voice going even quieter. “About Anika. Maybe she was a better choice for you, anyway.”
The fuck?
“Don’t,” I bite out. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” she asks, eyes cool.
“Don’t push me at someone else because you’re trying to make yourself feel better about leaving,” I say. “Don’t stand here and pretend I’m some… plug-and-play husband who can just swap brides because you don’t want me anymore. Because I don’t fit your plans anymore.”
For the first time, her eyes drop.
Just a second. Just one heartbeat where the mask cracks and I see her—my Kat—with all of her fear and pain and love right there, naked and raw.
Then it’s gone. The shutters slam back down.
“This isn’t about not wanting you,” she says. “It’s about reality. My reality. I was never meant to stay here forever. I miss New York. I miss Irina. I belong on that stage, in that company.”
“Yeah?” I ask, my voice low. “Then do something for me.”
Her brows draw together. “What?”
“Tell me you can see me happy with someone else,” I say. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’d be okay with it. Tell me it won’t hurt you to see me with anyone but you. Tell me that, and maybe I’ll believe you don’t love me.”
Her lips part. For a long, brutal second, she just looks at me.
Her fingers twitch at her side.
Then she nods. Slow. Like every millimeter costs her. “You should… move on,” she says. “Just like we always planned to, after this was over.”
Something inside me snaps.
I curse under my breath and rake both hands through my hair, needing to do something with the hurt clawing at my chest.
There’s a bang as the locker room door pops open behind me.
“East,” Hunter calls. “We've got to go. Coach wants us on the bench. Kiss your wife goodbye. You’ll see her after the game.”
The words twist like a knife.
I turn back to her. “Can we at least talk about this after the game?” I ask, desperation leaking through. “Just… give me that much. Don’t walk away after a hallway conversation before puck drop.”
Her eyes flick to the ice entrance beyond me, then back. “I won’t be there,” she says. “I’ve already moved out.”
My brain stalls. “You… what?”
“I moved my things today,” she says, voice steady. “My grandmother has a place for me to stay. You can cancel the lease on the penthouse. Save the money.”
I just nod, my hands pinching at my hips because that’s all I can do. “I guess you’ve thought of everything.” The words boil up in my throat before I can stop them. “What about the divorce papers, Kat?” I ask. “You have those ready too? Want me to sign them right now between line changes?”
Color drains from her face, but she keeps her chin high. “No. My lawyer will reach out when they’re prepared.”
“Jesus, Katerina,” I say, something like a laugh—bitter and disbelieving—breaking out of me. “I’m in love with you. I took your virginity. That meant nothing?”
Her eyes flash finally, finally showing something fierce and wounded. “Of course it meant something,” she bites out, and for one second she sounds like the woman who moans under me in my bed, who whispers my name when I make love to her. “But not enough to change what my life is supposed to be.”
There it is.
Not enough.
I look away, pressing my tongue against my teeth so I don’t say something I can’t take back. My hands are shaking. I curl them into fists.
“I should go,” she says, like she’s announcing an intermission. “The limo is waiting.”
She turns.
At the last second, she hesitates. Her shoulders tighten. I swear I see it—the first real crack, the truth trying to claw its way out—
“Kat,” I say, reaching toward her. “Kat—”
She doesn’t look back.
Her heels click against the concrete as she walks down the tunnel, past the security guard, around the corner.
Gone.
“East.” Hunter’s voice is closer now, softer, like he saw just enough to know not to joke. “We've got to go, man.”
I drag a hand over my face. My throat feels raw, like I’ve swallowed glass.
“Yeah,” I say hoarsely. “Yeah. I’m coming.”
I step out onto the ice with my team, the roar of the crowd crashing over us. The lights and music… the usual hype.
I look up to our section like a reflex.
Our seats are empty.
No dark hair, no sharp cheekbones, no ballerina spine sitting in my seats.
Just two vacant chairs and a hundred strangers around them, screaming for a game that suddenly feels like the least important thing in my life.
I force my body into autopilot.
Skate. Stop. Turn. Warm-up shots.
I go through the motions because that’s what I know how to do. When everything else is falling apart, I can still play hockey. I can still hit, still score, still be the guy everyone expects me to be.
But the whole game, there’s this gnawing hollow under my ribs.
With every line change, I glance up.
Still empty.
By the time the final buzzer sounds, I couldn’t tell you the score if my career depended on it. I know I played. I know my body did what it was trained to do. I know I checked and shot and took hits and gave them.
But the only thing I really remember is that she wasn’t there.
Luka’s waiting by my stall after we get off the ice.
“How bad?” he asks quietly.
I stare at my gear like I don’t recognize it. “She moved out.”
His face changes, all the color draining. “What?”
“She moved out,” I repeat, words numb. “Said your grandmother blessed the marriage, and now we can get a ‘quiet divorce’ so she can go back to New York and live her dream. Said this was always temporary. You know, like we planned.”
“Scottie—”
I stand up so fast my helmet tumbles off the bench. “I need to get home.”
He doesn’t argue.
We barely shower. Jerseys off, suits pulled on half-assed, we’re out of the arena and into my truck so fast security barely has time to blink.
The drive to The Commons is a blur of red lights and Luka cursing in Russian under his breath.
“Kat wouldn’t just—” he says once, then cuts himself off, sounding like he doesn’t even believe his own sentence.
I park crooked in the garage and we bolt for the elevator. The ride up feels like it takes an hour and two seconds at the same time.
My key fumbles in the lock.
I shove the door open.
The penthouse feels wrong immediately.
Too quiet. Too… empty.
“Katerina?” I call, even though I already know. Then Luka calls out her name too.
No answer.
I move through the place on instinct.
Her room is first, while Luka runs to the guest bathroom to check.
The bed is made. Perfectly. The way she never leaves it, because we’re always rushing in and out. The dresser is bare. No jewelry tray, no scattered hairpins, no stack of worn ballet novels Irina mailed her.
Closet doors hang open onto nothing but hangers.
My chest tightens.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
I stumble into the living room. The console table where Juliet lined up our wedding photos is missing one frame—the candid spin shot she loved. The others sit exactly where they were, but without her ring flashing in the glass, they just look like pictures from someone else’s life.
I don’t even realize my feet have carried me to my own bedroom until I’m standing in the doorway.
That’s where I see it.
On my dresser.
The ring.
The one I slid onto her finger in a borrowed tux, trying not to think too hard about how right it looked there.
It sits dead in the center of the wood, catching the lamplight.
Everything in me goes very, very quiet.
Luka appears at my shoulder, breathing hard like he sprinted through the whole place. He follows my gaze. His face pales.
“What the fuck just happened?” I ask, my voice barely more than a rasp.
He doesn’t have an answer.
Neither do I.
All I know is my marriage is over, my wife is gone, and for the first time in my life, there isn’t a goddamn thing I can do to fix it.