26. Old Wounds
Chapter twenty-six
Old Wounds
Emma
Two Weeks Later, February
T wo weeks is enough time to win two playoff games, develop an unhealthy addiction to your coach’s body wash, and convince yourself that your psychotic ex-boyfriend has finally moved on.
Two out of three isn’t bad.
The quarterfinal against Avalon Valley was a war.
2-1 in overtime, Sloane burying the winner off a feed from Jordan that was so perfectly timed it looked choreographed.
The semifinal against Crescent City was cleaner—5-2, me with a goal and an assist, the team playing the kind of connected, fearless hockey that makes you forget we didn’t exist seven months ago.
Conference championship is Sunday. Against Westmore.
The one team we haven’t beaten this season. The team responsible for one of our losses, and another tie.
But that’s a problem for Sunday-Emma. Tonight-Emma is sitting in section 102 of the Silver Pine arena watching the men’s team warm up for their final regular season game against Boston College, pretending she’s here for reasons that have nothing to do with the six-foot-one forward wearing number eleven in the visiting team’s maroon .
Drew Markham. My ex-boyfriend. The man who decoded my tattoo from a photograph, told his new girlfriend about it, and has been sending me texts that oscillate between fake nostalgia and thinly veiled threats for months.
He said he’d be here tonight.
And Emma Cole doesn’t hide.
That’s the story I’m telling myself, anyway. Because, somehow, at BC I'd become small. I'd let them make me small.
Now? Now I've found my voice again. With my team. With him . Even if seeing the men's team has my palms sweating for reasons I can't fully contain.
“You’re doing the jaw thing,” Sloane announces from beside me, shoving a handful of popcorn into her mouth with the grace of a feral raccoon. “The one Coach does when he’s—”
“I do not do the jaw thing.”
“You’re literally doing it right now. Your masseter is working overtime. I can see it from here.”
“How do you even know what a masseter is?”
“Anatomy 101. Professor Whitfield uses this model skull that has—you know what, not the point.” She studies me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing despite the fact that she’s nineteen and should, by all accounts, be less perceptive than a golden retriever. “You’re nervous. About him being here.”
I don’t insult her by asking who.
“I’m not nervous. I’m vigilant. Strategic.”
“Babe, you’ve checked the visitors’ bench six times since warm-ups started.”
Seven, actually. But who’s counting.
Below us, the Silver Pine men take the ice to a roar from the student section.
I spot Dexter Fletcher leading them out, followed by Hunter Matthews (who Sloane has been aggressively not-dating for two weeks in a way that fools absolutely no one), and the rest of the roster that I’ve come to know by proximity and the fact that Luke helps Marner with game analytics periodically.
Luke.
Who is currently on the bench in his Silver Pine polo, tablet in hand, headset on, looking like every fantasy I’ve had since I was fifteen years old decided to manifest in business casual .
Two weeks since the Olympic scouts left. A week since Walsh confirmed the committee was meeting this week. Three days since Luke told me he has a meeting scheduled for Monday to discuss next steps.
Nothing locked down. Nothing secured. Everything balanced on the edge of a blade so thin you could shave with it.
And in those two weeks, Luke and I have been... us. Or at least the version that exists behind locked doors and drawn blinds and the careful choreography of appearing to be nothing more than coach and player in public.
His apartment after film sessions that technically end at nine but actually end at midnight with me in his shirt and his hands in my hair.
Morning texts that are ostensibly about practice plans but contain hidden messages in the first letter of each bullet point (he thinks he’s clever; he’s correct).
Facetime calls that start with hockey analysis and end with significantly less clothing and significantly more of his voice in that low register that should require a permit.
I’m happy in a way that terrifies me. The kind of happiness that feels borrowed. Like the universe is letting me hold it temporarily while it figures out the interest rate.
“There.” Sloane’s elbow finds my ribs. “Number eleven. Far end.”
Drew’s skating lazy circles during warm-ups, and even from here I can see the way he carries himself, like he believes the ice was built for him specifically.
I’d found that confidence attractive once.
Now I see it for what it is: a costume. Worn by a man who needed me to be smaller so he could feel bigger.
“He’s attractive at least,” Sloane observes. Neutrally. Like she’s describing weather patterns and not the person who made my last year at BC a living nightmare.
“Coming from the girl who can’t decide if she wants Hunter Matthews or a three-time Olympic Gold Co-Captain for Team USA?”
She shrugs. “Keeping my options open”
I tear a piece of popcorn apart without eating it. “Not for that guy. You’re better off seducing our future team captain.”
“Noted.” Sloane bumps her shoulder against mine. Her version of I’m here, I’ve got you, we don’t have to talk about it unless you want to. Then she turns her attention to Hunter, who’s stretching on the ice. “But Hunter’s not so bad, I guess. For now.”
For now .
Because we probably won’t be here much longer.
I let my gaze drift to the bench. To Luke.
He’s reviewing something on his tablet, pointing at the screen while Marner nods.
In profile, he looks focused, competent, completely in his element.
The scar above his eyebrow catches the overhead light.
His jaw is relaxed, which means he hasn’t spotted Drew yet.
Or if he has, he’s filed it away in whatever compartment of his brain handles threats he can’t address publicly.
As if sensing my attention (I swear, the man has developed a sixth sense for my proximity that borders on supernatural), Luke glances up. His eyes find mine in the crowd with the accuracy of a heat-seeking missile.
One second. Maybe two.
I see the corner of his mouth lift. A smile that exists exclusively for me, too small for anyone else to notice, too significant for me to ignore.
Then he’s back to his tablet. Back to Coach Anderson. Back behind the wall.
But I felt it. That two-second acknowledgment that translates, in the language we’ve built over months of hiding, to: I see you. I know why you’re here. And, yes, I'd kill him if I knew I could get away with it.
The puck drops.
The game is brutal.
Not skilled-brutal. Not the kind of high-level physical hockey that makes you appreciate the sport. The mean kind. Chippy. Where guys are finishing checks three seconds after the puck is gone and the refs can’t keep up with the retaliatory bullshit happening in the corners.
BC came to Silver Pine with something to prove. And whatever that something is, it involves a lot of cross-checks and one Drew Markham playing like he’s auditioning for a role in a prison movie.
“He just boarded Matthews,” Sloane says, half out of her seat. “That’s boarding. That’s clearly boarding. Where’s the call?”
“It’s men’s hockey. They don’t call that unless someone loses teeth.”
Drew’s been in two scrums already. He’s running his mouth on every shift, chirping Silver Pine’s defense with a targeted aggression that’s designed to provoke. And I can see the pattern, see the way he glances toward our bench after each confrontation. Not at Marner.
At Luke.
The first time, I think it’s coincidence. Players look at benches. It’s a normal byproduct of positional awareness.
The second time, I’m less sure.
The third time, during a TV timeout in the second period, Drew skates to the boards near Silver Pine’s bench, positions himself directly in Luke’s sightline and is making zero effort to be subtle about it.
Luke doesn’t react. At least not visibly. He’s reviewing the tablet, exchanging notes with Marner’s assistant, doing his job. But I know the set of those shoulders now. Know the difference between relaxed and controlled. Between comfortable and performing comfort.
He’s aware of Drew.
Drew is making sure of it.
The fight happens with four minutes left in the third.
BC’s up 3-2, and the game has been trending toward violence for forty minutes.
Dexter Fletcher takes a clean hit in the neutral zone, gets up, says something to the BC defenseman, and suddenly Drew is there.
Not defending his teammate, but inserting himself into a situation that doesn’t require his presence.
Words are exchanged. Gloves drop.
Dexter and Drew go at it like two men who’ve been waiting for an excuse. Dexter’s bigger, but Drew is nastier. Fists fly. Jerseys get pulled over heads. The refs circle like they’re waiting for a natural conclusion instead of, you know, doing their jobs.
The crowd is on its feet. Sloane is screaming something about Drew’s mother that would get her banned from polite society.
Both fighters get five-minute majors and game ejections. Drew skates to the penalty box with blood on his knuckles, and as he passes the Silver Pine bench, he's glaring at Luke.
Luke’s face doesn’t change. But his hand, the one holding the stylus for his tablet, goes completely still.
“Did you see that?” I breathe.
“See what?” Sloane’s still processing the fight.
“Drew.”
“He looked at the bench. Guys always look at—”
“No.” My fingers curl around the armrest. “He stared Luke down.”
The comedy drains out and the serious Sloane surfaces. The one who held my hair in Iowa, who watches film until midnight, who understands that my history with Drew isn’t just romantic wreckage but a live wire that could short-circuit everything I’ve built.
“He’s just being a dick,” she offers. “Posturing.”
“Maybe.”