Chapter 36 #2
The memory surfaced again—unwanted, unbidden.
Another pair of arms holding me as I fell apart.
Another voice, gentle and steady, promising that I wasn't alone.
Soft words against my hair: "I've got you.
" My desperate plea in the darkness of the woods: "Kiss me, Lively.
" That memory twisted in my gut like a knife, shame burning through my veins at how exposed I'd made myself.
How pathetic I must have looked to him at that moment, begging for his kiss like a fucking hussy.
The untouchable Hailey Baleman, reduced to practically clawing at him, practically pleading.
And his refusal; that softly spoken "No", still made me viscerally cringe every time I remembered it.
Oh God, he'd really said no. I'd thrown—practically flung—myself at him, and he'd looked me in the eyes and said, "No, thank you.
" He'd practically told me to my face that it wasn't that fucking serious.
That he'd never really been serious. I mean, if he'd actually wanted me like he said he did, he wouldn't have turned me down when I'd flung myself at him.
Remembering it was so embarrassing I could die.
Yeah, and that's why you lashed out at him like a feral animal, huh?
The hollow guilt I'd been feeling since now constricted my lungs as I recalled the fury in those usually playful blue eyes when I'd told him to stop acting like a lovesick puppy. Damn it, I'd said such horrible things to him.
"Fuck." I muttered to myself again, drawing weird looks from a passing freshman as I stomped toward the locker room.
The scrape of my shoes against concrete was too loud, too abrasive.
Everything felt like it was dialed up to eleven, my senses hyper- attuned to a world that had somehow shifted on its axis when I wasn't looking.
Today was the day. The Rink Runners had returned from Blackwater Bay over the weekend—at least, that's what Zoe had told me, her eyes carefully avoiding mine when she mentioned that her partner, Matt, had texted her about it.
Her voice had held an unfamiliar warmth, like she was talking about a friend rather than the goalie she'd sworn to destroy just a week ago.
I hadn't heard a damn thing, though. Not even a one-word text message. Not even a fucking emoji. Just…radio silence. And, I guess I deserved that.
The locker room was already buzzing when I entered, my teammates clustered together in excited chatter that died abruptly when I appeared. Gina caught my eye, her expression something between sympathy and exasperation. The sudden silence felt like an indictment, a collective holding of breath.
"They're back, huh?" I asked, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to stiff, my voice a brittle thing that threatened to crack with each syllable.
"Yeah." Dani nodded, her tone careful, like she was navigating a minefield. "They got in last night."
I moved toward my locker with forced nonchalance, but inside, my pulse was already thundering—a steady beat of anticipation and dread and something else I refused to name. Something that felt a lot like hunger.
I swung my locker door open—and froze.
There, perched on top of my gear, was a familiar sight: a Snickers bar and a folded note. My heart lurched painfully against my ribs, the echo of another day, another locker, another note.
"Sweet, just like you, Cap. ;)" .
The memory bloomed vivid and sharp, cutting through the present with knife-like precision.
But when I picked up the note with trembling fingers, the handwriting was different. Neater, more controlled. Not the chaotic chicken scratch that I'd once compared to a serial killer's. The disappointment that crashed through me was as unexpected as it was devastating.
"For you."
That was all it said. And it felt so…empty. Cold. Without any of that cheekiness I’d come to expect from Lively Summers.
"You got a note, too, Cap?" Zoe leaned over my shoulder, catching sight of the paper in my hand. Her casual intrusion into my space jarred me, made me want to curl my body around the note, hide it from prying eyes.
"Too?" I echoed, my head tilting slightly.
"Hey! The handwriting's the same as mine," Dani chimed in, raising her own note to compare side by side. "That looks like Barnes' writing. He must have written yours too."
The others started to compare notes, their voices rippling through the locker room, but I barely heard it through the sudden rushing in my ears. It wasn't from him. Of course it wasn't from him. Why would he bother with me now?
I should have felt relieved. Instead, the hollow space in my chest expanded, threatening to swallow me whole.
Despite myself, I reached for the candy bar, slipping it into my pocket before anyone could comment, unwilling to examine why I couldn't bring myself to leave it behind.
The weight of it against my thigh felt like a secret, one too big for me to hide.
The transition from locker room to ice felt like stepping through a portal into a different dimension.
Everything was wrong—the air thinner, the sounds sharper, my teammates moving with an anticipation that had nothing to do with our usual practice rhythm.
Even Gina seemed off her game, missing a pass that should have been automatic, her gaze darting to the doors when she thought I wasn't looking.
Then it happened. The heavy doors swung open, and every head snapped toward the sound, the collective intake of breath audible in the sudden hush.
"Heyo!" Logan yelled from the doorway as they filed in, throwing both hands up. "I bet y'all missed me this time!"
And to my absolute shock, my teammates' faces split into genuine grins as they skated toward the boards, calling out greetings like they were welcoming back long-lost friends instead of rivals.
The world sure had tilted on its axis during those four days, reshaping itself into something I no longer recognized.
But I didn't have time to process that, because my vision had already tunneled, zeroing in on the figure entering behind Dylan.
Lively.
My breath caught in my throat at the sight of him.
He looked... different. Not in any way I could immediately identify—his hair was still that tousled bright blond shock, his shoulders still broad under his practice jersey, his movements still carrying that easy grace that had always made something twist low in my belly.
But there was a change, something fundamental that I couldn't quite name.
His eyes found mine immediately, as if drawn by some magnetic force neither of us could resist. But they were different—those blue eyes that had always sparkled with mischief, with barely contained delight whenever they landed on me.
Now they were shuttered, distant, like looking at the ocean through frosted glass.
The warmth had been drained away, leaving behind something lukewarm and barely tolerating.
My heart stalled, then kicked back into an irregular rhythm, each beat more painful than the last. He was coming toward me. Direct, deliberate strides cutting across the ice, closing the distance between us with the same confidence he'd always shown.
But he stopped several feet away, maintaining a careful gap that he'd never respected before.
As if there was an invisible line he no longer dared to cross.
The Lively I knew would have invaded my space without hesitation, would have leaned in too close, grinning that stupidly infectious grin.
This Lively stood with his spine rigid, arms folded across his chest, creating a physical barrier between us.
I opened my mouth, but he did not give me a chance to say anything.
"Baleman." His voice was cool, professional.
Gone was the playful "Hailstorm", replaced by this formal, distant address that felt like ice water running down my spine.
"I've made some adjustments to the practice schedule so our times will be a little closer.
That way the mixed scrimmage won't have your team waiting too long after your practice. "
I stared at him, at this version of Lively that was all clean lines and careful distance, his usual exuberance packed away like it had never existed.
Even his body language had transformed—no more dramatic gestures, no more leaning into my space, no more of that barely contained energy that had always made him seem like he was on the verge of bursting at the seams.
"I hope you can tolerate me and my team until the end of our arrangement," he continued, and the formal phrasing, so unlike his usual casual speech, felt like a deliberate reminder of what I'd said to him. A careful echo of my own cruelty.
Then he turned, ready to walk away without another word, as if our entire exchange had been nothing more than a brief business meeting.
You have to apologise! The voice in my head was screaming.
"I saw your note," I blurted, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "And the Snickers bar."
He paused then, his back still to me, and for a moment—just a moment—I thought I saw his shoulders tense, a hint of the old Lively breaking through. Hope flared in my chest, bright and dangerous.
But then he shrugged, not even bothering to turn around. "Yeah, okay. I'm sure Whitehall will like it."
It was soulless, a flippant nod to the lie I’d told him back at Blackwater.
And the casual dismissal hit harder than any angry outburst could have.
At least anger would have meant I still mattered enough to provoke a reaction.
This cool indifference was like a wall of ice between us, impenetrable and absolute.
He hesitated again, and I couldn't help but swallow, before he said, "Is Mallory okay now?" The question was careful, like he didn't know if he should be asking me that or not.
"Yeah," I replied, maybe a little too quickly, the word coming out like a croak. What the fuck? I cleared my throat once. "Yeah, she’s…she’s doing fine."
Lively nodded wordlessly at my words. And then he was walking away, the space between us expanding with each step, leaving me frozen at center ice. I hadn't even gotten the chance to apologize for the cruel things I'd said to him that day.
But maybe that was the point. Maybe he hadn't given me that chance…
On purpose.