Chapter 12
Ben
The office of Head Coach "Sully" Sullivan smelled like stale coffee, Deep Heat, and disappointment. It was a smell I associated with bad news.
I sat in the hard plastic chair across from his desk, my hands resting on my knees. I kept my posture rigid, my expression neutral. The "Captain" mask was firmly in place, bolted down tight.
Sully leaned back in his chair, the springs groaning in protest. He looked at me over the top of his reading glasses. He held a sheaf of papers in his hand—scouting reports, stats, and, ominously, a printout of my mid-term grades.
"You know why you're here, Sterling?" he asked. His voice was gravelly, worn down by forty years of yelling at nineteen-year-olds.
"My knee," I said. It was the obvious answer. I had played on Saturday, but I hadn't practiced fully all week.
"The knee is a concern," Sully agreed, tossing the paper onto the desk. "But the MRI came back clean. Just a sprain. Pain management. You can handle pain."
"I can."
"This," he tapped the grade report, "is a different kind of pain. You missed a lab. Your Kinesiology professor emailed me. Said your 'focus seems elsewhere.'"
I stiffened. I hadn't missed the lab; I had been five minutes late because I was helping Ivy tape her ankle in the hallway.
"It won't happen again," I said.
"It better not. Because that's not the only thing." Sully leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk. "The Montreal scout, Davids? He called me this morning."
My stomach tightened. "And?"
"He likes your grit. He likes the physical game. But he has reservations."
"Reservations about what?"
"About your head, Ben. He thinks you're playing distracted. He said you look like a guy who's playing not to lose, rather than playing to win. He said you hesitated on the breakout pass in the second period. Hesitation gets you killed in the NHL."
Hesitation.
I knew exactly the play he was talking about. I had hesitated because for a split second, I had looked up at the stands to find Ivy.
"I was checking the lane," I lied smoothly.
"Bullshit," Sully snapped. "I know you. You don't check lanes; you make them. Something's eating you, son. Is it your dad?"
"My dad is fine."
"Is it a girl?"
The question hung in the air. Heavy. Dangerous.
I didn't blink. I didn't look away. "There's no girl, Coach. I live in a house with twenty dudes. My love life is a protein shake."
Sully stared at me for a long, uncomfortable minute. He was reading me. Looking for the crack.
Finally, he sighed.
"Look, Ben. You're the best defenseman I've coached in ten years. But you're on a razor's edge. Your dad is pushing hard from the outside. The scouts are circling. And we have the Frozen Four tournament starting in two weeks. If you slip... even an inch... the ice breaks."
He stood up. The meeting was over.
"Clean it up, Sterling. Get your head right. Or I bench you. Captain or not."
"Yes, Coach."
I stood up and walked out.
I made it to the hallway before I had to stop and lean against the concrete wall. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. The air in the athletic center was cool, but I felt like I was suffocating.
You're slipping.
It wasn't just Coach. I felt it too. I was tired. Bone-tired. Keeping up the routine, the grades, the rehab, and the secret relationship with Ivy was draining me dry. I was burning the candle at both ends, and the middle was starting to melt.
And now, the hesitation.
I pushed off the wall. I needed to move. I needed to sweat.
I walked toward the gym. I was going to lift until my arms shook. Until I couldn't think about scouts or fathers or blondes with hazel eyes.
Two Hours Later
The weight room was empty except for me and the ghosts of failed athletes.
I was on the bench press. Three hundred pounds. Heavy.
Down. Up. Down. Up.
The rhythm was soothing. The pain in my chest muscles was a familiar friend. It was honest pain. It didn't have subtext.
My phone buzzed on the floor next to me.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again. And again.
I racked the weight with a clang that echoed through the room. I sat up, sweat dripping from my nose, and grabbed the phone.
Ivy: Hey. I'm done with class. Want to grab food? Or sneak into the library again? ;)
I stared at the emoji. The wink.
A week ago, that text would have made me smile. It would have sent a jolt of arousal straight to my groin.
Today? It felt like a weight. Another obligation. Another distraction.
Hesitation gets you killed.
I typed a reply.
Me: Can't. Practice ran late. Need to study. See you at home.
I stared at the message. It was cold. Dismissive. It was a lie.
I deleted it.
I typed: Me: Busy. Sorry.
Send.
I threw the phone back onto his pile of clothes.
I lay back down on the bench. I gripped the bar.
Focus, Sterling. Just lift the damn weight.
But as I lowered the bar, all I could see was Ivy’s face when she read that text. The confusion. The hurt.
"Fuck!" I roared, pushing the weight up with explosive force.
I finished the set. But the satisfaction was gone.
By the time I got back to the Ice Box, it was dark. The house was quiet, bathed in the blue light of evening.
I walked into the kitchen, my body aching, my mind a staticky mess of anxiety.
Ivy was there.
She was sitting at the island, her laptop open, papers spread out around her. She was wearing my gray hoodie—the one she had claimed permanently. Her hair was in a messy bun, escaping in tendrils around her face.
She looked up when I walked in. Her face lit up.
"Hey! You're alive. I thought maybe the weight room ate you."
She stood up, moving to hug me.
I stepped back.
It was instinct. A reflex to protect my space, to keep the "distraction" at arm's length.
Ivy froze. Her arms dropped to her sides. The smile faltered.
"Ben?"
"I'm gross," I muttered, walking past her to the fridge. "Sweaty. Don't touch me."
"Okay..." She watched me grab a water bottle. "Rough practice?"
"Rough life," I snapped. I chugged half the water in one go. "Coach grilled me. Said I'm losing focus. Said I'm playing like a coward."
"He didn't say that."
"He said I'm 'playing not to lose.' Same thing." I slammed the bottle down. "And he's right. I messed up on Saturday. I hesitated."
"You were injured, Ben! You had a guy hacking at your knees!"
"Doesn't matter. In the pros, nobody cares if you're hurt. They care if you make the play. And I didn't make the play."
I turned to look at her. "Because I was looking for you."
The accusation hung in the air.
Ivy paled. "Me?"
"Yeah. I was looking at the stands. Checking if you were okay. And while I was busy being a boyfriend, I got checked into next week."
"Don't put that on me," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I didn't ask you to look."
"I know. But I did. That's the problem." I ran a hand through my hair, pacing the small kitchen. "I can't do this, Ivy. I can't be two people. I can't be the Captain and whatever this is."
I gestured vaguely between us.
Ivy straightened up. Her eyes flashed with that stubborn fire I usually loved.
"Whatever this is? It's called a relationship, Ben. It's called caring about someone."
"It's called a liability!" I shouted.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Ivy stared at me. She looked like I had slapped her.
"A liability," she repeated slowly. "Is that what I am? A risk to your portfolio?"
"You know what I mean."
"No, I don't think I do. I think you're scared. I think Coach yelled at you, and instead of dealing with it, you're looking for something to blame. And I'm the easiest target."
She stepped closer to me. She poked me in the chest.
"I'm not the reason you hesitated, Ben. You hesitated because you don't trust yourself. You think if you're not miserable, you're not working hard enough."
"I work harder than anyone!"
"At hockey? Yes. At being happy? You suck at it."
She grabbed her laptop and her papers, shoving them into her bag. Her movements were jerky, angry.
"I have my own pressure, you know," she said, not looking at me. "I have the showcase. I have my dad threatening to cut me off. I have Lila breathing down my neck. But I didn't come in here and bite your head off. I waited for you."
She slung her bag over her shoulder.
"I'm going to the library. Since apparently, my presence is dragging down your stats."
She walked out.
The back door slammed.
I stood there in the kitchen, surrounded by the silence I usually craved.
But tonight, the silence didn't feel like peace. It felt like failure.
I looked at the water bottle on the counter. I swiped it off. It hit the wall with a satisfying thwack, splashing water everywhere.
It didn't help.
I sank to the floor, leaning my back against the cabinets. I put my head in my hands.
"Idiot," I whispered. "You absolute idiot."
1:00 AM
I couldn't sleep.
I lay in my bed in the attic, staring at the skylight. The stars were visible tonight, cold and distant.
Ivy hadn't come back. Or if she had, she had gone straight to her room—the storage closet downstairs. She hadn't come up to the attic.
The bed felt enormous without her.
I rolled over, punching the pillow.
I was right. Logically, I was right. She was a distraction. Since she arrived, my routine was shot. I was sleeping less. I was thinking about her during practice. I was risking my father’s wrath.
But lying here, in the dark, without her warmth against my back... I felt hollow.
I realized then that the "distraction" wasn't the problem. The problem was that the distraction had become the only thing that felt real. Hockey felt like a job. Ivy felt like... life.
And I had just pushed life out the door.
A soft knock sounded.
I froze.
"Ben?"
It was a whisper. Barely audible.
I was out of bed in a second. I crossed the room and unlocked the door.
Ivy stood there.
She was wearing oversized sweatpants and a tank top. She looked tired. Her eyes were red-rimmed.
But she wasn't angry. She was holding a plate. On the plate was a grilled cheese sandwich, cut into triangles.
"I saw the light under your door," she said quietly. "I figured you hadn't eaten. Since you threw your water bottle at the wall."
I looked at the sandwich. Then I looked at her.
"You heard that?"
"Hard to miss. The plumbing vibrates."
She held out the plate. "Eat. It's protein and carbs. Your favorites."
I didn't take the plate. I took her wrist and pulled her into the room. I kicked the door shut and locked it.
I took the plate from her hand and set it on the desk without looking at it.
Then I pulled her into my arms.
"I'm sorry," I buried my face in her neck, breathing her in. "I'm so sorry, Ivy. I was an asshole. I was scared."
She stiffened for a second, then melted. Her arms came around my waist, holding me tight.
"I know," she murmured, stroking my hair. "I know you were scared. You're big and dumb and scared."
"I didn't mean it. You're not a liability. You're... you're the only thing keeping me sane."
"Then stop pushing me away," she whispered fierceley. "When things get hard, Ben... don't shove me out. Pull me in. That's how this works. That's the deal."
I pulled back to look at her. In the moonlight, she looked fierce. Stronger than me.
"The deal," I repeated. "Right."
"I'm not leaving," she said. "Even if you yell. Even if you lose. I'm not going anywhere."
"Why?" I asked, genuinely baffled. "Why stay? I'm a mess."
"Because," she reached up and traced the scar on my jaw. "You see me. You see the real me, not just the St. James heir. And because... I think you need someone to remind you that you're more than a stat sheet."
She kissed me. Softly. Forgivingly.
"Now eat your sandwich," she ordered, pulling away. "Before it gets cold. And then we're going to sleep. Because you have practice at 6 AM, and if you're groggy, Coach is going to blame me."
I sat on the edge of the bed and ate the sandwich. It was burnt on one side. It was the best thing I had ever tasted.
Ivy crawled into bed, pulling the duvet up to her chin. She watched me eat.
"Better?" she asked when I finished.
"Yeah. Better."
I stripped off my shirt and climbed in beside her. I pulled her against me, wrapping my arms and legs around her, anchoring her.
"Ben?"
"Mmm?"
"About the hesitation."
I tensed.
"Don't worry about it," she said softly. "Next time... don't look for me in the stands. Look for the puck. I'll still be there when the game is over."
"I can't help it," I admitted into the dark. "I like knowing where you are."
"I'm right here," she said, pressing a kiss to my chest. "Always right here."
I closed my eyes. The anxiety was still there, buzzing in the background. The scout. My dad. The knee.
But as I drifted off, holding Ivy, the weight felt a little lighter.
Coach was wrong. She wasn't a distraction.
She was the reason I could keep playing.
Two Days Later
The sanctuary didn't last long.
It was Friday. Game day. Away game at Dartmouth.
I was packing my bag in the attic. Ivy was at dance practice.
My phone rang.
Unknown Number.
I usually ignored these. But something told me to answer.
"Sterling," I answered.
"Ben. It's Davids. From Montreal."
The scout.
I froze, gripping the phone. "Mr. Davids. Hello."
"Listen, kid. I'm going to shoot you straight. I like your game. But there's noise around you. Lots of noise."
"Noise, sir?"
"Your father. He's been calling the front office. Offering... incentives. It looks bad, Ben. It looks like you can't stand on your own two feet."
My blood boiled. "I didn't ask him to do that."
"Doesn't matter. Perception is reality. And then there's the other thing."
"What other thing?"
"We heard a rumor. About a girl. A student living in the team house? Something about a 'live-in distraction'?"
My heart stopped.
Lila.
"That's... that's a misunderstanding," I stammered. "She's a tenant. It's strictly housing."
"Is it? Because my sources say otherwise. They say you're spending more time playing house than watching tape."
Davids sighed. "Look. We have one draft pick left. It's you or the kid from Michigan. If I hear one more whisper about drama... or fathers... or girls... we're going with Michigan. Clear?"
"Clear," I choked out.
"Good luck tonight. Make it count."
The line went dead.
I lowered the phone. My hand was shaking.
Lila had talked. Or someone had. The secret was out.
And now I had a choice.
I could keep Ivy. Or I could keep my dream.
I looked at the pillow where her head had rested last night. I could still smell her vanilla shampoo.
“I'm not going anywhere.”
I sank onto the bed.
I knew what I had to do. I had to distance myself. Publicly. Completely.
I had to break her heart to save my future.
Or... I had to find a way to silence the noise.
I stood up. I grabbed my bag.
I walked out of the room.
I wasn't going to break up with her. I wasn't that noble.
I was going to fight.
But first, I had to win a hockey game. And for the first time in weeks, I was going to do it without looking at the stands.
Because if I looked... I might never look away.