Chapter 12
Ezra
For three years, this smell had been my comfort. My sanctuary.
Today, it smelled like failure.
I stood at center ice, alone. My breath plumed in white clouds in front of my face. The only sound was the hum of the compressors and the scrape of my skate blade as I cut a figure eight into the pristine surface.
“Your stats are down, Sterling.”
Coach Ramsey’s voice echoed in my head, a looped recording of my own inadequacy.
He had pulled me into his office yesterday after practice.
He hadn’t yelled. Ramsey never yelled. He just looked at the data sheets spread across his desk with the disappointed sigh of a man watching a thoroughbred pull up lame.
“Face-off win percentage: down 4%. Time on ice: reduced due to the knee, obviously. But it’s the decision-making, Ezra. You’re hesitating. You’re looking for the pass when you should be shooting. You’re distracted.”
Distracted.
The word was a scalpel.
I took a puck from the pile at my feet. I lined it up. I stared at the empty net at the far end of the rink.
Focus.
I visualized the shot. Top shelf. Glove side.
I wound up. The motion should have been fluid, automatic. But at the apex of my backswing, my mind didn't see the net.
It saw Amara.
It saw her face when she read the email from my father. The fear. The realization that she was being treated like a commodity. It saw the way she had curled into herself on the ride home, silent and small.
I hesitated. Just a fraction of a second.
I released the shot.
Clang.
The puck hit the post and careened harmlessly into the corner.
“Dammit!”
I roared the word, the sound bouncing off the empty stands. I slammed my stick against the ice, the composite shaft vibrating in my hands.
Missed. Again.
I was compromised.
My father was right. Coach was right. Amara was a distraction. A beautiful, brilliant, intoxicating distraction that was eating away at the singular focus I needed to survive.
I skated to the boards and leaned my forehead against the glass. The cold seeped through my helmet, numbing the skin.
I had a meeting with the NHL scouts in two days. A private combine. They were coming to see if the knee was healed, yes, but mostly they were coming to see if Ezra Sterling still had the "Killer Instinct."
Right now, the only thing I wanted to kill was the part of myself that cared more about Amara’s happiness than my own future.
My phone buzzed on the bench.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again.
I skated over, ripped off my glove, and grabbed it.
From: Father
To: Ezra
Time: 05:14 AM
The contract has been sent to her legal representation (Leo, presumably? Or does she have a lawyer?). Ensure she signs by Friday. If she balks, remind her of the tuition clause. We are not running a charity, Ezra. We are running a merger. Treat it as such.
I stared at the screen until the letters blurred.
Treat it as such.
He wanted me to leverage her. He wanted me to threaten the woman I loved with poverty to ensure she behaved like a good little corporate wife.
I threw the phone into my gym bag. It hit the bottom with a satisfying thud.
I grabbed another puck.
I skated until my lungs burned. I skated until the sweat froze on my neck. I skated until I couldn't feel my legs.
But no matter how fast I moved, I couldn't outrun the sickening realization that I was going to have to make a choice.
The game… or the girl.
By the time I got back to the penthouse, it was 8:00 AM.
The apartment was quiet. The morning sun was just starting to crest over the mountains, painting the living room in soft pinks and oranges.
I walked in, expecting silence.
Instead, I heard humming.
Amara was in the kitchen. She was wearing one of my button-down shirts, unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up, and nothing else. She was dancing—actually dancing—to some pop song playing low on her phone while she flipped pancakes.
The sight of her hit me like a physical blow.
She looked happy. Despite the email. Despite Leo. Despite everything.
She turned and saw me. Her face lit up.
“Morning, Cap!” she chirped, brandishing a spatula. “I made pancakes. Well, I made batter from a box I found in the back of the pantry that expired in 2022, but it smelled okay. Want some?”
She was trying. She was trying so hard to be normal. To be the supportive partner. To pretend that my father wasn't holding a gun to her head.
I couldn't do it.
I couldn't smile and eat dry pancakes and pretend that my world wasn't collapsing.
“I’m not hungry,” I said. My voice was rough, colder than I intended.
Amara’s smile faltered. She lowered the spatula.
“Oh. Okay. Coffee then? I figured out the machine. I didn't even cause a flood this time.”
“I had coffee at the rink.”
I walked past her, heading for the hallway. I needed a shower. I needed to wash the smell of failure off my skin.
“Ezra?”
I stopped. I didn't turn around.
“Are you okay?” she asked softly. “You’ve been gone since five. Did something happen?”
“Practice,” I said. “Just practice.”
“You usually come back hungry,” she pressed. “Did… did your dad text you again?”
I stiffened. She knew. She always knew.
“It doesn't matter, Amara. Just… leave it.”
I started walking again.
“Don’t do that,” she said. Her voice was sharper now. Not angry, but firm.
I turned around.
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t shut me out,” she said. She walked around the island, approaching me. “Don’t go into ‘Robot Mode.’ I know that look. It’s the look you get when you’re trying to calculate the trajectory of a disaster.”
“I am calculating,” I snapped. “I’m calculating how to keep you in school and keep my father from destroying my career in the same week.”
She stopped a few feet away. She crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself.
“We talked about this,” she said. “We’re a team. You don’t have to carry it alone.”
“This isn't something we can team-work our way out of, Amara!”
My voice rose, echoing off the high ceilings.
“The scouts are coming on Thursday. My stats are down. Coach thinks I’m distracted. My father thinks I’m weak. And he sent a contract that basically turns you into an indentured servant.”
I ran a hand through my hair, pacing a tight circle.
“I have to fix this. I have to focus. And I can’t focus when I’m worrying about whether you’re okay, or whether Leo is going to punch me, or whether you’re going to sign that damn paper.”
Amara flinched.
“So I’m the problem,” she whispered. “I’m the distraction.”
“No,” I said, frustration clawing at my throat. “You’re not the problem. The situation is the problem. But I can’t… I can’t be your boyfriend right now, Amara. I have to be the Captain. I have to be the asset.”
She stared at me. Her eyes were wide, hurt.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Okay. Go be the Captain. Go shower. I’ll… I’ll be in my room working.”
She turned and walked away.
I watched her go. I wanted to call her back. I wanted to apologize. I wanted to pull her into my arms and tell her that she was the only thing that mattered.
But I didn't.
Because if I did that, I would lose the edge. And right now, the edge was the only thing keeping us safe.
I turned and walked into the shower. I turned the water to freezing cold. I stood under the spray and let it numb me until I couldn't feel the guilt anymore.
The next two days were a blur of misery.
I lived at the rink. I watched tape until my eyes burned. I lifted weights until my muscles screamed. I barely saw Amara.
We existed in the same apartment, but we were ghosts haunting each other.
She stayed in the guest room (she had moved her stuff back in there the morning of the fight), working on her collection. I stayed in the living room or at the gym. When we passed each other in the kitchen, the air was thick with tension and unsaid words.
“Sign the contract,” my father texted. “Thursday is the deadline.”
“I’m handling it,” I replied.
I wasn't handling it. I was ignoring it.
Thursday arrived.
The day of the Scout Combine.
I woke up at 4:00 AM. My stomach was a knot of anxiety. This was it. The private skate. Two scouts from the Blackhawks and one from the Rangers were coming to watch me run drills. If I nailed it, I was a first-round lock. If I hesitated… I was a risky bet.
I dressed in silence. I grabbed my gear.
I walked past Amara’s door. It was closed. No light underneath.
I paused, my hand hovering over the doorknob. I wanted to see her. I wanted her to tell me I could do this.
But I remembered the hurt in her eyes. Go be the Captain.
I dropped my hand.
I left.
The combine was grueling.
Coach Ramsey ran the drills. The scouts stood in the stands, three shadowy figures in dark coats, holding clipboards. They didn't smile. They didn't cheer. They just watched.
Sprints. Up and back. My lungs burned. My knee throbbed, a dull ache that spiked with every turn.
Shooting. Slap shots. Wrist shots. Snap shots. Pick the corners. Don’t miss.
Agility. Cones. Tight turns. Keep the puck on a string.
I was executing. I was fast. I was precise.
But it felt hollow.
Usually, when I skated, I felt a sense of flow. A connection to the ice. Today, I felt like a machine running a program. Input: Adrenaline. Output: Speed.
“Okay, Sterling,” Ramsey called out. “Last drill. The Gauntlet.”
The Gauntlet was a endurance drill. Checking, shooting, skating, all at once. It was designed to break you.
I lined up.
Whistle.
I took off. I hit the first dummy. Bam. I spun off, grabbed the puck. Skated through the cones. Shot. Score.
Back to the line. Do it again. Faster.
My legs were jelly. My chest was heaving.
Don’t stop. Don’t show weakness.
I hit the dummy again. My bad knee buckled slightly. I stumbled.
I caught myself. I kept going.
But I saw the scouts exchange a look.
He stumbled.
The knee isn't 100%.
Debit.
I finished the drill. I collapsed onto the bench, gasping for air.
Coach Ramsey skated over. He looked concerned.
“You okay, son?”
“Fine,” I wheezed. “Good.”
“You looked… heavy out there, Ezra. You got the skills, but the spark… where’s the spark?”