Cayden
SEVENTEEN
I stare at the phone held tightly in my hand. Somewhere between the silence and hearing her breaths even out as she fell asleep, I eventually hung up.
My chest is still rising too fast—my pulse a steady drumbeat in my ears.
And her voice…
The sound of my name on her lips as she came apart for me echoes in my mind on repeat like a goddamn broken record.
Fuck.
I rake a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the remnants of her, knowing damn well it’s not going to be that easy.
I let it get too far when I should have walked away.
Hearing how breathless she sounded in her voice memo had me dialing her number before I could really think it through.
She was bold tonight, and it was fucking sexy as hell to have her brazenly ask for what she wanted from me. I would be lying if I said I didn’t want it just as bad, and once I had my hand around my cock and heard her little moans and sighs through the phone, there was no stopping me.
I needed to hear her cum so badly that it still has me shaken, and I needed to be the one to bring her there.
Not her little toys, which she usually relies on.
But me.
Throwing the sheet over me, I toss and turn most of the night before eventually falling into a restless sleep.
My dreams are torn between hell and heaven.
The past—coiling around my neck like chains, refusing to let me forget. A constant reminder of loss and heartbreak that keeps me guarded and distant.
The future—tempting me with glimpses of what could be if I find the strength to break the shackles wound tightly around my heart.
By the time I make it downstairs in the morning, I’m in desperate need of caffeine and in a sour mood.
“You came in late last night,” Mae’s voice rings out as I pour coffee into my mug. “Did you let yourself have some fun?”
“All it did was remind me why I hate going out to clubs in the first place,” I grumble, taking a sip of my black coffee. “Where’s Scar?”
Her pink princess plate sits on the counter, covered in muffin crumbs—proof that she’s already had breakfast.
When I came back last night, it was so late that I didn’t move Scarlett, letting her stay in Mae’s bed for the night.
When I texted Mae before the club, asking if she minded if I was later than usual, she practically insisted I go out, saying she would keep Scar for the night in her room, so I wouldn’t worry about her upstairs by herself.
“She’s in the playroom with her dolls.” Taking a seat at the island, she eyes me over the rim of her coffee mug. “Want to tell me what’s got you so worked up?”
“Nothing to tell,” I shrug. “Do you mind taking Scar to dance this week?” I ask, wanting to change the subject. “I need to stay late for some extra drills.”
I need my head in the game this week, and after last night, it’s clear that the only way this doesn’t end up with her under me is to create some distance between us. The more time I spend with her, the more likely one of us ends up hurt.
“Of course,” she smiles. “I really enjoyed it last time.” A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth as she sips her coffee. “You failed to mention how beautiful the teacher is. She’s a sweetheart, too,” she adds. “Scarlett adores her.”
The mention of Luna puts me right back to last night—my name on her lips as she surrendered to me.
I tighten my hold on the coffee cup and unclench my jaw. “All the kids love her,” I say, refusing to take the bait and admit how fucking beautiful she is. “She’s a really good teacher.”
Taking my mug to the sink, I wash it out before putting it in the dishwasher. “Scarlett’s having fun, and that’s all that matters to me.” I dry my hands on the towel and toss it back on the counter, crossing my arms over my chest as I lean against the sink.
“You do know that it’s okay for you to have a little fun too, right?”
I avoid her eyes and stare out the window.
“It’s been close to three years, Cayden,” she says, softly. “No one’s going to think badly of you if you start dating at some point. If it’s me you’re worried about…”
“It’s not,” I say, cutting her off and pushing off the counter.
“Scar and hockey are all I want to focus on right now. They’re all I need.
” The last part leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but I ignore the harsh realization that it doesn’t feel like enough anymore.
“I’m going to spend some time with Scarlett before practice.
” I walk toward the playroom and hear Mae sigh.
I know she means well and wants me to find happiness again, but she has no clue how much it cost me the first time.
I can’t be pulled under again.
I won’t.
“Fuck!” I yell, hearing the puck snap against the netting behind me as the red light comes on. I’ve saved hundreds of those kinds of hits before. I can practically do it with my eyes closed.
So, why the fuck am I standing here with a puck behind my goddamn goal line?
I flick it out with my stick and grab my water bottle, spraying my face and hoping it will clear my head from the intruding thoughts I can’t escape from.
“You good, Blade?” Stone stops in front of me and peers at me closely. Of course, he noticed I should have made that easy save. That’s what makes him a damn good captain. He notices when one of us is off, even when we’re determined to hide it.
I’ve been off all week in practices, and now we’re down 1-4 because of it.
“I’m good,” I grit out. “Won’t happen again.”
“Everyone has a bad day…”
“I said I’m good,” I growl, cutting him off.
“And they say I’m the grumpy one of the team,” he chuckles before getting serious.
“Whatever the hell that’s taking you out of this game, use that anger and frustration you are feeling on that goddamn puck.
The net is your home,” he says, getting close to my mask.
“Protect it.” He taps my leg pad with his stick and skates to the ref, where the players are lining up for another faceoff.
His pep talks normally work, but tonight, nothing seems to be working. I manage to hang on by a thread for the rest of the first period, but we are still down by three, and I know it’s because of me.
I skate off the ice first and head to the locker room, throwing my gloves and mask off. Grabbing an electrolyte drink and my headphones, I take my usual spot in the corner, letting the team know I don’t want to be bothered.
The locker room is loud with the sound of gear being tossed off, echoing off the walls. Banter between teammates filters through the room as coaches discuss and review footage on tablets.
The headphones make it all muted and distant as I lean my head against the wall and close my eyes to the chaos around me.
Focusing on my breathing, the outside world disappears, but my mind is anything but quiet.
My eyes move beneath my eyelids as I go over each save position in my head. It’s a routine that’s kept me steady through every game…every high-pressure moment.
But tonight…
Tonight it’s not working.
My hands curl into fists at my sides as my control slips away.
Because every time I close my eyes, it’s not the puck I see…
It’s her.
The sound of her breathing.
The way she said my name.
The way…
“Blade.”
My eyes fly open to see Stone standing there, a worried frown on his face. “Time to get back out there. The guys are waiting on you.”
I look around and notice the locker room is empty. He peers at me carefully as if I somehow might break. Avoiding his eyes, I stand up and grab my gear.
“Coming,” I say briskly.
“Cayden…”
“Leave it, Stone.” I push my hands into my gloves and grab my stick.
“No. We don’t get to leave it,” he says, getting in my face. “If whatever you’re dealing with keeps affecting your game, it’s my business to get to the bottom of it. We’ll be revisiting this later,” he growls, walking away.
My jaw ticks as I roughly pull my mask down and follow him out the door.
I’ve played through pain…
Through exhaustion…
Through grief so thick I felt like I was drowning.
But I’ve never stepped onto the ice like this. My whole career is based on control and extreme concentration, and for the first time in a game, I have neither.
Skating to my net, I rough up the ice inside my crease.
Blocking out the crowd, I tune into the sound of my blades scraping against the cold surface. Glancing up in the stands, my eyes drift to where Luna sat just days before…a stranger sits in her place.
It feels all wrong.
Her absence strikes a nerve I don’t want touched, stirring the memory of another seat that stayed empty forever.
Shaking the dark thoughts away, I turn and drop into a butterfly a few times and quickly recover to my skates, testing my reflexes and loosening my hips.
Tapping the net on both sides and hunching over for the puck drop, I’m determined to turn my game around.
The damage is already done, though, and by the final horn, we take a loss of 2-5.
It’s always quieter after a loss, the frustration and defeat hanging heavy in the air.
The banter is at a minimum as gear is thrown off and players go off on their own to do their muscle recovery techniques.
A few prefer massages and stationary-bike flush rides, while others submerge themselves in the frigid cold of ice baths.
Depending on how beat up their bodies feel, some do all three.
I feel the glances and side-eyes on me as I work to get my gear off. They know I fucked this game up.
I know I fucked this game up.
But no one says a word, leaving the blame unspoken and impossible to miss.
I opt for the ice bath today, wanting to feel the physical pain—the needle-prick bite of the frozen temperature. Anything is better than the heavy weight of costing us a game.
“Blade, you have press in thirty,” Coach says, stopping in front of me.
“Great,” I mutter.
“You too, McCormick.” He looks in Thane’s direction and gets a scowl in return, along with a quick nod that he understands. Press isn’t high on anyone’s list, but it comes with the territory. It especially sucks ass after a loss, and I know I’m going to be the focus of it all.
Coach leaves us to get ready, but I know from the concerned look in his eyes that if I don’t get my head back in the game, I’ll be in his office soon.
He’s letting me off the hook tonight, chalking it up to one bad game, but I have no doubt I’ll be working with the goaltending coaches extra hard tomorrow.
Thirty minutes later, we are iced, showered, and dressed, making our way to the press room.
McCormick is silent by my side, and I appreciate how he gives me my space, understanding that nothing he could say would ease the disappointment and frustration I have toward myself right now.
“Let’s get this over with,” he grumbles, opening the door for me.
“My thoughts exactly,” I grit out.
Taking seats in front of the room, I lean forward and brace myself for the first round of questions.
“Tough loss tonight, Blade. What are your thoughts on the game?” the first reporter asks as I force myself to remain cool and collected when I really want to say…
How the fuck do you think I feel after a loss that happened because I couldn’t be present? All because a woman has gotten under my skin, and I feel like I’m being torn in half between a life I had and the one I’m terrified to want.
Instead, I reply, “I had an off night, and I own it. I let my team down, and I let myself down. It happens.”
“For the record,” McCormick says, leaning back, his intense grey eyes staring at the reporter in front of him.
He’s a forbidding force with his tattoos peeking out of his dress shirt and his large frame mirroring mine.
“Blade didn’t let us down tonight. We win together, and we lose together.
Off nights can happen to any one of us. He’s given us a hell of a lot more wins this season than losses, so our team is far from being let down tonight. ”
I swallow down the emotions that want to rise. Our team has always been about brotherhood, and tonight is no exception. Glancing over at him, his expression makes it clear he won’t allow me to carry this loss alone.
Clearing my throat, I take a sip of water and compose myself for the next question.
“Going into the next game, Blade, what’s the mindset?” I shift my attention to the reporter and look him right in the eyes.
“Do whatever it takes to bring home a win,” I deadpan, showing no emotion other than the one I’ve gotten good at letting people see…the one that keeps everyone out.
More questions follow, but they blur together—stats, plays, the same recycled bullshit after every loss. McCormick answers most of them, stepping in where needed, giving me room to keep my responses short and controlled.
I’m a professional, and that’s exactly what they expect from me.
By the time we’re dismissed, I’m already halfway out of my chair, not wanting to wait around and linger.
I just need out.
The hallway outside the press room is quieter, the noise of the arena fading into a dull hum as I drag a hand down my face.
“Blade…”
I stop but don’t turn around. Letting out a slow breath, I keep my gaze focused straight ahead.
“You know that was bullshit, right?” McCormick asks quietly. “You don’t get to take this on all by yourself.”
My jaw tightens as a beat of silence stretches between us before I glance over my shoulder at him.
“Thanks for having my back in there,” I finally say, completely ignoring what he just said.
He sighs heavily, knowing it’s no use trying to convince me that it’s not my fault we lost tonight.
“I’ll always have your back,” he says without hesitation. “We all do.”
I nod once and walk away, going straight to my SUV once I leave the building.
I climb in and slam the door harder than necessary, my body frozen behind the wheel as I stare out the windshield.
My head falls back against the headrest as I squeeze my eyes shut tight before my palm slams the wheel, the sharp sound echoing in the confined space.
“Fuck!”
This is the exact thing I was trying to avoid.
Distraction.
Attachment.
The kind of shit that gets people hurt…that gets me hurt.
And tonight it cost me…cost the whole fucking team.
I drag in a slow breath and loosen my grip on the steering wheel.
This ends now—it has to.
Because I know exactly where this leads if it doesn’t, and I can’t afford to lose myself again.
Not for me.
Not for hockey.
Not for Scarlett.
My jaw is rigid as I start the engine.
I need to remember what matters…what comes first.
And right now, my daughter and hockey override anything my body and messed-up mind are trying to drag me into…
Even if it’s already pulling me under.