Chapter 40
Silas
The locker room sounds like it always does—gear clattering, skate blades scraping tile, guys chirping back and forth.
Rooks is trying to open a protein shake one-handed while giving a rookie hell for tying his skates wrong.
Somewhere in the corner, someone's Bluetooth speaker is fighting a losing battle against Thorn's whistle.
I sit down at my stall and start lacing up my skates. The familiar motion helps—cross, pull, tighten; cross, pull, tighten. My hands stay steady, which is more than I could say a few weeks ago.
Thorn knocks on the back of my stall with his knuckles. "With me."
It's not a question. I follow him past the laundry carts and through the dented door that always sticks in cold weather, into his office. Two chairs, one desk, a framed photo of a team from before my time.
He doesn't sit down. Just leans against the edge of the desk and looks at me. "Offer came through."
I nod. I've been expecting this since he first brought it up a few weeks ago.
"Two years," he says. "Fair money. No-movement clause unless you request it. They want you as you are, not as some project to flip."
There's a familiar restlessness in the back of my mind—the one that used to have me checking maps and wondering which city might be better. It's still there, but quieter now.
"What do you want?" Thorn asks, and his tone makes it clear he's not going to push me either way.
I think about the porch light at home. The felt star Aubrey made for the tree. A nine-year-old who takes line leader as seriously as a royal title. Oakley waiting for me with cocoa already made.
"I want to stay," I say, and it doesn't feel like a hard decision. It feels obvious.
Thorn nods like that's exactly what he expected. "Tell your agent. We'll get the paperwork done."
He claps my shoulder once and heads back out, leaving me alone in the office for a minute. I want to stay. Two years ago, I would've been terrified to say that out loud. Now it just feels right.
Out on the ice, we run tempo drills. Retrievals, zone entries, the usual.
Thorn keeps practice moving at a steady pace, and I fall into the rhythm.
The younger guys on line three are feeling themselves today—too much confidence and zero hustle—so I'm a little harder on them in the corners than I need to be.
Not out of frustration. Just making a point.
There's a difference, and I'm finally learning to tell them apart.
Between reps, Rooks glides up next to me. "You hear?" he asks, which means he already knows the answer.
"Yeah."
He bumps me with his elbow. "Good. I was looking at retirement homes for you in Tampa, and it was depressing."
“I’m thirty-two.”
“Exactly.” He peels away before I can flick him with my blade, which is a shame because my accuracy has been excellent this week.
Here's a more grounded, realistic version:
After practice, the ice clears out in waves.
I don't head in right away. I take one more lap alone, edges carving clean lines, nothing but the low hum of the compressors and the sound of my own blades.
I stop at center ice, look up at the championship banners hanging from the rafters, and let out a slow breath.
We're staying in Steele Valley. I don't have to upend Aubrey's life again. I don't have to beg Oakley Kate to move across the country with us. We get to stay home.
I call my agent from the tunnel while the Zamboni fires up.
"Silas," he says, like we're picking up mid-conversation. "You looked at the numbers?"
"I did."
"It's a solid offer. There are teams that would—"
"I'm staying," I say. "Two years. No trade unless I ask. Get it done."
A beat of silence. I can practically hear him smile. "Copy that. I'll push it through."
I hang up and stare at the scuffed rubber matting under my skates. I don't feel fireworks or anything dramatic. Just steady, like I finally made a decision I can stand behind.
In the locker room, I don't say anything.
I don't have to. News moves around teams fast. Rooks throws a balled-up sock at my head and misses on purpose, which is his way of saying he's happy.
One of the younger guys I've been riding hard gives me a look that's half relief, half teach me that shoulder fake again, please.
Thorn doesn't look at me when I pass him in the hall. He doesn't need to. He already knows.
After I pick up Aubrey, the truck smells like cinnamon from this morning's spill and crayons from whatever world exists under the passenger seat. My phone buzzes at a red light.
My Girl: Survived info session. Bought highlighters in three shades of unhinged.
Silas: Hot.
My Girl: You're the worst, 32.
Silas: You're the one who tattooed my number on your body…twice.
My Girl: And I'd do it again. What's your point?
Silas: My point is you're stuck with me. Pizza for dinner?
My Girl: Promise? And yes to pizza.
The house is warm when I step inside. The porch light clicks off behind me.
Aubrey's at the table with a glue stick and three sheets of glitter paper, elbows planted, tongue sticking out in concentration.
Oakley's at the stove, hip leaning against the counter, ponytail a mess.
She looks up, and that look hits me the same way every time.
I drop the pizza on the counter. "Twenty-four pepperoni. One soda. Democracy will decide blanket count."
"Justice is dead," Oakley murmurs, but she's smiling.
Aubrey doesn't look up from her art. "You're late."
"I'm five minutes early."
"Same thing." She flips a page and tapes a lopsided lightning bolt to the corner.
We eat standing up because why not? Oakley steals a slice the second I open the box, and I let her because she's braver than me about hot cheese burns and because watching her laugh around a piece of pizza might be my new favorite thing.
When Aubrey disappears to "organize" her crayons into kingdoms that will be at war by morning, Oakley wipes a thumb over a smear of sauce on my jaw.
"How'd it go?" she asks.
"Practice? Thorn tried to eat a whole funnel cake yesterday and paid for it today."
She rolls her eyes. "Not the sugar crimes. Your news."
I lean against the counter next to her. "I said yes."
Her mouth opens on a soft breath. She doesn't gasp or ask if I'm sure. She just steps closer and rests her forehead against my chest for a second.
"You already did," she says against my shirt. "Long before you signed anything."
I put a hand on the back of her neck where the baby hairs are soft. "Maybe I needed to hear myself say it."
"Me, too," she admits quietly. She leans back to look at my face. "Terms?"
"Two years. No move unless I ask."
"And will you ask?"
"No." It comes out somewhere between a laugh and a promise. "Not unless they trade the pizza place."
She snorts. "We'd cause a riot." Her fingers trace my wrist. "Does it feel good?"
"Yeah," I say, surprised by how easy the answer is. "Like choosing to breathe instead of waiting for the air to run out."
She smiles in a way that makes my knees weak. The kiss isn't a celebration. It's an exhale. It tastes like pizza sauce and cinnamon and finally letting myself want something that isn't complicated. When I pull back, I keep our foreheads together until the room steadies.
"Proud of you," she says.
"Proud of us," I correct, because she's been carrying just as much as I have.
We do the rest of it the way we always do. Dishes, homework check, sight words that still give Aubrey trouble. A couch fort that meets my safety standards if not my aesthetic ones. Bath time, bedtime, unicorn, lamp glow. The quiet that comes after.
Downstairs, Oakley props her ankle on the coffee table and pretends not to see me notice. I sit close enough that my knee touches hers.
"You tell Thorn?" she asks.
"He knew before I did." I smirk. "But I'll sign the paper tomorrow."
"Do I get to be there?"
"If you want." I bump her foot gently. "You are management, Katibug."
She tips her head to the side. "I like being yours," she says, and there's no wobble in it.
"You are," I say.
We leave the TV off. The house hums with the sound of the heater kicking on. Outside, a storm rolls over the hills. I hear the far-off crack of thunder before I see the flash of lightning—thin and distant.
Oakley feels me go still and threads her fingers through mine. "It's just weather," she reminds me.
"I know." I squeeze her hand once. We step out onto the porch because I don't need to prove anything anymore. The boards are cool under my socks as the air shifts.
Lightning flickers again, far off. I don't count between flash and thunder. I don't scan the street. I just stand beside the woman who turned my house back into a home and watch the sky.
"Tomorrow," I say. "Sign the contract. Practice. Pickup. Your application."
"Pizza?" she adds.
"Obviously." I lean down and press my mouth to the spot where her jaw meets her ear. "We keep making it boring."
She laughs into my chest. "You mean safe."
"Yeah," I admit. "That."
"Safe is good," she whispers.
"If it means the three of us are together? Absolutely."
She looks up at me, and her smile says everything I need to hear.
We stay until the air bites our cheeks and the first drops of rain start to fall. When we go back inside, the door clicks shut. My eyes stay on Oakley Kate, right where they belong.