Chapter 42
FORTY-TWO
MAX
Luke’s words won’t leave me alone. Fight for him.
They echo through everything—through the locker room’s hum, through the sound of my boots on tile, through the scrape of the door as I let myself into the rink before sunrise.
Fighting doesn’t always mean charging in. Sometimes it means showing up, doing the work, even when no one’s watching.
So I’m here.
Clark, my assistant coach, is waiting by the bench, coffee steaming in his hand. He looks younger without the beard—eager, a little unsure. “Didn’t think you’d be here this early,” he says, flipping open his clipboard.
“Trying to make the handoff easy,” I answer.
He hesitates. “Can I ask something?”
“Shoot.”
“Why the switch, midseason? Guys’ll be surprised.”
I roll my shoulders. “Just time.” It’s the truth, even if it’s not all of it.
He nods, watching me run through the setup—tape, blades, towels, trainer’s notes.
I talk him through what to check before practice, which skates need special attention, which players can’t function without their lucky sticks.
I even joke about Eli’s peppermint tape—how he swears it makes his blocks better.
My voice catches halfway through, but Clark doesn’t notice.
He’s still jotting notes when the locker room door opens.
Eli. Beanie pulled low, cheeks pink from the walk in. His usual latte’s missing, replaced with a Vitamin Water that he sets carefully on the bench before unzipping his bag. He looks fine. He looks okay. Although maybe a little tired, like he might not be sleeping well.
I keep my focus on the clipboard, but the air changes anyway. I don’t move closer, don’t say a word. I just make sure Clark’s between us, talking about blade angles while I quietly swap out the practice towels.
He doesn’t look at me, and I don’t expect him to. That’s not what this is.
When he steps into the weight room to stretch, I take my chance.
I fish out a roll of the peppermint-striped tape he likes and set it on top of his gloves in his cubby.
Then I nod for Clark to follow me into the small office we share, walking him through how to log medical updates and where we stand with the current injury list.
By the time we’re finished, the sounds of practice spills down the hall—pucks slapping against the boards, coaches shouting drills. We step out to the bench to observe, clipboards in hand.
My eyes find him immediately. Eli’s crouched in the crease, locked in that perfect goalie stillness that looks effortless until you know what it costs. Every muscle is wired. Every breath timed. He tracks the puck across the ice, glove flashing out to snag a shot that would’ve sailed top-right.
When he lowers his hand, I spot it—the bright peppermint stripes circling the top of his stick. The one I left for him.
“Holy shit,” Peter says from the other end of the bench, loud enough to carry. “Somebody get this on camera—the Grinch actually smiled!”
I roll my eyes, trying to play it off, but when I glance back toward the net, Eli’s already looking at me.
Just a flicker of his gaze through the mask, steady and unreadable—but I feel it. Like the air thickens between us for a second before he taps his stick once against the net and turns back to the next shot.
The grin’s still tugging at my mouth, no matter how hard I fight it.
A few drills later, Todd skates past the crease and taps Eli’s pad. “You’re up, Mac!” he yells to the backup. Eli nods, coasting toward the bench while the other goalie takes his spot.
At the end of practice, Coach blows his whistle, dismissing the team. Eli takes his time coming off the rink, skating slower than usual, as if hoping to make it to the tunnel without me stopping him.
He’s almost past when he pauses at the bench, helmet tucked under one arm, gloves dangling from his fingers. He reaches for the vitamin water sitting beside me, eyes fixed anywhere but on mine. The sharp scent of cold air and sweat clings to him, completely him and one hundred percent distracting.
“No peppermint latte this morning?” I ask, my voice breaking the quiet between us.
He takes a long drink and then sets it on the rail, wiping his face with a towel, eyes flicking toward me. “Didn’t feel like it.”
“Big change for a sugar addict.”
A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “Guess we’re both trying new things.”
He drops onto the bench next to me and leans back against the boards, attention sliding to the empty ice, but the corner of his lip doesn’t fall.
We sit there for a while, not saying much. The rink is quiet now—just the hum of the overhead lights and the soft creak of the boards as the chill settles back in. The air feels heavier without the rest of the team, every sound sharper, every breath between us louder.
Eli leans forward, forearms resting on his knees, mask dangling from one hand. The usual bounce of his knee is gone. He looks… steady. Focused in a different way now.
“You teaching Clark full-time?” he asks without looking at me, voice low enough to barely carry in the empty rink.
“Yeah,” I say. “He’ll be running things after the next game.”
He nods slowly, eyes fixed on the scratched glass in front of him. “Didn’t think you’d actually be the one to train him.”
“Are you okay with it?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” He glances over, our eyes meet, and then he pulls his attention away before I can read the truth in his gaze.
“Eli.” I lower my voice, leaning a little closer. He stiffens and takes another drink of his water, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth.
I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he looks away. “I’m fine. It’s fine.”
“Except you’re not smiling, singing, or annoying your teammates.”
He snorts. “Maybe I’m taking a page out of your book.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and draw in a rough breath through my nose. I don’t want to push him—but I never meant to hurt him so much that he changed who he was.
“I think everyone loves you exactly how you were.”
“Including you?” He lifts a brow.
My pulse stutters. There are a dozen ways I could sidestep it—make a joke, steer us back to safe ground—but I don’t. Not this time.
“Especially me,” I say.
Eli goes still. His fingers tighten around the bottle, the faintest crease forming between his brows. For a second, it’s like the whole rink holds its breath—the hum of the lights, the echo of the cooling system, everything fading under the weight of silence.
He swallows hard. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not?” I ask, quiet but steady.
“Because,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “I’ll want to believe you mean it.”
“I do.”
His eyes flick toward me, uncertain and afraid all at once. “You don’t get to mean it now, Max.”
The words hit like a clean check to the ribs—controlled, not cruel, but enough to make me catch my breath. I don’t look away, though.
“I know,” I say. “But I’m saying it anyway.”
Eli doesn’t respond. He just looks at me—eyes steady, unreadable. For a few long seconds, neither of us moves.
He exhales slowly, the sound almost lost beneath the thud of my heartbeat. Then he stands, shoulders stiff, and without another word, he steps off the bench and heads toward the locker room.
I stay where I am, clipboard in hand, watching until the tunnel swallows him. The peppermint stripes on his stick flash once under the lights before he disappears.
Fuck. What am I doing?