Chapter 43
FORTY-THREE
ELI
The locker room’s loud when I come in—music, laughter, the clatter of sticks against the floor—but it all blurs out pretty fast. I hang my gear where it goes, drop onto the bench, and just breathe for a second.
The peppermint stripes on my stick catch the light. I should tape over them, pretend I didn’t use what he left, but I don’t move. Giving in and using his gift earlier was stupid, and I know it was him who left the roll in my cubby. He was the only one around that would have.
Especially me.
I look down at my hands, flex my fingers. Maybe I’m not just punishing him anymore. Maybe I’m punishing both of us. Because when he said that—out loud, where anyone could’ve overheard—it made me want to grab him by the collar and kiss him senseless.
I shove a hand through my hair, peel off my pads, and drop them into the bin one by one. The locker room hums around me—music still low, someone laughing down the hall—but my head’s somewhere else.
By the time I’ve stripped down to my base layer, I already know where I’m going.
Coach’s office smells like coffee and winter air. The door’s half open, light spilling across the floor. I knock once against the frame, and his voice comes without looking up.
“Starling?” He glances up from a stack of paperwork, one eyebrow quirking.
“Hey, Coach.” I step inside, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “Uh, the other day… You said something about it making us technically compliant. Did that—was that—”
He sets his pen down and smirks. “Spit it out, Starling.”
I drag in a breath. “Permission. Was it permission?”
That gets his full attention. For a second, he studies me—really studies me—like he’s weighing how much he wants to know. Then he leans back in his chair, mouth tugging toward a grin.
“As far as I’m concerned,” he says, “you’re both grown men. And if Calder’s moving over to the women’s program next week…” He shrugs, casual as anything. “Whatever you two do on your own time is exactly that—personal.”
Something in my chest unclenches, though I try not to show it. I nod once, slow. “Right. Thanks, Coach.”
“Don’t make me regret saying that,” he calls after me as I turn for the door.
I don’t look back, but a corner of my mouth lifts anyway.
The hallway outside Coach’s office feels cool on my heated skin once I leave. Not icy—just that kind of institutional chill of the hockey rink that smells like ice and stinky gear. My pulse is still a little off, echoing what he said. Whatever you do on your own time…
It shouldn’t mean anything. It shouldn’t change anything. But it does.
His words circle inside my head all the way through my shower and getting dressed.
By the time I make it to the parking lot, Daniel’s waiting, his hair still damp and a protein bar half-eaten in his hand.
He falls into step beside me without saying anything right away.
We’ve done this a hundred times—walked back to the dorms together after practice—but the silence feels different today.
“Rough seeing him this morning?” he finally asks.
I exhale through my nose. “Yeah.”
Daniel nods once, thoughtful. “When’s he supposed to transfer?”
“After the next game,” I say. “Coach made it official.”
He whistles low. “That soon?”
“Guess so.” I shove my hands into my jacket pockets. “Feels weird. Him still around, training Clark like nothing happened.”
Daniel chews the last bite of his protein bar, crumples the wrapper before shoving it in his pocket. “He’s still trying, though. You can tell.”
“Maybe.”
We pass a few students heading the other way, the breeze kicking up faint snow dust. My throat feels dry, but I keep walking.
“You gonna talk to him?” Daniel asks, quieter now.
“I don’t know.”
He side-eyes me. “You do. You just don’t want to admit it yet.”
I huff out a laugh that doesn’t quite sound like one. “You sound like Luke.”
“Yeah, but I’m nicer,” he says, bumping my shoulder. “If it’s still this hard just seeing him, maybe that means it’s not over. Not really.”
We reach the dorm steps, and I stop at the door. The sunlight hits the side of the building, melting a thin line of ice along the railing. I watch it drip.
“Go,” Daniel says, reading me too easily. “Whatever you’re thinking, go do it before you talk yourself out of it.”
I nod once. “Yeah.”
He heads inside, and I stand there a moment longer, trying to catch my breath. Then I turn back toward the rink.
I don’t know what I’ll say when I see Max. But I know I need to.
The rink’s mostly empty when I get back.
Just the low hum of the compressors and the faint scrape of someone sweeping up by the stands. The air is a different kind of cool inside than it is out in the winter breeze, filled with the smell of disinfectant and an underlying scent I can only connect to ice time.
I slow at the doorway that leads to the training hall.
The overhead lights buzz faintly, one flickering near the far end.
Max is there, alone, sleeves rolled up, sorting through tape rolls and other gear like he doesn’t have a deadline hanging over him.
His focus is ridiculous—meticulous, deliberate, the same way he tapes the guys wrists before games.
For a second, I just watch. The quiet kind of watching that knots my stomach and loosens my shoulders all at once.
He looks up when he senses me in the doorway. For a second, neither of us speaks.
“Thought you’d be gone by now,” he says finally. His voice is low, even, but there’s a rasp to it—as though he’s bracing for something.
“Yeah,” I say. “I almost was.”
He nods once and sets the tape roll down. “You forget something?”
I shake my head. “No. I just—” My voice catches, and I blow out a breath. “I talked to Coach.”
That gets a flicker of movement behind his eyes. “About me?”
“About…us.” I step inside, the door closing soft behind me. “About whether it’d be a problem if we—” I stop. “If we didn’t keep pretending we don’t mean something to each other.”
He leans back against the counter, watching me carefully. “And?”
“He said we’re both adults. That whatever happens off the clock isn’t his business with you transferring.”
Max nods slowly, eyes dropping for a second before finding mine again. “So you came here to tell me that?”
“Maybe.” I swallow hard. “Or maybe I came because I didn’t like how we left things earlier.”
He studies me for a moment that stretches too long. “You walked away,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“I didn’t know what to say.”
He lets out a small breath that sounds half like a laugh, half like it hurts. “You know, that’s kind of a first for you.”
“Yeah,” I admit, a weak smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Guess you finally shut me up.”
Something in his expression softens.
The space between us feels small. The smell of medical supplies, detergent, and his cologne mixes in the air, familiar enough to make my pulse skip.
I take another step forward. “You shouldn’t have said it out loud where anyone could have overheard you.”
“I meant it,” he says, steady.
“I know.”
The air shifts between us—something fragile, electric. My heart’s pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
“I know,” I say again, softer this time. “Because I still love you, too.”
The words hang there, raw and real.
Max goes completely still. Then he steps forward, slowly like he’s afraid I’ll pull away. His hand lifts, rough fingertips brushing along my jaw before settling against my cheek.
I lean into his touch before I even think about it. The warmth of his palm, the familiar scent of him—it hits all at once, and the weight I’ve been carrying since Christmas cracks down the middle. And I fold into his arms as they come around me, pulling me to his chest.
He exhales, just a breath, but it sounds like relief. Like hope.
“Eli,” he murmurs, my name; a promise and a question all at once.
“Yeah,” I whisper into his shirt.
His hand slides up the back of my neck, fingers settling at the base of my skull. I can feel his heartbeat against my cheek, steady but fast.
“No more hiding,” he says, the words low, almost against my hair. “I want everyone to know I love you.”
I pull back just enough to look at him. “You sure you can do that?”
“I can’t not do it. These last ten days have been torture.”
The honesty in his voice knocks the air out of me. I reach up, resting a hand against his chest, feeling the solid heat beneath my palm.
His breath catches, barely audible, and then he dips his head just enough that his forehead brushes mine. The world narrows to that tiny space between us.
“Max,” I whisper.
He doesn’t hesitate. His mouth finds mine, slow at first, testing, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he pushes too far. But the second I lean in—really lean in—something in both of us breaks loose.
His hand slides from my neck into my hair, angling me closer as I fist my fingers in his shirt.
He spins us around, pressing me into the counter.
The kiss deepens, all heat and ache and everything we’ve been holding back.
He lifts me easily onto the countertop, stepping between my legs as he devours my lips.
I’ve missed this. No, I’ve missed him. My grumpy man, who is soft only for me.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead stays pressed to mine, both of us breathing hard. There’s a hint of a smile against my lips when he murmurs, “Careful, Princess.”
The nickname hits low in my stomach, all warmth and want, and I wrap my legs around him, tugging him closer.
He brushes his thumb along my jaw, voice rough but still soft around the edges. “We need to take this somewhere else. Before we give the janitor a story to tell.”
“Nobody believes the janitor.”
He chuckles. “Then maybe I just don’t want to risk the interruption.”
“Then we should probably walk fast.”
The grin that follows is small but wrecks me all the same. He sets me down slowly, like he’s reminding himself to breathe, then keeps his hand wrapped around mine as we make our way toward the exit.