Chapter 11
Spark and Static
Sage
Saturday nights at élan are always loud, but tonight, it’s something else — a low, crackling energy that thrums under every conversation.
The game plays on all the bar TVs, every screen flickering between the blue and silver of the Surge and the black and gold of the Stars.
Leo versus Grayson. Captain versus Captain. The rivalry everyone loves to dissect.
The kitchen feels too hot. My neck is damp from steam, my apron sticks to my shirt as I call for more plates from the dish pit.
Every few minutes, I drift toward the narrow view of the bar through the service window, catching flashes of the broadcast — the rush of the crowd, the sharp glide of skates on ice.
Leo’s number flashes across the screen: #17 Voss. The sight punches something low in my stomach.
Maya notices, of course. She always does. “You’ve been awfully invested in Surge hockey lately,” she says with a smirk as she lines up cocktails on a tray. “Got money riding on the game or something?”
“Just… keeping an eye on it,” I say too quickly.
She grins. “Sure. You just happen to check the score every five minutes.”
“I like the commentary,” I deadpan, turning back to the grill. “Really insightful stuff.”
Maya laughs and disappears into the dining room, leaving me behind the hiss of sizzling pans.
But her words stick. Maybe I’m too invested.
Maybe watching him has become its own kind of punishment — seeing every hit, every glare, every ounce of pressure he’s under while I’m stuck back here, pretending I don’t care.
When I sneak another glance at the screen, the camera cuts to Grayson — smirking during warmup like he’s already written the outcome. The commentators love it. “Locke versus Voss — there’s no love lost between these two.”
No kidding.
I flip a pan too hard, sauce splattering onto my wrist. It stings, sharp and immediate. I hiss through my teeth, grabbing a towel, and someone calls from the prep station, “You good?”
“Fine,” I say, shaking it off. Always fine.
The announcers’ voices carry faintly from the bar. “Voss has been off his rhythm lately. You wonder if the distractions outside the rink are starting to show.” My stomach twists. They have no idea how right they are — and how wrong.
He isn’t distracted. He’s cornered.
The camera cuts again — Leo and Grayson lining up at center ice. The crowd’s roar builds. I can almost feel it through the wall, through the floor, through my chest. I know that stance — shoulders squared, expression carved from granite. Every inch of him wired tight.
Someone behind me says, “God, look at those two. This is gonna be brutal.”
Yeah. It already is.
The restaurant vibrates with noise. Every table is full, every bartender shouting drink orders over the roar of the crowd. The commentators are loud enough to bleed through the walls, their voices rising with each play.
“And there’s another collision between Locke and Voss— you can feel the tension out there tonight.”
Maya bursts into the kitchen, carrying a tray of empties and grinning like she’s in on the chaos. “They’re going at it,” she says. “You should see the bar — people are losing their minds.”
I keep stirring the sauce, pretending not to care. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Oh, come on. You love this stuff.” She nudges me with her elbow. “Admit it, you’re rooting for your boy.”
My spoon clatters against the edge of the pot. “He’s not my boy.”
Maya laughs, unconvinced. “Sure, sure. You just happen to know his stats, his jersey number, and when his team’s on the road.”
I turn the heat down before the sauce boils over. “I cook for athletes. It’s called research.”
“Right.” She smirks, setting the tray down. “Research. You’re practically the Surge’s secret weapon.”
Her words land heavier than she knows. Because that’s what I’ve been doing all night — running through hydration schedules in my head, timing protein windows, muttering lists of anti-inflammatory ingredients like a mantra.
If he doesn’t eat properly after this game, if he doesn’t stretch enough, if he doesn’t—
I cut the thought off before it spirals. He isn’t mine to manage. Not mine to fix.
The TV volume spikes — “Locke scores!” — and the entire restaurant erupts. Cheers, groans, clapping. I freeze mid-stir, my heart dropping into my stomach.
“And you can see the frustration on Voss’s face,” the commentator adds. “That’s a captain under pressure.”
I grip the handle of the pot tighter, the metal biting into my palm. The heat feels like it’s radiating straight through me. Maya leans against the counter, wincing. “Oof. That looked rough.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, but my throat’s too tight for anything else. I turn away from the screen, focusing on the rows of plates waiting to be garnished. My fingers move on autopilot, arranging food I can’t even see.
Because right now, every image in my head is Leo — jaw clenched, eyes dark, skating harder than anyone else on the ice — and I can’t shake the feeling I’m watching him break in real time.
The sound from the bar keeps leaking into the kitchen — the commentators, the crowd, the sharp scrape of tension that even distance can’t dull. I don’t have to see the game to know how it’s going. Every time the place erupts in cheers or groans, I feel it in my chest.
I’m plating entrees when another burst of noise hits — sharper this time, the crowd roaring through the speakers. “Locke with a breakaway— and he scores again!” The bar explodes. Silverware rattles in the dish tubs.
I shut my eyes for half a second, then force myself to keep moving. I can’t let it show. Not here.
Maya swings back through the kitchen, flushed from the chaos outside. “That was brutal,” she says, shaking her head. “Locke’s unstoppable tonight. Poor Voss looks like he wants to punch something.”
The words scrape raw. “Don’t they all?” I mutter, but it comes out thin.
She grins, oblivious. “Hey, maybe he’ll turn it around. Guys like him always do.”
“Yeah.” I keep my voice low. “They have to.”
When she leaves, I catch myself muttering under my breath — not recipes this time, but fragments of advice I’ve given players a hundred times. Hydrate during the third period. Watch for muscle fatigue. Don’t clench your jaw — it throws off your focus.
It’s ridiculous, but I can’t stop. As if whispering the words might somehow reach him through the tension of the broadcast, through the ice, through all that pressure crushing him.
The final buzzer sounds. The roar fades into chatter. Someone near the back shouts, “Stars win!” and the room reacts — cheers from one table, groans from another. I press a palm to my chest, like I can hold the ache there where no one can see it.
I peek toward the bar one last time. The screen shows the handshake line — Grayson’s smug grin, Leo’s tight jaw, that cold fury simmering just below the surface.
The commentators are already spinning their story: “Another rough night for Voss. You have to wonder if the off-ice distractions are catching up to him.”
Off-ice distractions.
That’s me, isn’t it?
I look down at my hands — sauce-stained, trembling slightly — and swallow hard. Somewhere out there, Leo’s skating off the ice with the weight of the world on his shoulders, and all I can do is stand here, cooking food he’ll never eat, whispering advice he’ll never hear.
Maya passes by again, collecting plates. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say automatically, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Just tired.”
She nods and moves on, and I finally let out a shaky breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The game’s over, but the tension hasn’t faded.
If anything, it’s louder now — thrumming beneath my skin, waiting for somewhere to go.
Closing takes longer than usual. The kitchen is half-cleaned, half-forgotten, a mess of plates and empty saucepans scattered across the counters. My hands move on autopilot — wiping, stacking, rinsing — but my mind stays stuck in the final seconds of the game.
Grayson’s grin replaying. Leo’s glare. The echo of the commentators dissecting his every move like they own him.
When I finally hang up my apron, the restaurant is quiet. Most of the staff has cleared out, except for Marco counting the register and Maya humming off-key as she wipes down the bar. I call a soft goodnight, but my voice sounds small in the empty space.
Outside, the night air is cold and damp, the kind that crawls under my coat. The streets are wet from a light rain, the reflections of traffic lights shimmering on the pavement. I shove my hands into my pockets and start walking, head down, feet carrying me through muscle memory more than thought.
The restaurant noise fades, replaced by the faint thrum of the city. My thoughts keep circling — to Leo, to the game, to that look on his face when things start to unravel. I hate that I can read him so easily. I hate that I care enough to notice.
By the time I reach my building, the knot in my chest has only tightened. I tell myself I’m being ridiculous — he’s fine, he’s always fine. He’s built to weather this kind of pressure. But the words don’t stick.
In the elevator, the low whir of the machinery fills the silence. My reflection in the metal doors looks tired — eyes smudged with fatigue, hair flattened by steam and sweat. I force a breath, trying to shake the ache out of my body. Just go inside. Shower. Sleep. Don’t think about him.
But when I step into the apartment, the first thing I notice is the quiet. No background hum, no sound of dishes or music. Just stillness. Heavy and expectant.
I drop my keys onto the counter and glance toward the couch. Empty.
He isn’t home yet. Of course he isn’t. The team probably stayed late — postgame interviews, press obligations, the kind of PR damage control Claire’s so good at. Still, the sight of that empty couch stings in a way I can’t explain.
I move into the kitchen, flicking on the light. The half-prepped meals from earlier sit neatly stacked in the fridge. I grab a container of pasta and start to reheat it, though I’m not hungry. The steady drone of the microwave fills the space, and for some reason, it makes me want to cry.
Because the truth is, I don’t even like hockey. I don’t understand half the rules. But tonight, I watched every second of that game like it mattered. Because he matters.
And now I’m standing here, staring at the microwave clock counting down seconds that drag like hours, wondering when I started letting his world take over mine.
The knock startles me.
Three sharp raps against the door — loud enough to make my pulse jump, loud enough to cut through the drone of the microwave. I freeze, fingers still clutching the counter. No one ever knocks this late.
Another knock follows, heavier this time. “Sage?”
His voice.
I don’t think — I just move. My feet carry me to the door, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might shake loose from my chest. I fumble with the lock and pull it open.
Leo stands in the hallway, still in his game jacket, hair damp, eyes dark. There’s a smear of sweat at his temple, a bruise blooming along his jaw. He looks furious and lost all at once, like the air’s been punched out of him and he doesn’t know where to put the anger left behind.
For a second, neither of us speaks. The space between us vibrates — thick and charged.
“Hey,” I manage, voice softer than I mean it to be.
He doesn’t answer. He only stares past me into the apartment, jaw flexing. His hands are balled into fists at his sides, knuckles scraped raw. I can smell the faint mix of ice, sweat, and adrenaline still clinging to him.
“Leo,” I try again. “What happened—”
“Don’t,” he cuts in, voice low. “Don’t ask me that.”
The tone makes me go still. Not because I’m scared, but because I recognize it. That edge of control — the way people sound right before they break.
He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
Something twists in my chest. I step aside without thinking. “You’re home,” I say quietly.
He moves past me, the door clicking shut behind him. The air shifts immediately — thicker, warmer, full of tension that feels like static before lightning. He drops his duffel onto the floor and stands there for a second, shoulders rising and falling like he’s still skating, still fighting.
“I shouldn’t have come here,” he mutters, voice rough. “Not like this.”
“You could’ve gone anywhere,” I say softly. “You came here.”
That makes him look at me. Really look at me. His eyes are wild with something I can’t name — exhaustion, fury, hurt — and for a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The space between us feels too small, too charged. My pulse matches his.
“You don’t have to talk,” I whisper. “Just… breathe.”
He exhales like he’s been holding it in for hours. The fight drains out of his posture, leaving something heavier behind. He nods once — just a fraction — and runs a hand over his bruised jaw.
When he finally speaks, it’s barely audible. “He scored on me.”
I don’t say I know. I just step closer, close enough for the air to buzz between us.