Chapter 13
Thin Ice
Sage
The sound of the blender hits first — loud, relentless, and too normal. I lie there for a second, staring at the ceiling, willing it to stop. But it keeps going, the hum vibrating through the floorboards like an accusation. It shouldn’t sound this ordinary. Not after last night.
My stomach knots as flashes from the night before flicker uninvited — the heat of his skin, the rough edge of his voice, the way his eyes went blank right after.
I roll onto my side, burying my face in the pillow, but that only makes it worse.
His scent is still there — clean soap and sweat and something darker underneath. I can’t breathe around it.
By the time I drag myself out of bed and into the kitchen, the blender’s been replaced by silence. The kind that isn’t peaceful. The kind that hums with everything unsaid.
Leo’s at the counter, already showered, already dressed, like nothing happened. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up, the faint bruises on his forearms visible when he reaches for a glass. The counters are spotless — the towels gone, dishes washed, every trace of last night erased.
He doesn’t look at me. “Morning.” The word lands clipped, too clean, like a line drawn in permanent ink.
I grip the edge of the fridge door for a second longer than I should before answering. “Morning.” My voice sounds steady enough, but my pulse says otherwise.
I pull out fruit and yogurt, setting them on the counter with more precision than necessary.
Knife in hand, I start slicing strawberries like they’ve personally offended me.
The rhythm helps — slice, twist, breathe.
Anything to stop replaying the way his hands felt on my skin or how quickly the warmth between us froze over.
He’s scrolling on his phone now, thumb moving fast, expression unreadable. Probably checking stats, or maybe headlines. The same headlines that tore him apart yesterday. I want to ask, but the question lodges somewhere behind my ribs.
“Breakfast,” I say finally, motioning to the bowl I’ve assembled. “You need something with real fiber in it, not just shakes.”
He glances up briefly, and for half a second, I catch something soft in his eyes — apology, maybe — before it shutters closed. “Appreciate it,” he says, quiet, then adds, “You don’t have to.”
“I know.” I push the bowl toward him anyway. “But I did.”
He takes it, and for the briefest moment, our fingers brush. It’s nothing — a second, maybe less — but the spark that runs up my arm is instant, traitorous. I pull back fast, pretending to adjust a towel.
He doesn’t notice. Or he pretends not to.
The blender base is still on the counter. I stare at it, the faint trace of protein powder dusting the edge, and realize that’s what we’ve become — noise filling the quiet, until neither of us has to say what we actually mean.
The day drags like molasses.
Every movement at the restaurant feels one beat off, like I’m running a second behind everyone else. I drop a knife twice before service even starts, and Maya gives me a look that could cut through steel.
“You good?” she asks, arching a brow. “Because you look like you’re thinking about someone’s abs instead of your mise.”
Heat rushes up my neck. “I’m fine.” I chop faster, louder, the knife’s rhythm a distraction. “Just tired.”
“Tired.” Maya snorts. “Right. Sure.” She leans closer, lowering her voice. “If this is about your mystery roommate, blink twice.”
I don’t blink. I focus on the cutting board, slicing perfect ribbons of basil like my reputation depends on it. “It’s not,” I mutter. “And he’s not—” The words catch. I almost say mine. “He’s not anything.”
Maya hums in that way that says she doesn’t believe me for a second. “Mmhmm. Just remember, chefs burn out faster when they’re distracted. And heartbreak counts as an open flame.”
I roll my eyes, but my pulse won’t slow down. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
She grins, smug. “Anytime, sweetheart.” Then she’s gone, off to yell at the dishwasher for leaving streaks on glassware.
When she’s out of sight, I stop pretending the knot in my chest doesn’t exist. Every time I blink, I see Leo in that kitchen — bare skin, clenched jaw, that flash of regret when he said my name like it hurt. It’s ridiculous. It was a mistake.
Instead, all I can think about is how silence feels worse.
By lunch rush, I’ve cut through three sets of lemons and most of my patience. My body’s on autopilot — sauté, plate, garnish, repeat — but my mind keeps replaying the way he said You’re the only thing keeping me together right now. Like I’m something he needs.
But I’m not. I can’t be.
A shout from the front jolts me back. Someone’s turned up the bar TV again — hockey highlights.
The Surge logo flashes across the screen.
Leo’s face fills the frame, shoulders tense, mouth pressed in a thin line.
The segment is about last night’s loss, about how their captain “seems distracted, off his usual game.”
The reporter’s voice cuts sharp through the air: “Sources say stress from his off-ice situation could be bleeding into his performance.”
Off-ice situation. The words twist in my gut like a warning. I can feel Maya watching me from the other side of the kitchen, arms crossed, but I can’t look away.
Leo’s picture stays frozen on-screen for a beat too long, like the universe wants to make sure I see it. Then it cuts to Grayson Locke — smirking, flawless, the perfect villain to Leo’s unraveling.
I shove the remote into the nearest waiter’s hand. “Turn it off.”
He blinks. “Uh, sure.”
When the noise dies, I realize my hands are shaking. I grab a towel, wiping the counter clean even though it’s already spotless. Control. I need control.
Because the more the world talks about Leo, the more I feel like the ground under me is starting to crack.
By the time service ends, my body feels hollow. My hands ache from gripping knives too tightly, my cheeks sting from the heat of the kitchen. The lull after the dinner rush feels like standing in the eye of a storm — quiet, but charged.
I sit on the prep counter in the back, scrolling through my phone while the dishwasher hums in the distance. I shouldn’t. I know better. But curiosity’s a dangerous habit — and tonight, it wins.
The first thing that pops up on my feed is a headline: “Leo Voss: Playing Sloppy Off the Ice Too?”
My throat dries instantly. The article thumbnail is his game photo — jaw clenched, helmet off, eyes narrowed. I click before I can stop myself.
The piece is short. Sensational. It mentions the penthouse flood, the “mysterious relocation,” the “impact on his leadership,” and one line that makes my stomach lurch: ‘Sources close to the team suggest Voss hasn’t been staying alone.’
No name. No photo. But my hands are still trembling when I set the phone down.
I read it again. And again. The words blur. It doesn’t matter that it’s vague. It doesn’t matter that it’s just speculation. I can already feel the weight of it — the way gossip seeps into cracks, spreads fast, stains everything it touches.
Maya appears in the doorway, holding a towel over one shoulder. “You’re still here?”
I blink up, forcing a weak smile. “Just finishing up.”
She narrows her eyes, reading me too easily. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“Something like that.” I shove the phone into my pocket. “Just tired.”
“Tired,” she repeats, unimpressed. Then, softer, “Don’t let him wreck your peace, Sage. Whoever he is.”
I laugh, brittle and humorless. “You make it sound like I had any to begin with.”
She tilts her head, watching me for another heartbeat before walking away. When she’s gone, the silence floods back in — heavier this time.
I sink down from the counter, leaning against the cold metal edge. My chest feels tight. The image of Leo’s face on that screen won’t leave me — the pressure in his expression, the storm brewing behind his eyes. And now this.
I know what a rumor can do. How fast it spreads, how deep it cuts. I built my career on staying invisible — keeping my head down, my private life private. But if even a whiff of this story points back to me.
I press my palms against my face, forcing myself to breathe. In. Out. Steady.
You did nothing wrong, I tell myself. He’s an adult. You’re an adult. One mistake doesn’t define you. But it’s a hollow mantra, and I don’t believe it.
Because the truth is, one mistake has always defined me.
By the time I get home, the city’s gone still — the kind of winter quiet that makes every sound echo.
My feet ache, my head throbs, and all I want is to crawl into bed and forget the world exists.
But even before I reach my door, I feel it: the weight of the day still clinging to me.
The article. The looks. The noise in my head that won’t quit.
I unlock the apartment and step into dimness. The lights from the street cast thin stripes across the floor. Leo’s bag isn’t by the couch anymore — he must’ve gone to the rink early or found somewhere else to crash. The thought stings in a way I don’t want to examine.
I toss my keys onto the counter, rubbing the knot in my neck. The silence is almost soothing. Until the intercom buzzes.
I jump. The sound slices through the apartment, harsh and unexpected. For a second, I just stare at it, heart hammering. Then it buzzes again, insistent.
“Yeah?” My voice cracks when I hit the button.
“Delivery for Sage Winslow,” a man says, bored, like he’s already done this a hundred times tonight.
I frown. “I didn’t order anything.”
“Name’s on the tag.”
I hesitate, then press the door release. Footsteps echo in the stairwell a minute later, and when I open the door, a guy in a courier jacket stands there with a bouquet — pale roses, wrapped tight in white paper. He hands them over without meeting my eyes.
“Who are they from?” I ask, already knowing he’ll shrug.
“No card.”
“Of course not,” I mutter, signing anyway. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me in the hallway glow, staring at the flowers like they’re a riddle.
They’re beautiful — almost too perfect. No scent, no message. Just soft petals and sharp thorns peeking through the paper. My stomach twists. I don’t know why, but something about them feels… wrong.
Back inside, I set them on the counter, the stems dripping faintly onto the granite. My phone’s in my hand before I realize it, thumb hovering over Leo’s contact. It’s late. He’ll be asleep, or pretending to be. Still, I type before I can talk myself out of it.
Sage: Did you send flowers?
The reply comes quicker than I expect.
Leo: No. Why?
That’s it. No emoji, no follow-up. Just denial. Simple and cold. The same kind of wall he’s been building since this morning.
I stare at the text until the words blur, then glance back at the bouquet. The petals glisten faintly in the low light — delicate, beautiful, unasked for.
And suddenly, the thought hits me like ice water: what if they weren’t meant as an apology at all?
My fingers tighten around the counter edge. Outside, somewhere in the distance, a car door slams. The noise echoes through the empty street.
The flowers sit silent, perfect, waiting.