Chapter 14
Rumors in the Air
Leo
The air in the rink feels heavier today. Not cold, not sharp—just heavy. Like even the hum of the lights above is judging me.
Coach’s whistle shrieks and the guys skate to the boards, sweat streaking down necks, breaths fogging in the air. I tug off a glove, flexing my fingers, pretending my stick doesn’t feel foreign in my hands.
“Run it back,” Coach says. His tone is flat, but there’s that twitch in his jaw—he’s hunting mistakes.
We replay the drill. The puck slides to me, perfect feed from Gabe. I drop my shoulder, snap a wrist shot high glove side. It’s clean. Crisp. But before I can exhale, Coach kills it again with another blast of the whistle.
“Too slow on your pivot, Voss,” he calls out. “You want to score in slow motion, maybe join a beer league.”
Laughter bubbles from a few guys, nervous more than mean. My jaw locks. I force my gaze down, eyes on the ice, tracing the scuff lines like they might open up and swallow me.
He cues the tape on the screen at center ice. We huddle, watching footage from last game. My highlight reel, apparently. Every near miss. Every play where I hesitated half a second.
“Your legs are fine,” Coach mutters, clicking the remote like he’s scraping the words out of his throat. “It’s your head that’s heavy.”
That one stings. Not because he’s wrong—but because he’s close to the truth.
The screen flickers off. Everyone scatters, shoving gloves into lockers, chattering about nothing. My chest feels too tight for the gear still clinging to me.
I linger, pretending to retape my stick.
In my head, I replay the whistle, the look on his face, the way even a solid practice can feel like failure when people are waiting for you to crack.
I used to thrive on pressure. Feed on it, even. Now it just feels like static in my veins—loud and useless.
Someone laughs behind me, a slap of skates on tile, but I tune it out. Keep working the tape. Keep my head down.
The ice smell clings to me as I finally walk off the rink, helmet tucked under my arm. My reflection in the plexiglass looks like someone else—tired eyes, clenched jaw, shadows under cheekbones that weren’t there a month ago.
“Your head’s heavy.”
Yeah, Coach. You don’t know the half of it.
I’m halfway through untying my skates when I hear her voice.
“Rough day, Voss?”
Claire Han leans against the locker room doorway, phone in hand, hair slicked into one of those reporter buns that look effortless but probably took work. She’s wearing that polite smile that’s half curiosity, half predator.
I grunt. “Practice. They’re all rough.”
She steps closer, phone angled just enough for me to catch the glow of a tabloid site. Puck Whisperer. The headline punches before I can stop myself from reading it:
Slumping Voss Still Homeless After Flood — Surge’s Risky Bet?
My stomach knots.
Claire raises a brow. “Care to comment? Fans are starting to speculate. No stable place to live, performance dropping… people connect dots.”
I exhale hard through my nose. “People need better hobbies.”
She tilts her head, like she’s not trying to twist the knife but can’t resist testing how deep it’ll go. “You can’t blame them for noticing patterns. The Surge needs you sharp, Leo. And the piece—well, it asks if maybe you’re carrying more off the ice than you’re saying.”
Before I can respond, a voice cuts in from across the room. “Maybe they’re not wrong.”
Trevor Stein. Rookie defenseman, full of swagger he hasn’t earned yet. He’s leaning on his stick, grin wide and mean. “Tough to stay sharp when you’re couch-surfing, huh?”
The locker room goes quiet. The kind of silence that makes your pulse throb in your ears.
Gabe stands before I can. “Shut it, Stein.” His tone drops low, steady. “He’ll light up next game. Worry about your own turnovers.”
Trevor scoffs, muttering something about “touchy vets,” but he moves on. The moment passes like a puck ricocheting off glass—loud, fast, leaving a sting behind.
Claire, to her credit, looks uneasy now. She pockets her phone. “Didn’t mean to stir anything up.”
“Yeah, you did,” I say quietly.
She flinches. Then nods once and slips out.
The door swings shut, and I’m left in the echo of my heartbeat.
Gabe pats my shoulder as he passes. “Forget it. Noise doesn’t score goals.”
“Yeah,” I manage. But my jaw aches from how hard I’m holding back words.
As the room empties, I glance at my reflection again in the metal locker—blurred, warped by dents and scratches.
The article headline flashes in my head. Homeless. Slumping. Risky bet.
I dig my fingers into the tape roll until it bites my palm.
Noise doesn’t score goals. But it sure as hell gets in your head.
By the time I make it back to Sage’s place, my head’s still buzzing from that damn headline. The city outside her window glows soft orange, the kind of evening that should feel calm. It doesn’t.
She’s at the stove when I walk in, ponytail messy, sleeves rolled up, stirring something that smells too good for how bad my mood is.
“Hey,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “How was practice?”
I drop my gym bag by the door with a dull thud. “The circus never ends.”
Her brow furrows. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” The word comes out too sharp. I grab a water bottle from the counter, twist the cap too hard, and take a long drink. The silence stretches until it feels like another kind of pressure.
She turns off the burner and faces me fully now, spatula still in her hand. “Leo. Talk to me.”
My hand slams the bottle down harder than I mean to. The sound cracks through the air. Water sloshes out, dripping down the counter.
Sage flinches—just a little—but it’s enough. Guilt hits me like a puck to the chest.
“Shit,” I mutter, rubbing my forehead. “I didn’t—sorry. I just—”
She steps closer, voice low, steady. “Hey. You’re okay. Just… breathe.”
Her hand brushes my arm, grounding me. I exhale, the fight draining out of me all at once.
She nods toward the pot on the stove. “Dinner’s almost ready. Omega-3s for your brain, turmeric for inflammation, magnesium for sleep.”
Despite myself, I huff out a laugh. “You turning into my team nutritionist now?”
“Better than your PR manager,” she says softly, eyes flicking up to mine. “You’re not what they say you are, Leo.”
I don’t answer, but something in my chest loosens a little. The warmth of her kitchen seeps into me—the scent of garlic, the hiss of the pan, the quiet hum of her trying.
For a moment, I let her.
I let the noise fade.
Dinner ends quietly. She makes conversation about normal things—new recipes, the neighbor’s cat, some documentary she watched—but my thoughts keep drifting back to the rink. To the looks. The whispers. The damn headline.
By the time I shower and pull on an old Surge hoodie, she’s cleaning up in the kitchen. I linger by the counter, watching her move. Calm. Unhurried. Like the world outside doesn’t spin quite as fast when she’s in the room.
“Hey,” I murmur. “Thanks for earlier.”
She glances up, gives me that small smile that hits harder than any compliment. “You don’t have to thank me for basic human decency, Leo.”
I start to say something else, but her phone buzzes on the counter. She wipes her hands on a towel and checks it. “Spam text,” she says, brushing it off. But something in her tone catches. She sets the phone down too carefully.
I tilt my head. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” she says quickly, forcing a smile. “Just some weird number.”
She changes the subject fast, asking if I’ll taste-test her new batch of granola bars. I go along with it, because pressing her won’t help. But the shift in her energy lingers like a faint draft under the door.
Later, while she finishes dishes, I catch sight of the bouquet sitting on the counter. Those damn flowers again. Still too fresh, too perfect, like they don’t belong in this apartment.
Sage moves toward them, hesitates. Her expression goes still, then distant—like she’s listening to something I can’t hear.
I open my mouth to ask what’s wrong, but she’s already turning away, wiping her hands again, voice light. “You’re up early tomorrow, right? Better get some sleep.”
It’s dismissal wrapped in care, and I’m too drained to argue. I squeeze her shoulder as I pass. “Night, Sage.”
She nods without looking at me.
When I’m gone, I swear I hear the faint rustle of stems and paper. But by then, I’m too far down the hall to know if it’s real.
The apartment is dark when I wake in the middle of the night.
No sound but the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional city noise filtering through the window.
My phone buzzes with a team group text—someone posted a meme about Trevor’s latest penalty minutes.
I should laugh. Instead, I set the phone facedown and rub my temples.
I think about Sage’s face earlier. The tension she tried to hide behind her smile. The bouquet she didn’t throw away this time.
I roll onto my side, staring at the faint glow under her door. She’s still awake.
Then something sharp cuts through the quiet—the crinkle of paper, followed by a soft thud. I sit up, listening. Nothing. Just my pulse thudding in my ears.
Morning comes too early. When I shuffle into the kitchen, Sage’s hair is tied back, eyes shadowed like she didn’t sleep either. The trash bin is closed tight, the counter spotless.
Except for one thing—the faint trace of perfume in the air. Not hers. Something heavier. Masculine. Familiar in a way I can’t place.
She’s rinsing a mug when I say, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, too quickly. “Just tired.”
I glance toward the empty counter. The flowers are gone.
Before I can ask, she smiles—too bright, too rehearsed—and nudges a plate toward me. “Eat. You’ve got a long day.”
Her voice trembles just enough for me to notice.
I don’t push. I should, but I don’t.
As I leave for practice, she locks the door behind me. And for the first time, I realize she double-checks it.