Chapter 21
The Silent Zone
Sage
Morning light slices through the blinds, sharp and accusing.
For a heartbeat, I just stand there, the weight of last night pressing against my chest—regret tangled with something I can’t name.
My thoughts are heavy, scattered, the quiet between us louder than any argument.
It paints harsh lines across the kitchen counter—the same counter where everything broke open last night.
The same counter where we couldn’t stop.
The air still smells faintly of him. Of sweat, coffee, and that clean cedar soap he uses. My stomach twists. My brain’s still catching up with what my body did. What we did.
Leo’s already dressed for practice, crouched on the edge of the couch. His shoulders are hunched, jaw tight, and he hasn’t looked at me once.
I linger in the doorway, arms wrapped around myself. Only when the chill from the tile seeps through my bare feet do I realize I’m wearing one of his shirts. It hangs off one shoulder, soft and familiar, and somehow that makes it worse.
“Coffee’s ready,” I say finally. My voice sounds too small in the space between us.
He nods once without looking up. “Thanks.”
The word lands flat, lifeless. I pour my own mug just to have something to do with my hands. The silence feels like a third person in the room—loud, heavy, impossible to ignore.
“Did you sleep?” I ask, trying for normal. Casual. Like my heart isn’t pounding hard enough to shake the mug.
“Fine.”
That’s it. One word. Not even a glance.
It hits harder than last night’s fight. Harder than his kiss. Because at least those things had heat. This is ice.
I set the mug down before my hand shakes. “You’ve got a game tomorrow, right?”
He finally looks up, and for a fraction of a second, I think I see it—the guilt, the exhaustion. But it’s gone before I can name it. “Practice first,” he says, standing. He grabs his duffel, his keys. His shoulders brush past me, and the static between us is unbearable.
“Leo—” I start, but the word dies when he turns back.
His eyes are unreadable, voice even. “I’ll be late tonight.”
It’s not an apology. It’s not anything.
The door closes behind him, leaving me in the echo of silence he always carries when he’s hurting.
I stare at the empty space he left behind, my chest tight. The coffee goes cold in my hands. The morning light shifts, softer now, but it doesn’t feel forgiving.
Last night, his body told me everything I wanted to hear.
This morning, his silence says it didn’t mean a thing.
The kitchen at the restaurant hums with the usual chaos—orders shouted, pans clattering, the low hiss of oil hitting the skillet—but I can’t find my rhythm today. Every motion feels half a second off, like Leo’s timing on the ice this morning. Maybe we’re both breaking down in our own ways.
I focus on the chopping board, forcing the knife through a pile of herbs. Basil and parsley, bright and green, scenting the air. It should be grounding. It isn’t.
“Hey, Sage,” Mia calls from the prep line, grinning. “You see the gossip sites today? Your boy’s trending again.”
I freeze mid-chop. The knife stills against the board. “What?”
She waves her phone like it’s a baton. “Apparently there was some kind of fight. Locker room meltdown or something? Puck Whisperer’s calling it ‘The Surge Scandal.’ They’ve even got grainy footage. It’s all over TikTok.”
My stomach drops. The edges of the world go a little blurry. “He didn’t—” My voice catches. “It’s not what it looks like.”
Mia’s grin falters. “You know him?”
I shake my head too fast. “No. Just—everyone in this city talks about hockey like it’s religion. Hard not to overhear.” I force a small laugh that doesn’t sound right. “Guess drama gets clicks.”
“Yeah,” she says, turning back to her station, unconvinced. “Still sucks. Hope the guy’s okay.”
When she’s gone, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My hands are shaking, so I press them flat to the counter until they steady.
If this blows up any worse, someone’s going to connect dots. The garage. The yelling. The timing. And if they do, Leo won’t be the only one they drag through the mud.
I glance toward my phone tucked under the counter. Three unread messages light up the screen from the restaurant group chat, one from my mom, none from him.
The silence from Leo stretches longer than it should. I tell myself he’s busy, that he’ll text later.
But deep down, I know what this feels like.
The start of someone slipping away.
The lull between lunch and dinner rush is supposed to be a relief, but I can’t shake the tension riding in my shoulders. Every clang of a pan makes me flinch. Every laugh from the line cooks feels too loud, too sharp, like the world’s carrying on without me.
I slip outside into the alley behind the restaurant, where the air smells like fryer oil and rain. The sky’s the color of wet concrete. I lean against the brick wall, wiping my hands on my apron, and finally pull out my phone.
No texts. No missed calls. Just that same empty screen staring back at me.
I type before I can overthink it: We need to talk tonight. My thumb hovers, then hits send. The message delivers instantly. And then nothing. Just that little timestamp marking how long I’ve been waiting.
The silence buzzes in my ear. It’s louder than the delivery trucks rumbling past or the faint hum of the kitchen vents. Louder than the sound of my own breath.
I tell myself he’s on the ice. That maybe Coach is keeping them late. That maybe he’ll call after. But excuses feel thin when I know him. Leo doesn’t ignore people by accident.
The screen dims. I shove the phone back in my pocket and push off the wall, trying to shake the ache building in my chest. But it lingers, heavy and sharp, the way cold sticks to your bones in winter.
When I step back inside, the restaurant feels smaller, hotter. Mia glances at me from the sink. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just needed air.”
She studies me for a second, then nods. “You should get out of here early. You’ve been off all day.”
“I’m fine.” The word tastes like ash.
But as I scrub my station and toss my apron into the bin, my mind keeps circling back to that message on my phone. The one I already know won’t get a reply.
I used to think silence meant safety—no fighting, no noise, no chaos.
Now I’m realizing silence can hurt worse than anything you can say out loud.
The apartment is dark when I unlock the door.
My first thought is that maybe he’s asleep, crashed early after practice.
But then I see his gear bag by the door, a heap of black and red that looks more like an apology than anything else.
A note sits on top, folded once, his handwriting short and sharp across the paper.
Late skate. Don’t wait up.
That’s it. No heart. No explanation. Just another wall I didn’t see being built until it was already standing between us.
I stand there for a long time, holding the note like it might change if I stare hard enough. My throat burns. The apartment is too quiet—so quiet I can hear the faint hum of the fridge, the tick of the clock, the blood rushing in my ears.
I wander into the kitchen because I don’t know what else to do. The counter gleams under the dim light, clean now, wiped of everything that happened there last night. No trace of us. No proof it ever meant something.
I sink onto one of the stools, pulling my knees up, pressing my forehead to them. The cold surface of the counter brushes my arm, and I swear I can still feel him there. The weight of his hands. The sound of his breath.
It hurts how easy it is to remember.
Outside, the muffled echo of sports radio drifts through the open window next door. I almost tune it out—until I hear his name. Grayson Locke. My stomach clenches.
“…no confirmation yet, but rumors suggest the altercation may have stemmed from personal issues off the ice. Sources mention a woman—someone close to Voss—”
My breath catches.
Then, clear as day, I hear my own name. Spoken in Grayson’s smooth, smug voice. Drawn out like a taunt.
I freeze.
For a second, the room tilts. The radio fades under the sound of my pulse thundering in my ears.
He said my name.
And that’s when it hits me—this isn’t just Leo’s mess anymore.
It’s mine too.