Chapter Twenty
Brinley
The arena feels nothing like the times I slipped in during practice.
Back then, it was quiet in a way that made me feel like I didn’t really belong there. Every sound carried—skates on the ice, pucks hitting the boards, the whistle cutting through it. With no one in the stands, it all felt louder.
I sat near the top row, keeping to myself, like if I stayed still enough, no one would notice I was there.
Tonight, there’s no chance of that.
People are still filtering in, stepping over rows and apologizing as they balance drinks and buckets of popcorn.
Music blares through the speakers, low but steady, and the sections that once sat empty during practice are packed with students in Rixton gear.
A couple of guys a few rows down are already shirtless, WOLVES painted across their chests in uneven black letters.
I imagine them painting them on in the parking lot after slamming a few beers.
Atlee leads the way down the stairs, waving at someone a few rows down. She nudges my arms when she catches me staring at the ice.
“You good?” she asks.
“Yeah… just taking it all in.”
We find our seats near the glass, close enough that I can actually see their faces during warm-ups. Players take the ice, firing pucks, tapping their sticks along the boards.
And then I see him.
Cooper skates out a few seconds later, rolling his shoulders as he makes his way toward the net. The crowd picks up when he does, but he doesn’t react to it. He goes straight to the crease, tapping each post with his stick before dropping into a stretch.
He starts with one knee bent while the other leg is extended behind him, rocking his hips once before switching sides. He rolls his shoulders slowly, then reaches one arm across his body and holds it there for a beat before doing the same to the other.
When he rolls his right shoulder, there’s the smallest hitch. It’s barely noticeable. He resets like it’s nothing and settles in just as the first shot comes his way.
He drops easily, pads hitting the ice before he’s back up again. Another shot follows, and his glove comes up without hesitation, like he already knew where it was going. He resets, shifting his weight, tapping his stick once before the next one comes.
I find myself leaning forward without even realizing it.
But instead of heading straight back, he circles along the boards. My pulse picks up. He’s not in a rush. Just gliding along the glass, looking out into the stands like he’s taking it all in.
It takes him a second. The arena is crowded now, people packed shoulder to shoulder. His gaze moves row by row.
Then he finds me.
I see it right away. The way his shoulders loosen, the tension in him easing just a little.
Even through his mask, I can see the shift in his expression when he spots me. His eyes catch on the jersey I promised I’d wear, and something in his face changes.
I’m practically drowning in it—the sleeves past my hands, the hem brushing mid-thigh—but I’d wear it every day if it meant seeing that look on his face.
He lifts his hand in a small wave. Warmth spreads through my chest before I can stop it, and I’m already smiling back.
Atlee elbows me hard enough to knock me off balance. “Oh,” she mutters under her breath. “Get a room, will ya?”
It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about me. “Wait—what?”
She gestures subtly toward the ice, then makes a dramatic show of fanning herself. “Careful. You’re about to melt the ice.”
My cheeks burn. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Am I?” She grins.
Before I can defend myself and before Cooper can skate away, Atlee reaches down and lifts the sign she’s been hiding between her legs like she’s been waiting for her time to shine.
brINLEY’S WATCHING. DON’T EMBARASS YOURSELF LIKE THAT MIDDLE SCHOOL HAIRCUT.
I don’t even have time to process it before Cooper does.
He skates closer to the glass, squints at it, and then knocks his helmet against the glass. He yanks one glove off and tosses it to the ice, flipping Atlee off without breaking eye contact.
The people in front of us glance around at first, trying to figure out who he’s flipping off. Then their eyes land on the sign. From there, it’s quick—down to the jersey I’m wearing, then back to me.
I can practically see it click.
“Ohhh,” someone says from a few rows down.
A ripple of laughter spreads, followed by cheers. Heat crawls up my neck as more heads turn our way.
Cooper keeps his finger up a second longer than necessary, which only makes the section louder. Atlee gasps dramatically, clutching the sign to her chest like she’s been personally attacked.
He shakes his head, fighting a smirk, then looks back at me.
And I swear, even from this far away, it looks like he winks at me.
He grabs his glove, pulls it back on, and pushes off like nothing just happened.
I’m still trying to steady my breathing when someone slips into the empty seat beside Atlee. Dark hair pulled back neatly, a simple sweater that looks put together instead of thrown on. She carries herself like she knows exactly where she stands in a room without needing to announce it.
She leans in to hug Atlee first, then turns to me with a warm smile. “Hey. I’m Wren.”
The name clicks immediately. She’s the one Cooper said saw me leaving my father’s office.
“Brinley,” I reply, shifting so I don’t jostle my drink as we shake hands.
“I’m Talon’s girlfriend,” she adds casually.
It takes me a second to place her, but then it hits. “I think I’ve seen you before. At that party… and maybe at Broken Saddle one night?”
Her mouth curves. “That sounds about right.” She lets out a quiet laugh. “Those nights all kind of blur together.”
I smile a little at that.
She asks about me, where I’m from and what I’m majoring in. All normal questions that don’t give me the impression she’s digging for information. She mentions she transferred to Rixton last year, around the time she met Talon, and is still getting used to everything here.
Something about her makes it easier to relax. Enough that my earlier nerves about her knowing their coach is my father start to ease up a bit.
Down on the ice, the team gathers near the center.
One by one, the players move toward Cooper, tapping their helmets against his and bumping their gloves along the side of his mask. A few of them pull him in quick, like it’s something they’ve done a hundred times before.
“They do it every game,” Atlee says, catching the look on my face. “Goalie thing.”
I watch them for a second longer before they break apart.
Cooper drifts back to his spot, tapping each post again before settling in. He crouches low, his focus locked in now.
It doesn’t take long to get pulled into the game.
The crowd is on their feet with every push up the ice, then settles just enough to catch their breath before it builds again. Cooper looks solid in front of the net, like he’s done this so many times he doesn’t have to think about it.
There’s something about the way he holds himself back there. Even when everything turns to chaos in front of him, he doesn’t get distracted. He sticks with the puck, drops when he needs to, then comes right back up, ready again.
Every save pulls another wave from the crowd, and I feel it as much as I hear it, the energy building with each second.
At some point, the tone shifts.
The other team starts holding onto the puck longer, keeping it in our end. The noise from the crowd changes with it.
Cooper moves more now, pushing side to side, dropping and popping back up. He stays locked in, like nothing else exists outside of what’s in front of him.
A shot comes in high. He gets a piece of it, but it slips loose and drops right back out. Everyone around us is already on their feet, holding their breath. The crowd is shouting, but I can’t make out any of it.
The next shot comes fast.
Cooper lunges across, his glove stretching out, and it catches him high before bouncing away. The crowd erupts around us. I’m cheering with everyone, jumping up and down. But when I look back at Cooper, he’s still down.
He pushes himself up more slowly this time. He rolls his shoulder, the same one that’s been bothering him, then settles back in like nothing’s wrong. It’s small enough that I can almost convince myself I imagined it.
“Did you see that?” I ask, barely louder than the noise around us.
“He’s fine,” Atlee says, already clapping and yelling down toward the ice.
I try to focus on the game, but I can’t stop watching him.
The next rush builds quickly. When the puck swings out and someone fires it high from near the boards, I’m once again holding my breath.
Cooper tracks it, lifting his glove, and it hits him instead of settling into it.
He keeps it out of the net. That’s all everyone else seems to care about. The roar that follows is loud, but he stays down after the whistle.
Long enough that my stomach bottoms out.
He’s clutching his arm against his side, like he’s waiting for something to feel right again. When he stands, he makes a slow circle, tapping each post the way he always does when he’s trying to reset.
Except his arm continues to stay tucked close to his side now.
I don’t even notice the bench door open until I see another goalie skating out.
My pulse spikes.
I learned after the last game that they don’t pull him unless something’s wrong.
Cooper doesn’t argue. He just skates off. When he reaches the bench, he pulls off his mask with his left hand, his right barely lifting to help.
He continues out of the arena and down the hallway toward the locker room, but it looks like he stops halfway to talk to someone, likely one of the trainers.
From here, it looks normal. It doesn’t feel normal, though.
The game starts up again without him. I cheer when Atlee jumps up beside me. I try to follow along with the game, but my eyes keep drifting back to the bench and to the ice where he should be.
When the final buzzer sounds and they win, the whole place exhales. People start talking all at once, replaying everything that just happened. But I’m not really listening.
I pull my phone out. My fingers hover over the screen longer than necessary before I type out a message.
Me: You scared me a little tonight. I hope you’re okay.
I stare at it, hoping he sees it from wherever he is in the locker rooms, before typing out another.
Me: I’m heading home to the farm with Atlee.
Home. Not my place. Not the loft.
Home.
Even as we stand and file out with the crowd, I keep checking my phone.
Atlee bumps my shoulder. “Everything will be okay,” she says. “He’s as tough as nails.”
“I know,” I say. But knowing doesn’t lessen the unease coiling in my stomach.
As we step outside, I glance back at the arena once more, like I might see Cooper standing there, a smirk on his face, ready to tell me I’m worried over nothing.
He isn’t, though.
As I climb into Atlee’s BMW, pulling my jacket around myself tighter, one thought keeps circling in my mind.
He’s too good at pretending nothing bothers him. What if it really does?