Chapter 20
twenty
BEN
The locker room is chaos, a cacophony of voices bouncing off metal in an overlapping roar of trash talk and forced laughter. It’s the same pre-game energy I’m used to, but for the last two days, I’ve been moving through it like a ghost.
Going through the motions because stopping would mean facing the truth.
I sit on the bench in front of my locker, re-taping my stick. The ritual should be grounding—the feel of the tape rolling smooth over the blade, the satisfying rip as I tear it off with my teeth—but my brain is a thousand miles away, replaying the same catastrophic scene on an endless loop.
Her body. Her trust. The way she’d looked at me after my complete and total failure—not disgusted, but confused—like she’d just watched something break that she didn’t know how to fix. But worse than that had been the look of hurt on her face as I’d run.
I yank the tape too hard, and it bunches, creating an uneven ridge along the blade. I peel it off and start again, my jaw tight. “Fuck,” I whisper.
“Yo, Sasquatch!” Nash’s voice cuts through my spiral. “Are you planning to join us for the game, or is this a ‘present in body only’ situation?”
Normally, I’d fire back something to keep the banter going, to try and prove I’m one of them, and to show I can take it. But the words won’t form today, so I just keep winding tape, the black strip making another pass around the blade.
Silence stretches. I can feel Nash and Stiles exchanging a look, because I’m the awkward guy whose flustered responses are part of the locker room entertainment. So the fact that I’m not playing the part is more unsettling to them than any argument would be.
Nash tries again, his tone shifting from playful to concerned. “OK, for real. What’s going on?”
I finally glance up. His expression is open, almost worried, the first time I’ve ever seen actual human emotion on his face. Stiles is propped against the locker beside him, arms crossed, his usual smirk replaced with something that might be actual human empathy.
For a second, I consider telling them. I do the pros and cons list.
Pro: They’re my brothers and they’d have my back, even if that included some gentle teasing.
Con: What do I even say?
Pro: Maybe Nash has been through this and can help.
Con: Maybe Nash has never been through this, and his dick has a one hundred percent uptime record.
“Nothing,” I say, my voice flat. “I’m fine.”
It’s the most obvious lie I’ve ever told.
Stiles snorts. “Yeah, you look super fine. Like a guy who just found out his girlfriend dumped him.” He pauses, his eyes narrowing with sudden interest. “Wait a fucking minute, did your tiny punk rock princess dump you?”
The words slide off me. I don’t react. I just go back to the stick, tearing off the tape and starting over because the wrap was slightly uneven, and if I focus on that, I don’t have to focus on the sick, twisting weight in my stomach.
“All right, man,” Nash says slowly, backing off.
They drift away, their voices fading into the general roar, and I’m left alone with the only company I can stand right now: my own brutal, circular thoughts. With a sigh, I drop the stick and pull out my phone, even though I already know what I’ll find.
She hasn’t replied.
I’ve checked approximately nine hundred times in the last forty-eight hours. Sent three messages. Got zero replies. The silence is a crushing, ongoing verdict. If she was angry, she’d tell me to fuck off. If she was disgusted, she’d block me.
But silence?
Silence means I don’t even register.
That’s the worst kind of nothing, and I don’t even blame her.
The part of me that’s good at isolating problems tries to kick in for the hundredth time in two days. OK, she was drunk and vulnerable. You were terrified of being like the other guys who’ve hurt her. Your brain registered “abort mission” and your body complied. Simple, problem-based logic.
But logic doesn’t make it hurt less.
Because what kind of guy can’t get hard for a girl like Cass?
The buzzer sounds, a harsh blare that cuts through the locker room noise. Coach’s voice booms from the doorway. “Devils! On the ice in two!”
I grab my gear and follow the line of bodies toward the tunnel as the roar of the arena filters down the corridor. Normally, this is the moment where I feel the transformation, when awkward Ben Kellerman becomes something sharper and more competent.
But tonight, the switch doesn’t flip.
I just feel hollow, like a fraud in this uniform.
Standing among guys like Rook, who commands a room with a grin, Schmidt, who’s got his life mapped out in a straight line to med school, or Nash, who’s never doubted for a second that he deserves every good thing that comes his way.
And then there’s me.
The failure.
The loser.
The tunnel opens onto the ice, and the noise hits—thousands of voices, pounding bass, the sharp crack of sticks against pucks during warm-ups. I skate out into the lights, and it all feels distant and muffled, like I’m watching it happen to someone else.
It continues right up until puck drop.
And after.
As the game starts, I am absolutely, horrifyingly off.
My skates feel heavy, like I’m controlling them through some laggy connection that doesn’t respond the way it should. My timing is a fraction late on every play. And, as a result of all this, I give up an easy interception and goal. The light flashes, the horn blares, and the crowd groans.
It’s your fault, my mind yells at me. You screw up everything you touch.
I skate back toward my position, head down, the shame a physical weight on my shoulders. I can feel Rook’s eyes on me, but he doesn’t say anything. The others, too. They’re giving me space, the same way you give space to a wounded animal you’re not sure how to approach.
And then, because I can’t stand to look at the celebrating opponents or my own disappointed teammates, I lift my gaze into the stands. I expect to see thousands glaring down at me, cursing my name for giving up the easiest goal of my collegiate career so far.
Instead, I see her.
Cass.
She’s sitting halfway up, a small island of defiant black leather in a sea of red and white jerseys.
She’s not cheering. She’s not on her phone.
She’s just… watching. Her choppy blonde hair catches the arena lights, and even from this distance, I can see her jaw is set rigid and her arms are crossed.
But she’s here.
After two days of soul-crushing silence, after I failed her in the most humiliating way imaginable, after I ran… she’s here. The realization scrambles my brain, because it’s like a scene from a movie, the moment the audience yells at the screen for the hero to step up.
The puck drops again, and something in me ignites.
The shame doesn’t vanish—it’s still there, a sick weight in my gut—but it’s eclipsed by a surge of pure, desperate adrenaline. Because this isn’t about the game anymore, it’s about the one chance to not be the pathetic, broken thing she saw in her dorm room.
If I can’t give her my body, I can give her this.
The fog burns away, replaced by white-hot, razor-sharp focus. Every ounce of my being narrows to the sixty-by-twenty-six-meter sheet of ice. The crowd noise fades, the overhead lights seem brighter, and the ice feels sharper under my blades.
I am playing for an audience of one.
The next time the puck comes my way, I don’t hesitate. I pivot hard, edges biting into the ice with precision, and intercept the pass. I see the opposing forward charging—big guy, built like a freight train—and instead of panic, I feel nothing but cold calculation.
I fake left, and as his momentum carries him past, I send a crisp pass to Schmidt at center ice. The crowd roars, but I don’t hear it. I’m already focused on the play three steps ahead, positioning myself to cut off a lane before the other team even sees it.
As the game goes on, I defend my zone like a lion. I throw checks that are aggressive, my long frame an impassable wall. When their top line tries a rush, I’m already there, forcing the puck carrier wide, killing the angle, and forcing a weak shot that Rook gobbles up with ease.
The bench erupts. Rook gives me a nod, a quick tap of his blocker against my shin. “That’s it, Kell!”
Between shifts, I risk a glance.
She’s bent forward now, elbows on her knees, eyes locked on the ice.
On me.
Don’t screw this up.
The game blurs into a series of brutal, beautiful moments. I am everywhere—breaking up plays, launching outlet passes, laying hits that echo through the arena—and for the rest of the first period and into the second, I’m unstoppable and impenetrable.
Then, finally, I steal the puck at our blue line and carry it all the way into the offensive zone, my long strides eating up the ice. The defenseman tries to step up, but I’m already past him, edges carving tight arcs as I pivot toward the net.
Then I bury it top shelf, and the building goes insane.
Nash skates over, slamming into me. “Fuck yeah, Sasquatch!”
But I’m not looking at him.
I look up at the stands, and can see she’s on her feet, clapping and smiling. Just for a second. And then she sits back down, expression still unreadable, but she’s here. She’s here, and she stayed, and for at least a moment she liked what she saw.
The third period is a war, and the ice becomes a battlefield. My lungs are burning, but I don’t slow down. And with five minutes left, there’s a two-on-one breakaway. Schmidt got caught deep, and now it’s just me and Rook against two of their fastest skaters.
It’s a nightmare scenario.
I explode forward, legs burning, angling to cut off the passing lane. The engineering part of my brain kicks in—angles, velocity, probable trajectories—and I see in the windup and the shift of his weight that he’s going to shoot.
I dive.
The world tilts into slow motion. My body leaves the ice, fully horizontal, arms outstretched. For a split second, I’m weightless. The puck smacks into my thigh with a sickening thud, a sharp pain that shoots up my leg. But the puck deflects wide, spinning into the corner.
The arena explodes as I crash into the boards with a bone-jarring impact that knocks the air from my lungs. The roar is deafening, rattling the glass. I push myself to my knees, gasping, my thigh screaming. There’s going to be a bruise tomorrow, but right now, I don’t care.
The buzzer goes, sealing our win.
Rook skates over and hauls me to my feet, slamming his glove against my helmet. “You beautiful fucking lunatic!”
The team swarms me, a chaotic tangle of gloves and sticks slamming into me. Nash is yelling something I can’t hear. Schmidt claps me on the back so hard I nearly fall. Stiles is grinning like an idiot, shouting, “THAT’S MY SASQUATCH!” at the top of his lungs.
But my only thought is: Did she see that?
I break away, skating toward the bench, and my eyes go to the stands.
She’s on her feet.
Our eyes meet across the distance. The noise doesn’t fade—that’s movie bullshit—but I stop hearing it. The arena could be on fire, and I wouldn’t look away. She doesn’t smile or wave. She just stands there, arms still crossed, watching me with that fierce gaze.
But she’s here.
And she saw.