12. Lucian
LUCIAN
Neesha’s absence shouldn’t have affected me this much, since she doesn’t even know what I do for a living. But I can’t deny that something shifted between us that night at Maple Fest.
She never once used the escape clause, and for the first time since moving to Maple Falls, I’d felt like I belonged somewhere—not because of hockey, but because of her.
But since then, there’s been this constant knot in my stomach.
It’s the worry of when —not if —I’ll have to confess that I’m a hockey player.
She still thinks I’m just the handyman helping with Mimi’s house, which I technically am.
But that’s not the whole truth, and the longer I wait to tell her, the worse it will get.
I keep telling myself that I’ll know when the time is right, but after watching Neesha let her guard down on our practice date, I can’t bear the thought of those walls slamming back up. I’d rather be the one who fixes things in her life than the guy who triggers everything that broke her heart.
Which is why I can barely focus as I lace up my skates in the locker room tonight. We’re facing one of our toughest competitors—the San Diego Barracudas—but all I can think about is how I’m going to tell Neesha the truth without losing her.
The arena is buzzing with energy as we take the ice for warm-ups, but my shoulders feel tight with tension.
That’s when I catch Nate looking at me from across the rink, and I know he’s put the pieces together.
Too many people saw us together at Maple Fest, and from the look on his face, I’m running out of time to tell her myself.
Jamie and Cade skate over when they see Nate staring me down.
“Keep your head in the game,” Jamie warns. “I know Neesha has a history with Simpson, but we need you focused.”
“I haven’t had any problems with him yet.”
“I overheard him say in the locker room that he saw you and Neesha together,” Jamie says.
“What were you thinking, strolling around Maple Fest with her?” Cade asks. “It only takes one person to spill your secret, Lowe. One. ”
“I know,” I mutter. “I’m just waiting for the right moment.”
“There is no right moment,” Cade says bluntly.
“Just don’t let Simpson mess with your head tonight,” Jamie adds. “The last thing we need is this drama affecting our play.”
“I’m not going to let him get under my skin. But Nate?” I glance over my shoulder one last time before warm-ups end. “I can’t guarantee the same for him.”
I promised I’d play fair tonight. And I’ve kept that promise for two and a half periods of play while Nate Simpson does everything he can to throw off my game—missing obvious passes to me when I’m wide open, “accidentally” getting in my way during line changes, and not being where he’s supposed to be on the ice.
Now that we’re down by one with three minutes left on the clock, we really need to be playing as a team, not me dodging Simpson’s subtle sabotage during plays. If we can just maintain possession, we might be able to tie it up, sending the game into overtime.
We’re breaking out of our own zone when I send the puck up to where Simpson should be positioned on the left wing. It’s a play we’ve run dozens of times in practice. Instead of being there to receive it, he’s drifted toward center ice, leaving the puck to slide into the corner.
More importantly, it leaves me completely exposed to a Barracuda forechecker.
A crushing weight slams into me, driving me into the boards.
My helmet smacks against the plexiglass, and then I’m down on the ice, ears ringing, head throbbing, spots swimming in my vision.
The hometown crowd erupts with booing, while the referee’s whistle pierces the air.
My world tilts for a second as I see the Barracuda player skating away and Simpson gliding back toward his position like nothing happened, not even a hint of concern on his face.
The referee’s arm goes up, signaling a penalty on the Barracudas .
“You okay, man?” Asher extends a gloved hand, helping me to my feet.
I nod, wobbling as my head swims, and I taste metal in my mouth. My lip is split, and when I touch my cheek, my glove comes away with a smear of blood.
“That was a cheap shot,” Cade growls, glaring toward the penalty box. “Need a break?”
“I’m fine,” I groan, noticing Nate’s avoiding me.
Coach signals a player change, but I shake my head. I’m staying in, especially now that I know who allowed this to happen.
The buzzer sounds and we line up for the face-off, my jaw clenching as my ribs throb.
The puck drops and Hayes wins the face-off, sliding it to Simpson, who fakes left, then sends a quick pass to Lennox.
As he takes it toward our goal, Jack Dillman from San Diego knocks it away and the puck spirals toward me.
In one fluid motion, I take the puck and redirect it back to Hayes, who quickly takes it toward our goal and taps it in.
The crowd erupts as Hayes pumps his fist and points at me. I’m not celebrating yet, because the score is now tied 2–2, with a minute forty still on the clock—plenty of time for things to change.
For the next minute, we battle back and forth, knowing one more goal from either team will decide the game. We’ve had a line change with Smith replacing Tremblay for defense, and now all of us are playing rough, fighting for control of the puck.
As Smith steals the puck, two opponents converge on him and he threads a perfect pass to me. I have a clear shot, even though their goalie is already anticipating my move and sliding to block my angle.
I pass to Lennox just as Dillman dives toward him and scoops it up. He’s lightning fast, quicker than anyone on our team, and he’s got nothing but open ice ahead of him during his breakaway with fifteen seconds left .
“Back! Get back!” Coach shouts from the bench.
I pivot hard, skating as fast as I can, but Dillman has too much of a head start. Clément, our goalie, prepares for the shot, getting into his butterfly stance.
Dillman sends it over Clément’s outstretched glove into the top corner of the net.
The buzzer sounds a second later. 3–2 Barracudas.
Dillman pumps both fists as his teammates pile on top of him, celebrating their last-second victory. From the bench, Nate’s mouth twists, like he’s glad to see we blew the final play.
I skate over to Clément, who’s still on his knees, staring at the goal in disbelief.
“Not on you,” I tell him, tapping his shoulder with my glove. “You did everything you could. We’ll get them next time.”
As we file off the ice, I taste the blood in my mouth. It bites—not just because we lost, but because Nate actively worked against me to make me play worse.
In the locker room, the mood is subdued after losing the game. Coach gives his post-game speech about what went wrong—missed opportunities, defensive breakdowns, lack of communication.
“And, Simpson,” Coach’s voice cuts through the room, “next time you decide not to cover your teammate’s back, you’ll be watching from the stands. This is a team sport, not a solo mission for revenge.”
The locker room goes dead silent. Nate’s face flushes, but he doesn’t say anything.
I barely listen to the rest of Coach’s speech. All I can think about is Neesha, and how glad I am that she wasn’t here to see this. When Coach finally leaves, I head to the trainer’s room to get the throbbing pain in my face and ribs looked at.
Mike cleans the cut on my cheek and examines my lip and ribs. “Gonna need a couple stitches for the cheek,” he says. “Lip should heal on its own, but it’ll be swollen tonight. And you’re going to have a good bruiser around that eye and across your ribs.”
Asher stops in the doorway while Mike finishes up. “So, how are you going to explain this to Cupcake Girl?”
“I don’t know,” I mutter.
Ever since our date, I’d been planning to ask her out again, but now I’ll have to avoid her until my face heals.
“Maybe tell her you walked into a door?” Weston suggests.
“Very believable,” Asher says.
“Could say you were breaking up a bar fight,” Carson drawls on his way by the room. “Women love a hero.”
“Or you could just tell her the truth,” Weston says. “Crazy concept, I know.”
I shake my head, immediately regretting it as pain surges through my face. “She’s not ready to hear me explain why I waited to tell her,” I say. “Or to date a hockey player yet.”
“If you don’t tell her, Nate will,” Asher warns. “Unless you get to her first.”
I climb off the table, gathering my things and feeling a heavy weight on my chest that has nothing to do with my injury. “Maybe I do need to tell her tonight.”
“Tonight?” Weston asks. “Looking like you just went ten rounds with a grizzly bear?”
I look at my reflection in the mirror. My left cheek sports a bandage covering the stitches, and my bottom lip is swollen and split. There’s the beginning of a bruise along my jawline and eye. And my bruised ribs are making it hard for me to walk—not exactly how I wanted to have this conversation.
“Maybe give it a day?” Asher suggests. “Put some ice on it, let the swelling go down a bit and figure out how you’re going to tell her…hopefully before she finds out on her own.”
I let out a defeated sigh that makes my ribs hurt even more. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” But for some reason, I just want more time—a few more weeks to earn her trust and prove myself worthy of her .
Unfortunately, time is the one thing I don’t have.
When I pull into my driveway after the game, all I want is a painkiller and my bed. The adrenaline from the game has long worn off, leaving every bruise throbbing with pain.
I glance at Neesha’s window. It’s dark, which is good—that gives me more time to figure out how I’m going to break the news. It even might buy me a few days if she’s busy.
I’m fumbling with my keys, getting soaked in the drizzling rain, when a dog barks nearby.
Turning, I see Neesha on the small porch swing in front of Mrs. Nelson’s house, wrapped in a cardigan and blanket, holding a mug in her hands.
Henry thumps his tail as he sits at her feet.
Any other time, seeing Neesha would be the highlight of my day, but not tonight, when I’m so battered and bruised, I can’t even think straight.
My mouth goes dry as my head spins, trying to pretend nothing’s wrong.
“How was your night?” she asks.
“It’s been better,” I reply, keeping to the shadows, hoping she can’t see me in the dark. “What are you doing out here? I thought you’d be asleep by now.”
“Henry needed to go out,” she says. “And I love listening to the sound of the rain.” She climbs off the swing and steps off the porch, squinting in the dim light. “Are you okay? You don’t sound like yourself.”
I should tell her everything right now. But I’m bone-tired, every part of my face is screaming in pain, and the words I need to say feel jumbled in my head. She deserves better than me stumbling through the truth while I can barely think straight.
“Just tired,” I mumble. “Long day.”
She takes a few more steps toward me, closing the space between us while I search for an escape. “I was working on my business plan tonight and was wondering if you could take a look at it…”
“Sorry, not tonight. I’m not feeling well,” I say, turning away from her, but I drop my keys and we both reach for them at the same time.
She gets to them first, and when she looks up, her eyes widen as she takes in the bandage, the split lip, and the darkening bruise.
“Lucian!” she gasps. “What happened to you?”
“It’s nothing,” I mutter, turning my face away from her.
She grabs my chin and tilts it toward her so that it catches the glow from the streetlight. Her breath catches as her eyes graze over the bruise. “That’s not nothing, Lucian. You’re hurt.”
The compassion in her eyes feels wrong, knowing I’m holding back the truth.
“Yeah, I know I’m hurt,” I say, taking a step away from her. “And I can take care of it myself.”
Her brows knit together. “I’m not letting you go until you tell me what happened.”
“Neesha, please don’t push this right now,” I say, dragging a hand through my damp hair. “It’s going to change things for us.”
“What do you mean? You helped me by fixing my espresso machine and baking cupcakes. Let me help you now.”
“Not tonight,” I grind out, even though I know I should tell her.
But the throbbing pain in my body is too much.
She won’t want to help me when she finds out what I’ve been holding back from her.
I’ve built up her trust just enough that she considers me a friend, but not enough for the bomb I’m about to drop.
I finally take a breath, knowing there’s no going back from this. Everything will change after I say these words—our practice dates, our easy conversations, the way she looks at me like I’m her friend—it will all disappear the moment she realizes I’m exactly what she swore to avoid.
“It happened…during a hockey game,” I admit.
She blinks, then shakes her head, not understanding. Her hand reaches for my face. “Did you get into a fight in the stands?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “On the ice.” I wait a beat, feeling the sting already. “I’m a defenseman for the Ice Breakers.”
For a moment, she just stares at me. I watch as the words register and understanding dawns in her eyes. Her hand drops from my face like I’ve burned her, and she takes a step back.
“You’re a hockey player,” she says flatly, her voice completely devoid of emotion.
And that’s when I know I’ve already lost her.