Chapter 8 Empty Net
EMPTY NET (KIERAN)
The locker room smells of tape adhesive and pre-game adrenaline.
I pull my jersey over the pads, smooth the A on my chest, and check my phone one more time.
Nothing from Wren.
Why do I even bother checking? She wouldn’t text me out of the blue. She’s probably already on the bus to Queens, headphones in, reading whatever brilliant-person book she packed.
“You good?” Mason drops onto the bench beside me, already half suited.
“Yeah. Fine.”
“You’ve checked your phone like six times in the last ten minutes.”
I pocket it. “Just making sure Liam didn’t text. He said he might watch the stream.”
Mason doesn’t buy it, but he lets it go. “Big crowd tonight. Harvard always brings it.”
“Yeah.” I lace my skates, focusing on the familiar rhythm. Left over right. Pull tight. Double knot. Routine keeps you centered. Routine keeps the noise out.
Except tonight, the noise is inside my head.
Earlier, on the walk back from the rink, I’d typed without thinking:
KIERAN
Five hours on a bus is a long time
You bringing homework or actual fun?
The reply came faster than I expected.
WREN
Homework IS fun
I’d laughed out loud, thumb moving.
KIERAN
That’s the darkest thing you’ve ever said
Also I Googled the markings on your belt
Pretty sure that means second-dan
Seven years minimum
When did you start?
There’d been a pause. Long enough to make me wonder if I’d crossed a line. Then:
WREN
When I was seven
Before we moved to the US
I stared at the screen.
Moved to the US.
That was it. No follow-up. No explanation. Just a fact, delivered cleanly and sealed shut. Like everything about her.
I wanted to ask more. I didn’t.
Annoyed with myself for caring at all, I lock my phone and shove it into my bag, chest tighter than it should be for a conversation that didn’t actually go anywhere.
That obviously won’t go anywhere.
It’s like knocking on a door that’s already been shut in my face.
She said no three times in twenty-four hours. Dinner. Breakfast. The game.
I should be used to rejection by now. Hockey’s full of it—missed shots, blocked passes, games you lose despite leaving everything on the ice.
But this feels different.
Heavier—because this time, I’m starting to understand what it might cost me.
Coach McCarthy strides in, whiteboard in hand, and the room goes quiet.
“Listen up. Harvard’s fast on the transition.
We shut down their neutral zone, we win.
Simple as that.” He maps out the defensive coverage, calling out assignments.
When he gets to my line, he pauses. “O’Connor.
I need your head in this. You’ve been somewhere else all week. ”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Tonight, you’re here. Understood?”
“Understood.”
He moves on, but the words sit in my chest. You’ve been somewhere else.
Yeah. I have.
The thing is, I don’t even know where “somewhere else” is.
Some lab where a girl with graphite-stained fingers tells me my voice sounds orange.
Some dojo where she moves through forms like physics made flesh.
Some imaginary breakfast table where she finally says yes and I get to see that dimple again.
“All right, boys, bring it in!” Mason’s voice cuts through my spiral. We huddle up, gloves in the center. “One, two, three—”
“IRON HOUNDS!”
The roar echoes off concrete. We file out toward the tunnel, skates clicking on rubber mats, and the sound of the arena hits—seven thousand people, half of them already screaming our names.
The Dog Pound erupts when we take the ice.
I scan the student section out of habit, even though I know she’s not there. Red and white everywhere, faces painted, signs waving. Someone’s holding a poster with my number and a bad pun about scoring. A group of girls near the glass scream when I skate past.
She’s not here. You know she’s not here. Stop looking.
The puck drops.
We play well. Not great, but well.
Harvard comes out fast like McCarthy warned, but we adjust. I pick up an assist on Dalton’s goal in the first, then another on Reed’s wrister in the second. The crowd’s electric, chanting, pounding the boards every time we touch the puck.
But something’s off.
Third period, we’re up 3–2. I get a clean look from the slot—Riley feeds me a perfect pass, goalie cheating left, top corner wide open. The angle’s right. The timing’s right. I’ve buried this shot a thousand times.
I set my feet. Load. Release.
The puck rings off the post and kicks out.
The arena groans. Coach is yelling something from the bench, but I don’t hear it. I’m already skating back, head down, replaying the fraction of a second where something went wrong.
Not the read.
Not the shot.
The calibration.
Where’s your head, O’Connor?
In Queens. On a bus.
We hold on for the win. Barely. Final horn sounds and the team mobs each other, sticks raised, crowd losing their minds. I go through the motions—tap gloves, slap helmets, skate the victory lap.
It feels hollow.
The reporters catch me outside the locker room, microphones up, cameras rolling.
“O’Connor, two assists tonight. Talk about the team effort.”
I flash the smile that’s supposed to be here. “Yeah, the guys played hard. Defense shut them down when it mattered.”
“You had a great look in the third that hit iron. Tough break.”
“That’s hockey. You don’t bury them all.” I shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like I’m not already breaking the shot down in my head—foot placement, release point, the half inch that turns perfect form into noise.
“Big party tonight?”
“Probably. We’ll see.” Another smile. “Thanks, guys.”
I push through before they can ask anything else.
Outside, the cold bites sharp. Campus smells of snow and exhaust, streetlights buzzing yellow against the dark. A group of girls lingers by the arena exit, bundled in BU scarves, phones out.
“Kieran!” One of them waves. “Can we get a picture?”
I stop, because that’s what you do. Smile for the camera, sign the jersey someone hands me, laugh when another one kisses my cheek and her friends squeal.
One slips her number into my jacket pocket. “Text me,” she whispers, fingers trailing down my arm.
I pull back gently, already moving. “Have a good night.”
She pouts, but her friends are already dragging her toward the next player coming out.
My phone stays silent.
I check it anyway.
Nothing.
Just that stupid, restless itch.
The party is in full swing by the time I get there.
Music thumps through the walls, bass rattling the windows. Someone’s already set up beer pong in the kitchen. The living room’s a mess of bodies—dancing, drinking, grinding against each other like the night might end any second.
I walk in and the energy shifts.
“O’CONNOR!” Reed’s voice cuts through the noise. He’s by the keg, red solo cup raised. “Finally. Thought you were gonna skip your own victory party.”
“Just needed to shower.”
He grins, weaving through the crowd toward me. “Or were you waiting for someone? Where’s your little project?”
Something in my chest snaps tight. Not irritation—something faster. Sharper.
Dalton, standing nearby, shoots Reed a look. “Leave it alone, Reed.”
“What?” Reed takes a long drink, eyes never leaving mine. “I’m just curious. You know—the one from Isabelle’s dare. Library girl. What’s it been, a week now?” He tilts his head, enjoying himself. “Haven’t seen you two on campus together. Hell, haven’t seen her at all.”
My jaw sets before I can stop it.
“There’s no dare,” I say. My voice comes out lower than I expect. Flat. “Isabelle was drunk and bored.”
Reed’s smile sharpens. “That’s not what she thinks. Asked her about it yesterday, she says you’re still playing. Just not winning.”
Heat flares—clean, unmistakable. Not because he’s needling me.
Because he’s talking about her like she’s a scoreboard.
“I’m not playing anything,” I say. Each word feels placed. Deliberate.
Reed studies me for a half second longer than necessary, then laughs it off. “Sure, man. Whatever you say.” He claps my shoulder too hard. “Drinks are in the kitchen. Girls are everywhere. Try to have some fun for once, yeah?”
He drifts off, already calling out to Jackson.
Dalton hands me a beer. “Ignore him. He’s been drinking since we got back.”
“Yeah.” I take the beer but don’t drink it.
My grip’s too tight.
A girl in a crop top appears at my elbow, smile wide, eyes bright. “You played so well tonight.”
“Thanks.”
“Want to dance?”
I should say yes. Should fall back into the rhythm that always worked before—flirt, dance, see where it goes. Easy. Uncomplicated. Exactly what’s expected.
But when I look at her, all I can think is: She’s not Wren.
“Maybe later,” I say, and the disappointment flickers across her face before she recovers and moves on to Riley.
I need air.
I push through to the living room, looking for a pocket of space that isn’t packed wall to wall.
Near the couch, Reed has a blonde girl half boxed in against the armrest. His forearm is braced behind her, casual enough to pass, close enough to crowd. She keeps angling her shoulders away, laughing when he says something in her ear, but it’s the kind of laugh that arrives a beat late.
He leans in again. Says something else.
She shakes her head, still smiling. Tries to step sideways.
Reed shifts with her, easy, practiced. Keeps talking.
She glances past him, scanning the room—not panicked. Just searching. Calculating.
I catch her eye and lift my cup, tipping it slightly toward the kitchen. “Water’s over there,” I say, like it’s nothing, loud enough to carry.
Her face changes instantly. Relief, quick and unguarded.
“Oh yeah. I’m actually really thirsty,” she says, already slipping out from under his arm. “Be right back.”
She’s gone before he can answer.
Reed watches her disappear, irritation flashing across his face. Then he looks at me.
“What was that?”
“What was what?”
He studies me for a second, something sharp settling behind his eyes. A beat passes between us, loaded.
I shrug, easy. “It’s loud in here.”
But the tension sticks, threading itself through the room—thin, electric, waiting.
Someone cranks the music louder. Bodies press closer. A different girl drapes herself over my shoulder, laughing at something I didn’t say. I smell perfume and tequila and the sticky-sweet haze of a party in full swing.
It used to feel like winning. Now it just feels like work.
I extract myself and head upstairs.
The second floor is quieter—fewer people, lower volume. I slip into the bathroom, lock the door, and stare at my reflection.
Same face. Same jaw. Same eyes that make things come easy.
I pull out my phone. Her last message is still there.
WREN
When I was seven
Before we moved to the US
I’ve read it a dozen times by now.
Not because I don’t understand it. Because it’s incomplete.
Seven.
Old enough to remember where you came from.
Old enough to know what you’re leaving.
I’d wondered about it all day—on the bus ride back from the rink, during warm-ups, between shifts. Not the details. Just the shape of it. The fact that she’d offered that and nothing else.
Moved.
The question presses at the back of my teeth.
From where?
I type it.
Delete it.
Not yet.
I don’t want to be another guy who treats her history like trivia.
I type something safer instead.
KIERAN
So you’ve been terrifying since elementary school
Good thing I wasn’t there to pull your pigtails
You would’ve knocked me out
Her reply takes a minute.
WREN
We’re not doing childhood hypotheticals
My mouth quirks because of course that’s how she says don’t get familiar.
KIERAN
Noted
Still, seven-year-old you sounds like she ran the place
Another pause.
WREN
Why are you like this?
I lean back against the wall.
KIERAN
Because you don’t give much away
And I keep noticing when you do
Silence.
I wait. Longer than I want to admit.
Then I type before I can talk myself out of it.
KIERAN
And hey, maybe come to next week’s game?
I’ll save you a seat
WREN
Still a no
Of course.
KIERAN
We’ll see
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering.
Then:
KIERAN
Why do you keep saying no?
The dots appear.
Stop.
Start again.
WREN
Because I don’t understand what you want
The words hit harder than the missed shot.
I stare at them, pulse loud in my ears.
I want you to stop seeing me as a threat.
I want that dimple again—the one you didn’t mean to show me.
I want your yes.
None of that fits in a text.
KIERAN
Honestly? I’m still figuring that out
But I know I’m not done trying
I hold the phone like it might burn.
I want to ask where she moved from.
I want to know what her seven-year-old life looked like before it got packed into two lines.
I don’t ask.
I lock the phone instead, burying my face in my hands.
A knock on the door jolts me out of the spiral. “Go away,” I snarl before I can rein it in.
“It’s me.” Isabelle’s voice, smooth as silk.
I close my eyes, count to three, then unlock the door.
She slips inside before I can stop her, shutting it behind her. As always, she’s wrapped in something dark and expensive, pearls catching the dim light. Every inch of her is calculated to devastate.
“Running away from your own party?” She tilts her head, studying me.
“Just needed a minute.”
“Or you’re hiding.” She steps closer, perfume floral and sharp. “It’s also not like you to take this long to make a girl fall.”
Heat floods my chest—sharp, unwelcome.
“I have eyes, Kieran. The whole campus has eyes.” She leans against the sink, arms crossed. “Most men would be angry. But you?” Her smile curves. “You look sad.”
The word lands wrong.
I’m not sad. I’m—
Actually, maybe I am.
“The bet’s off,” I say, surprising myself.
Her eyebrows lift. “Excuse me?”
“I’m done. Find someone else to entertain you.”
For a second, she looks genuinely shocked. Then she laughs—low and delighted. “You think you can just quit?” She steps closer, voice dropping. “You’re already in it, Kieran.”
Her smile sharpens. “If you don’t finish what you started, she won’t hear it from you. You won’t get to control the version she hears.”
The anger flares—hot and instinctive—then collapses into something colder.
Not what this would cost me.
What it would do to Wren.
Isabelle slips past me and out the door.
I’m left standing there, rage burning uselessly in my chest.