Chapter 14
GAME NIGHT (KIERAN)
She looks completely lost.
Lost isn’t even the right word. She’s holding herself at the edge of the flow, calculating distances, scanning exits. Like she’s trying to solve the hallway the way she solves a problem set—find the variables, control the outcome.
My chest tightens. I know that posture. I wear it when I’m waiting for a hit.
Even from halfway down the hall, I can see her hovering by the Authorized Personnel Only sign, hoodie zipped to her chin, backpack clutched to her chest. Too small for this space. Too exposed.
Something in me shifts. Protective. Sharp.
“Rules,” I call.
Her head snaps up. Relief flickers, then nerves crash back in. “I think I’m in the wrong—”
“You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
I close the distance before she can second-guess herself. The jersey is draped over my arm, my number facing out. I hadn’t planned it. Not consciously.
I should be thinking about the game. Instead, I’m thinking about how I want everyone to stop looking at her like she doesn’t belong.
Her eyes drop to the jersey. “You want me to wear this?”
Yes.
The answer lands fast and instinctive, before I can dress it up as anything else.
“That’s the deal,” I say instead, holding it out. “Friends and family sit behind the bench. You’ll fit right in.”
She hesitates. “It’s huge.”
“It’ll look good on you.”
Because it’ll be mine.
“It’s going to swallow me.”
“That’s the point.” I grin, too fast. “Everyone will know you’re with me.”
The words land wrong. Too honest.
Suddenly I see it—the phones, the captions, Theo clocking it, Isabelle pleased. The performance snapping into focus like an excuse I can hide behind.
That’s what this is. Optics. Strategy. Progress.
Except it isn’t. Not really.
I want to see her in my number. Want to pretend, just for tonight, that she’s mine and the rest of the world knows it.
The bet twists in my gut.
She unfolds the jersey. “This feels like a lot.”
“It’s just a jersey.”
She nods like I asked to borrow a pen. I almost laugh, forcing my voice steady. “You want Theo to notice you? This’ll do it.”
She nods, uncertain. “Okay. Where do I go?”
“Second section, behind the bench.”
Mason and Riley appear, half in gear. They pull up short when they see her.
“Hey,” Mason says, smile careful. “Glad you found us.”
Riley nods. “Good luck with the crowd.”
They move on too quickly. Tension trails behind them.
“Are they okay?” Wren asks.
“Pre-game nerves.” The lie slides out.
Then Reed shows up.
Full gear, mouthguard dangling loose. He slows when he sees her, eyes tracking in a way that makes my spine go rigid.
“Well,” he says, dragging it out. “The famous tutor.” His gaze flicks to the jersey, then back to her. “Moving fast, O’Connor. Guess the rumors were true.”
Wren straightens. “Hi.”
“Careful,” Reed says lightly. “Around here, jerseys mean things.”
I step between them before I register the decision.
“Walk away,” I say, my voice tight.
Reed’s smile falters for half a second before he recovers. “Relax, golden boy.”
“Now,” I add.
The air tightens. For a beat, I think he’s going to test it.
Then he shrugs. “Whatever you say.”
He turns toward the tunnel, smirk back in place, but he doesn’t look at her again.
When he’s gone, Wren exhales. “Did I…do something wrong?”
“No.” I shake my head. “He did.”
She nods slowly, processing.
Her fingers brush the number on the jersey, tracing it like she’s trying to understand what she’s wearing. “It still feels strange.”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out lower than I expect. “It does.”
The PA crackles: “Warm-up in ten.”
“Go find your section,” I say. “You’ll be fine.”
“And if I’m not?”
“Then look for seventy-one.”
I turn toward the locker room.
“I’ll be watching, O’Connor.”
I glance back and wink. “That’s the plan, babe.”
The cocky grin stays on my face until I round the corner.
Then it dies.
The locker room hits like a wall—heat and tape glue, sweat already thick in the air. Bass pounds from the speakers hard enough to rattle my teeth. Helmets clatter, sticks tap, blades scrape against rubber mats.
I’m halfway into my shoulder pads when Reed’s voice cuts through the noise.
“O’Connor’s got himself a fan club tonight.”
He’s leaning against his stall, eyes bright with mean amusement. “Tutor looks good in your number. You tapping that yet, or is the bet still live?”
The room shifts. Around me, voices drop. Mason’s hands are immobile on his tape. Riley suddenly finds his skates fascinating. Dax ties his laces tighter, jaw set.
My limbs turn taut. She’s here. Right now. Fifty yards away, pulling on my jersey, thinking this is part of our arrangement to make another guy jealous.
And Reed just reminded everyone it started as something else entirely.
“Drop it,” I hiss, focusing on my gloves.
Reed laughs, pushing off his stall. “Come on, it’s a friendly wager. Isabelle wants updates. We’re all just wondering if you’ve made any progress.”
He nods toward Mason. “Maybe she’s tutoring you too?”
“Knock it off,” Mason rasps.
Reed keeps going, feeding off the attention. “You hand a girl your jersey, it usually means you’ve scored. On or off the ice.”
Something in me snaps.
“Talk about her again,” I say slowly, looking up, “and you’re eating through a straw. She’s not a wager. She’s not a joke. And she’s not yours to discuss.”
The room goes dead quiet. Even the music feels too loud.
Reed’s smile thins. “When did you grow a conscience?”
“I didn’t.” The denial comes fast, automatic, already a lie I can feel settling. “But she’s not part of your running commentary.”
He closes the distance, voice dropping. “She was always part of the plan. Isabelle’s game, your execution.”
Heat floods my chest—anger, guilt, something uglier I don’t want to name.
Because he’s right.
She was always part of the plan. Isabelle singled her out, dared me to make her fall, promised me the one thing I’d been chasing for months.
And I took the bet because I was bored, because my ego couldn’t handle being told no, because breaking someone’s heart felt like a fair trade for validation I didn’t even want.
Mason’s glove lands between us before I move. “Coach’ll bench both of you. Save it for the ice.”
Reed backs off, hands raised, satisfaction written all over his face. “Fine. We’ll settle it where it counts.”
The whistle from the tunnel cuts through the tension. Warm-up in one.
Reed shoulders past me. “See you out there, lover boy. Try not to trip over your conscience.”
I finish lacing my skates, fingers shaking.
Dax gives me a long look—steady, assessing. Mason claps my shoulder pad. “He’s baiting you. Don’t take it.”
“I know what he’s doing.”
“Do you?” Mason’s voice drops. “Whatever this started as, she didn’t sign up for it.”
The words land like a hit.
I grab my helmet and head for the tunnel without answering.
Agganis Arena is pure chaos—students pounding glass, the Dog Pound chanting, air thick with adrenaline and metal. We burst through the tunnel and the crowd roars, thousands of voices blending into white noise.
I don’t look for her.
Can’t. Need to focus. Need to see the ice in clean lines and angles, not get distracted by—
But my eyes find her anyway.
Second row, friends-and-family section. My jersey hanging on her, hood up, hands tight on the railing. She looks too small for this crowd, but she’s holding her ground.
I force my attention back to the ice. Faceoff positions. Defensive gaps. The way Maine’s center favors his right side. Motion turns to geometry, rhythm to math.
This is how I survive. By reducing chaos to something solvable.
Reed lines up at center, smirk hidden behind his mouthguard. I take my spot at right wing.
“Don’t trip over your girlfriend,” he mutters.
The puck drops.
For one heartbeat, the rink slows. Reed’s weight shifts. The angle of the D-man’s skates. The winger cheating high. Cause and effect unfolding before it happens.
Wren would call it standing still long enough to see what’s actually there.
Reed wins the draw clean, chips it to Dax. I’m already moving, cutting across the blue line before Maine’s defense can collapse. The lanes open exactly where I expect them to.
I chip it deep. Chase. Feel the bounce before it hits the boards.
Riley’s open. I send it across without looking.
Shot. Save. Rebound.
The crowd erupts.
As we head to the bench, Reed drifts wide, then snaps his elbow into my ribs. Not subtle. Not accidental.
Air punches out of me. The ref’s whistle comes a half second too late.
“Cut it out,” Mason warns between shifts. “Before McCarthy benches both of you.”
“Tell your buddy to pass the puck,” Reed snaps.
“Tell yourself to grow up.”
The ref skates over. “You boys want the box this early?”
We separate, breathing hard. Reed grins behind his cage.
Between shifts, my eyes drag back to the stands without permission.
She’s watching. Focused. Trying to follow the play.
The crowd presses in around her, too close, and something sharp and protective flares in my chest. During a TV timeout, I signal Riley. He nods, murmurs to security. They give her space.
She doesn’t notice.
She’s watching the ice.
Watching me.
I should feel triumphant. This is what Isabelle wanted—proof, optics, progress.
Instead, I feel sick.
Second period. Tied 1–1.
Maine plays heavy—hooks, late hits, grinding us down. My ribs ache where Reed caught me. Sweat stings my eyes.
But my head is clear.
Next faceoff. Reed at center. Me on his right.
The puck drops. He edges the win, sends it back. I’m moving, cutting across the slot. The goalie shifts. A lane opens—brief, precise, already closing.
I take the pass in stride. Push past the defender’s reach.
Top corner.
Bar down.
Horn.
The crowd explodes—red and white and noise crashing over me. Gloves slam my helmet, sticks bang the boards.
Usually I’d grin. Milk it.
Not tonight.
I skate straight to the glass and find the friends-and-family section.
She’s on her feet, hands over her mouth, my number stretched across her chest.
For one perfect second, everything else disappears. Isabelle. The bet. The lie built around her.
I just see her.
I tap the A on my chest once.
For her.
The gesture is automatic, pure instinct. And the second I do it, reality crashes back in.
She’s cheering for someone who doesn’t exist.