Chapter 16
Chapter sixteen
Bryce
Ihit the blue line with the puck on my stick and way too much in my head.
I should be thinking about edges and angles, that smooth drag and release Coach Hale drills into us every practice. Instead I’m fucked up from this whole thing with Annabelle.
I snap my wrists. The shot sails high and rings off the glass behind Eli Vargas.
“Appreciate the breeze, Blackhorn,” Eli calls from the crease. “My mask was getting hot.”
“Hit the net, Bryce,” Coach's whistle cuts through the rink. “We are not playing the glass in the playoffs.”
I circle back to the line, cheeks hot under my helmet. “Got it, Coach.”
Dex Miller glides past and taps my shin pad with his stick. “You aiming for Eli or the rafters, lover boy?”
“Shut up,” I mutter.
Colby coasts to a stop beside me, leaning on his stick like this is a casual skate in the park and not drills. “He’s in his feelings,” he announces. “I respect it. Terrible timing, though.”
“Less talking, more scoring,” Coach says. His tone is all business, but there is a glint in his eyes that says he knows exactly why I am off today. “Reset the drill. Bryce, brain on the ice, not up your ass.”
I force my shoulders back, inhale the cold air, and tell myself to dial in. Puck, stick, shot. Simple.
The puck slides toward me. Muscle memory takes over. I pull it in, set my feet, and rip it.
It clangs off the post with a hollow thud.
Dex groans loud enough to echo. “That bar is going to start charging you rent, man.”
Gabriel Shelly, gliding behind the net, snorts. “Relax. He is just giving Eli some ASMR.”
Eli taps his stick on the ice. “Five bucks to whoever can knock Blackhorn out of whatever bullshit fog he’s skating in and get him playing real hockey again.”
A few guys laugh. I try to laugh with them, but it comes out thin.
Coach Hale blows the whistle and skates toward the blue line. “All right, ladies, we are running rushes. Bryce, if you miss another wide open look, I am booking manicures for the team. ”
The guys howl.
"Stop playing like your chafed from your jock straps. Now, play like pros or we'll have a double practice today."
We run odd-man rushes, three on twos, then power play entries. My legs feel fine. My lungs burn the way they always do. But there is a fucked up buzz in my chest that will not quit.
Colby glides by and bumps my shoulder. “You are skating like Greg-man on his first day in juniors,” he says.
Gregory Mills, ahead of us in the drill, twists to glare. “Hey. I was majestic from day one.”
“Majestically confused,” Bobby says. He chips the puck off the glass and hustles after it.
We finish the last rep of rushes and finally, mercifully, Coach’s whistle blows in that long way that means we are done.
“All right, enough,” he says. “Hit the room. Hydrate. Ice baths if you need them. Bryce, marry the net again before tomorrow, yeah? I want to see some chemistry back in that relationship.”
The guys chuckle as we peel away toward the locker room.
Dex falls into step beside me as we step off the ice. “So,” he says, like he has been waiting this entire practice to bring it up, “how is the boss’s daughter?”
I unclip my helmet and pull it off, pushing wet hair back from my forehead. “She has a name, you know.”
“Annabelle,” Dex says promptly. “I know her name. I also know you have been playing like a man who watched The Notebook on repeat all night.”
Colby snorts. “He looks more like someone whose dog ran away and then came back with a better looking owner.”
I frown at him. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you look tragic, man,” Eli chimes in from behind us. “Like a country song.”
We flood into the locker room in a wave of skates and gear. The familiar smell of sweat, rubber and cheap body wash hits me. Someone hooks their phone up to the speaker and music starts pumping. Sticks thump into racks. Pads drop to the floor.
I drop onto the bench in front of my stall and start peeling off layers. My legs are aching, my shoulders throbbing, but the rest of me feels oddly hollow.
Dex sits beside me, towel around his neck, still in his base layer. Colby takes the other side. Gabe, Bobby, Gregory, and Eli hover close, like some kind of intervention circle.
I narrow my eyes. “No.”
Dex blinks innocently. “No, what?”
“Whatever this is, I am not doing it.”
“It’s support,” Gabe says, grinning. “You look like you need it.”
Colby leans his elbows on his knees. “You were way off today.”
“Just a bit,” Eli adds. “If ‘just a bit’ means you hit everything but the net.”
Bobby nods. “You whiffed that first drill so hard I felt it in my soul.”
“Thank you for that insight,” I say. “Very helpful.”
Dex nudges my shoulder. “You want to talk about it? Or are you going to keep pretending everything is fine while you clearly compose sad poetry in your head?”
“I don’t write poetry.”
“Everyone writes poetry in their head when they’re in love,” Gabe says. “Comes with the territory.”
Colby points at me. “He didn’t deny the in love part.”
I sigh and drop my head back against the locker. “Her fucking ex-fiancé wrote some dramatic-ass song about her and now it’s everywhere. Media, socials, interviews. I can’t escape it, and neither can she.”
Mark Cummings. The shithead ex-fiancé. The one who cheated and somehow still managed to act wounded when she left. His face has been all over gossip sites ever since that story broke. I have seen his smirk more times than I care to.
Gabe stretches his legs out. “My guess? She'll handle this mess without dragging you into it. Then she will come to you when she has a plan and a color-coded spreadsheet.”
I huff a laugh. “She does love a spreadsheet.”
“Exactly,” Gabe says. “You just have to survive until then without building a conspiracy board in your head.”
Dex claps my shoulder. “And lucky for you, your very supportive teammates are taking you to lunch so you can forget about that dumb fuck for at least thirty minutes.”
“I should probably watch some film,” I say.
“Nope,” Dex answers immediately.
“Hard pass,” Colby agrees.
Gabe points at me. “We are not leaving you unsupervised with your phone.”
“Lunch,” Dex repeats. “Non-negotiable. Gregory already picked a place.”
Gregory lifts a hand. “There is a spot down the street with good sandwiches. And fries. And sanity.”
I look around at them. They are all watching me with some mix of concern and the kind of anticipation people get when they know the drama is juicy but they are trying to be good friends about it.
“Fine,” I say. “Lunch.”
“Atta boy,” Dex says.
By the time I shower and pull on jeans and a hoodie, I feel a little more like myself. The buzzing under my skin is still there, but duller. I check my phone once. No new messages. I lock it and shove it in my pocket before I can start looking for some form of communication from her.
We spill out of the arena into bright afternoon light, walking in a loose pack. Dex is already arguing with Colby about fries versus onion rings like it is a matter of national security.
“Onion rings are elite,” Dex says. “They have layers. They tell a story.”
“They tell the story of heartburn,” Colby counters.
Gabe laughs. “You two fight about food more than I fought with my ex-wife about custody.”
“Yeah, but our relationship is stronger,” Dex says. He slings an arm around Colby’s shoulders. “He would never cheat on me with curly fries.”
Bobby walks ahead with Gregory, debating some defensive scheme. Eli strolls behind us, humming along to whatever is playing in his earbuds.
The street outside the arena is busy, lined with shops and restaurants. It smells like coffee and that bakery across the way that always has a line out the door. People wander in little clusters, jackets open, sunglasses on.
We turn the corner onto a block I know by heart. I have jogged this route a hundred times. I have never had my feet stop this hard before.
My body just shuts down.
One second I am walking. The next, I am a statue on the sidewalk.
Dex takes another step before my lack of movement trips him. He stumbles. “What the fuck, Bryce?”
I do not answer. I cannot.
Because through the big front window of the corner café, I see Annabelle.
She is at a table by the glass. Her hair is pulled back, a few strands falling around her face. She is in one of those soft sweaters she likes, the kind that makes her look unfairly cozy.
Across from her sits Mark Cummings.
Even from here I recognize him. Sharp jaw, careful hair, that polished smile that never quite reaches his eyes.
My stomach drops to the sidewalk.
Colby follows my gaze and goes still. “Oh, shit.”
Dex squints. “Is that… yeah. That's him.”
And right now he is sitting across from Annabelle like they're on a date.
Mark leans forward, elbows on the table. His hands move as he talks, animated, almost pleading. His face is soft in a way that looks painfully familiar.
Annabelle’s shoulders are straight, chin lifted. Her fingers are fidgety.
From where I am standing, I can’t see her eyes. I can only see the two of them together.
The noise on the street fades. All I can hear is my own heartbeat in my ears.
“She can talk to whoever she wants,” I say. The words scrape on the way out.
Dex glances at me. “Yeah. She can. Still do not like his face, though. He has a very punchable face.”
“I agree,” Colby says. “Deeply punchable.”
Eli steps up beside us, following our line of sight. “Oh. Wow. Okay. That is a plot twist.”
Inside the café, Mark reaches across the table.
His hand closes over Annabelle’s.
I feel that contact like a punch to my ribs.
Annabelle does not yank away. Not immediately. She goes still, like she is bracing.
My brain floods with worst case scenarios. Maybe she misses him. Maybe this is her closure and his second chance rolled into one.
I hate that the thought even exists in my head. I hate how much I believe it might be possible, just for a second.
“Do we go in there?” Dex asks, voice low.
“No,” I say.
“I could just accidentally walk by,” Colby suggests. “Say hi. Check the vibes. Very chill.”
“You are not chill,” Eli says. “None of us are chill. We are professional hockey players. Our entire job is to sprint at problems and slam into them at high speed.”
Bobby looks from the window to me. “We could just stand here and stare menacingly until he feels uncomfortable.”
“That’s not less weird,” Gregory says.
My throat feels tight. “Guys. Seriously. Drop it.”
I try to make my feet move. They don’t cooperate.
Through the glass, Annabelle says something, her mouth moving fast. Her brows pull together, annoyance cutting sharp lines in her forehead. She frees her hands, fingers slicing through the air. She looks mad.
I should focus on that. On the fact that she is clearly not melting at his touch.
But my brain keeps looping one image. His hand over hers. Their heads bent together over coffee and history.
My phone buzzes faintly in my pocket. I ignore it.
“Okay,” Gabe says quietly, stepping closer. “New plan. We continue to get lunch and don’t turn into creeps staring through windows. Bryce doesn’t need that on top of whatever this is.”
“Agreed,” Eli says. “We already have enough fines from the league. I don’t want one from a café.”
Dex looks at me. “Or, you tell us if you want to walk in there. We will back you up. Or cause a distraction. I am very good at distractions.”
I swallow. My chest aches. “I’m not going in there.”
“Okay,” Dex says. “Then we walk away. Are you sure? Ripping that weasel's head off will work up a good appetite before lunch.”
"No," I nod, but my eyes flick back one more time.
I see her lips move, and I would bet my next paycheck that whatever she is saying is not sweet.
I wish I could hear it.
Colby’s phone chimes. He pulls it out, glances down, and swears under his breath.
“That was fast,” he mutters.
“What?” I ask.
He hesitates for a fraction of a second, then turns the screen toward me.
It is a fresh post from some gossip account. A zoomed-in shot from almost our exact angle, taken by someone faster on the draw. The caption screams:
ANNABELLE HACKER HAVING COZY COFFEE WITH EX-FIANCé MARK CUMMINGS. SOURCES SAY THEY HAVE BEEN TALKING AGAIN.
The comments are already rolling in.
They always looked perfect together.
Knew they would find their way back.
So that hockey guy was just a rebound.
The word rebound hits harder than any check I have taken on the ice.
My fingers curl into fists in my pockets. The edges of the screen blur as my vision goes hot.
“People on the internet are idiots,” Dex says quickly. “You know that.”
“Yeah,” I say. It comes out like air leaking from a tire.
Also, they are not completely wrong. I did walk into her life after the train wreck. I knew that. I accepted it. I just didn’t think I would have to watch the world label me like a placeholder in the comments section.
“Come on,” Eli says. “Let us get out of here before some fan recognizes us and live streams this whole scene.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”
I turn away from the window.
I do not look back.
I keep my eyes forward and pretend that if I don’t look anywhere else, the hollow ache in my chest will stay quiet long enough for me to breathe.