CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
GRIFFIN
My alarm clock only beeps once before my hand is flying to silence it.
Usually, I’d be spending more nights in Cleveland by this point in the summer.
But not this summer.
I gently slip toward the edge of the bed, untangling myself from the sheets. She murmurs a small protest, nuzzling into her pillow. I pause to soak this in. The bedroom is still dark, and I can only see the faint outline of her beauty.
But just having her in my bed, knowing she’s with me—it’s going to be hard to say goodbye to this. Maybe impossible.
I pull myself out of bed, focusing on the upcoming day. I need to get to Cleveland for an early skate, then to a session with Dex. We’re watching how the early skates affect progress, and he promises me he’s been in constant contact with Marchetti about my progress.
As I run through my morning routine on autopilot, there’s really only one thing in my head: it’s late July.
And I’m losing my fucking mind.
I have mere days before my contract expires and I become a free agent. I can’t think about what comes after if Marchetti declines to keep me on with the Crushers. All I can focus on for now is forward motion.
Keep going. Keep trying. And above all, focus.
The hour drive to Cleveland disappears as I repeat that mantra to myself on a loop.
“How’s it feeling?” Dex calls out from the boards.
He’s watching me like a hawk as I run through my warm-up drills.
I’ve been skating recently, without including turns or sprints.
I’ve also been on the ice for my weekly youth league meetups, but that equates to basically nothing at this level.
Even after a decade in the league, it still feels odd to be back on a professional-grade rink, under the blaring lights.
“Good so far.” My voice sounds more confident than I feel. My body feels the weight of this progression as much as my head knows what this means.
If I fuck this up, there’s no more Crushers in my future.
I go through my drills, slowly amping up speed. Dex is watching my stride with a flat expression that betrays nothing.
“You’re pushing the acceleration,” he barks out after the next set of drills. “Just let it come.”
I ease off. I take a long, slow lap and let the cold air do what it does best: strip the noise and leave just me, the blades, and the ice.
I can do this. Because this is where I do my best existing. Hockey has always been the thing that organizes the world into something manageable. A rink has rules. The ice doesn't lie. You either execute or you don't, and I can do a million things to control the outcome.
And boy do I love controlling the outcome.
“Crossovers now,” Dex barks out then. I move into crossovers, letting my body take over, the finely honed muscle memory. My blades cut through the ice as my body works. I can feel it in the knee, but it’s strong. I’m not overdoing it.
Yet.
I remind myself to find the balance. Don’t push myself to prove something. Just work within my limits. By the end of the session, Dex is nodding.
"Lateral push is back," he says, making notes. "The burst acceleration needs another few weeks. But Keegan—" He looks up. "You’ll be ready. I’ll send Marchetti the updates later today.”
I try not to get too excited. There are still a hundred reasons why they could decline to renew my contract and push me into free agency. I can’t let myself believe that Dex’s clearance means a contract renewal.
Once I’m out of my equipment, I go to the gym for my conditioning session.
By noon, I’m heading to my condo, where I’ve got my personal chef back in rotation for my protein-heavy lunch.
This is the usual August routine—early skate, gym, lunch, recovery, and then free time.
But nothing feels usual about this as I await any blip or fart from Neil or Marchetti.
Since I’m not staying full-time in Cleveland yet, I asked Juan, my chef, to deliver my prepared meals on the days I’m coming for the early skates.
I find Juan’s neatly labeled containers stacked in the fridge after I enter my condo.
As soon as I crack the lids, I can smell the tantalizing aroma of whatever that genius cooked up for me.
He cooks for me and a few other guys on the team, so he knows what we need and just how much of it to serve us.
He’s a godsend, and that’s one of the things I’m looking forward to returning to.
If my career doesn’t take a nosedive in a matter of days, that is.
As I’m unpacking the food, I call Casey on speaker. She picks up quickly.
“Hello, stud,” she breathes into the phone.
“Mmm. I can be your stud.” I already have a grin a mile wide as her voice sinks into me and soothes the anxiety from my morning. “I think I already am since you came on my tongue.”
She squeals and then bursts into laughter. “God, you’re lucky nobody else was here when you said that.”
“I don’t care if anybody hears that I know how to please a woman.
” I want to correct myself—my woman—but it seems like too much.
I pop the lid off the first container—creamy Tuscan salmon over rice.
The next container—a colorful salad with too many vegetables in it to count.
The next container—a repeat of the Tuscan salmon, because of course I’ll need more than one small box. “What are you up to, Case?”
“Just filming,” she says brightly. “Another video took off last night so I’m recording some response videos. I just can’t believe how well these are doing!”
“I can.” I set the phone down and pop the salmon dishes into the microwave. “Did you get the monetization stuff figured out?”
“Yeah, I did. And some of these videos are already making money! Griffin! This is insane to me. I’m technically making money from talking about books! What is this life?”
The excitement in her voice is contagious. I’m grinning like a fool as I pour Juan’s addictive homemade Italian dressing on the salad.
“I love this, Case. You’re killing it. Keep it up.”
“I plan to. I wonder how much money I could make from something like this. I don’t expect it to amount to that much, but I could buy a coffee right now! Several coffees, actually. And that’s better than zero coffees.”
“So what’s the goal, a thousand coffees?”
“Yeah. A thousand fancy coffees, let’s say. If I could make that from my videos…wow. I might not need another job in corporate America. Which reminds me—I have news.”
“Yeah? Good or bad?” I stab into a cherry tomato and pop it in my mouth.
“Somewhere in the middle, actually. I mean, technically good? I got a callback from one of the Chicago companies I interviewed with. They want to see me for a second interview.”
I blink a few times, letting the news settle in. “Hey. That’s awesome.”
“Yeah.” She doesn’t sound excited. Not like she did when she was talking about her TikTok account. “We’re trying to set something up now.”
“Why do you say that’s both good and bad news?”
“Well…I guess I just…don’t want to go back to the nine-to-five grind,” she admits with a laugh. She pauses, and it’s the perfect moment for me to add more. To tell her that maybe she could stay in Bayshore, be closer to me, see where this thing between us goes.
But I say nothing. Because I can’t go there. I already know what’s at the end of that road. Disappointment. Heartbreak. Loss.
“It’s cool you’ve made the first cut, though,” I finally say before grabbing the trays from the microwave. I take a quick taste of the Tuscan salmon. I sigh with pleasure—Juan is good.
“Everything good over there?”
“Super good. It’s Juan’s lunch for today. I wish you were here to try it.”
“Man, you hockey players are living the dream. Private chefs, downtown condos, free ice baths…”
“With 4:30 wake-up calls and zero time for family eight months of the year,” I finish for her.
“Yeah, there’s that too,” she concedes.
“I got some good news though this morning,” I tell her, tamping down my excitement. “Dex gave me the green light to return to the ice for next season. If they renew me, that is.”
Casey gasps. “Griff! That’s incredible!”
“Yeah.” I try some more salad. “Mmm. There’s pine nuts in this salad.”
“Oooh, pine nuts? What else?”
I push the leaves around. “Cranberries. Feta. Carrot. Dang, Juan is a salad beast.”
“Well, thanks for calling to let me know how good your salad is,” she teases.
“Anytime,” I laugh. “Hey, you’re working tonight, right?”
“Sure am. Book Rec Bartender at your service.”
“All right.” I stab another cherry tomato, feeling my heart swell. “I’ll pick you up.”
I can hear the smile in her voice as she says, “I’ll be waiting for you.”
Pushing through the doors of Brews on the Bay is practically a ritual by late July. I’ve done this so many times, the place feels like a second home. Immediately the hooting begins.
“Keegannnn.” A Bayshore local and hockey fan we affectionately call Jersey Dick shoots his hands in the air as I walk in. Others follow suit. Weak clapping follows.
But I only see one person.
My Book Rec Bartender.
Casey is deep in conversation with a customer, and from how animated they both are, I can tell they’re really excited about whatever they’re talking about. Casey’s gaze swings my way next, and her face lights up as she gasps.
“Here he is!” she says, gesturing to me and looking back at the customer.
The other lady swings her head my way. She’s older, with thick, dark glasses and a smart blazer. I’ve never seen her before, but she certainly seems happy to see me. I head to the bar and slide onto the barstool next to her.
“Hello, ladies.”
“Griffin Keegan, am I glad to see you.” The lady touches my bicep, but not in a weird way. Not like most women at a bar would. I’m getting grandmotherly vibes here. “You don’t know me, but I sure know you. I’m Renee Frankel.”
She holds out her hand, and I shake it. “Nice to meet you, Renee. What can I do for you?”