18. Rhys
Rhys
The arena had gone quiet. Not silent—nothing that housed a full-sized rink ever achieved true silence—but muted. Dim. The kind of quiet that pressed against the ears after hours of crowd noise and skate blades carving ice.
I should've been home an hour ago.
Instead, I paced the upper corridor like something caged. Checked the locker room twice for equipment that didn't need checking. Pulled up practice footage on my tablet and stared at formations I'd already memorized, watching plays I could diagram in my sleep.
Restless didn't begin to cover it.
My phone sat heavy in my pocket. I hadn't checked it in twenty minutes. Didn't need to. She would've clocked out by now. Gone home. Put distance between us like I'd demanded without saying the words.
Good.
Distance. Space. Control.
The lie tasted bitter.
I stopped at the observation window overlooking the rink. Maintenance had shut down most of the overhead lights, leaving only the safety floods burning. The ice gleamed dull silver in the semi-darkness. Empty. Still. Waiting for morning skate to bring it back to life.
My reflection stared back from the glass—hoodie pulled up, jaw tight, exhaustion carved into every line of my face. I looked exactly like what I was: a man running from something he couldn't outpace.
Her.
The memory of her apartment. Her skin. The way she'd whispered don't let go like I was the only thing keeping her tethered to earth.
I'd left anyway. Walked out before dawn broke because staying would've been worse. Would've made it real. Would've forced me to admit I'd crossed every line I'd drawn for myself and wanted nothing more than to cross them again.
She was probably relieved I'd disappeared. Smart enough to recognize a mistake when she saw one. Young enough to bounce back from bad decisions faster than I ever could.
The thought should've comforted me.
It didn't.
I pushed away from the window and kept walking. My footsteps echoed too loud in the empty corridor. Heading nowhere. Just movement for movement's sake because standing still meant thinking, and thinking led straight back to places I couldn't afford to go.
Nearly midnight.
She was gone.
I was alone.
Exactly how it needed to be.
The practice hallway sat dark except for the emergency exit signs casting thin red light across the concrete floor. I shifted the duffel bag higher on my shoulder, equipment rattling inside with each step. Just needed to drop it in storage. Lock up. Leave.
Then I saw it. Draped over the back of a folding chair someone had left propped against the wall—soft gray fabric, too delicate for this space of sweat and testosterone and violence.
Her sweater.
I stopped mid-stride. Heart kicked once, hard enough to bruise.
She must've forgotten it. Rushed out after her shift without checking. Left it behind like she'd left pieces of herself scattered through my thoughts all damn day.
My hand moved before my brain caught up. Fingers closing around the fabric, lifting it from the chair. The material felt impossibly soft against my calloused palm. Worn thin in places. Cheap but well-cared-for. The kind of thing she probably couldn't afford to replace easily.
I should've set it down. Should've walked away. Should've left it for lost-and-found. Instead, I brought it closer.
The scent hit me like a fist to the sternum—her shampoo, something clean and faintly floral. The coffee smell that clung to everyone who worked the café. Underneath it all, something uniquely her. Warm. Sweet. Dangerous as hell to a man barely holding his control together.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I stood there breathing her in like some kind of addict. Like I hadn't just spent the entire week avoiding her. Like I hadn't walked out of her apartment before sunrise specifically to prevent moments like this.
Put it back.
The rational part of my brain screamed the command. Drop the sweater. Walk away. Maintain the distance I'd fought so hard to create.
My fingers tightened in the fabric instead.
She'd worn this. Recently enough that her scent still clung to every thread. She'd pulled it on over that tank top she favored, had maybe tugged the sleeves down over her hands when she got cold.
I was so fucked.
The sweater hung limp in my grip. Physical evidence of my complete inability to stay away from her. I couldn't even avoid her clothes.
A soft footstep behind me.
My entire body locked rigid. Every muscle tensed like I'd taken a hit I hadn't seen coming.
I turned.
Olivia stood at the corridor's edge, backlit by the emergency exit glow. Her bag hung loose from one shoulder. Eyes wide, lips parted on an inhale she forgot to release. Staring directly at me. At her sweater clutched in my fist.
The silence stretched thin enough to snap.
I watched her expression shift—confusion bleeding into hurt, then something fragile and desperate that looked dangerously like hope.
Her throat worked on a swallow. Waiting for me to explain why I held her clothing like it mattered.
Like I hadn't spent an entire week pretending she didn't exist.
Every carefully constructed wall I'd built crumbled to dust.
I couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't do anything except stand there exposed—the mask I wore for everyone else shattered completely under her gaze.
She took one hesitant step forward. She moved closer. Each footstep deliberate, careful—like approaching something wounded and dangerous.
"Why won't you look at me anymore?"
Her voice cracked on the question. Broke around the edges. But she held steady anyway, chin lifted despite the tremor running through her.
Panic slammed through my chest. White-hot. Suffocating.
The sweater dropped from my fingers. Hit the concrete with barely a whisper of sound. I turned away fast, putting my back to her, shoulders rigid enough to ache.
Don't do this. Don't make me explain.
"You shouldn't be here." The words came out harsher than I meant. Cold. Dismissive. Exactly what I needed them to be. "You need to go home."
"Rhys—"
"It was a mistake."
Silence crashed down between us. Heavy. Devastating.
I didn't turn around. Couldn't watch her face crumple under the weight of what I'd just said. Couldn't see the moment she understood I meant every word—that I'd categorized everything we'd done, everything we'd shared, as something I needed to erase.
Behind me, her breath hitched. Sharp. Pained.
I forced myself to stay frozen. Kept my expression locked down even though she couldn't see it. Every instinct screamed to turn back, to take the words back, to pull her close and apologize until she forgave me for being exactly what I'd always been—too damaged to deserve her.
"A mistake," she repeated.
The hurt in those two words nearly broke me.
I gripped the back of my neck, fingers digging too hard into muscle already tense enough to snap. "Yeah."
"So that's it? You just... what? Pretend it never happened?"
Yes. That's exactly what I do.
"Go home, Olivia."
"Stop telling me what to do."
Fire crept into her voice now. Anger chasing the hurt. Good. She should be angry. Should hate me for this. Would make walking away easier for both of us.
I still didn't turn around. "I'm trying to protect you."
"From what?" Her voice rose, cracking again. "From you? Because that's what it feels like—like you can't stand to be near me. Like touching me disgusted you so much you had to disappear before I woke up."
No. God, no.
My jaw clenched so tight something in my teeth ached.
I heard her move closer. Felt the air shift. The warmth of her body radiating against my back like a physical touch.
"You don't get to do that."
Her voice shook but held firm. Angry now. Raw.
"You don't get to pretend nothing happened." Another step. Close enough I could feel her breath. "You kissed me like you meant it. Like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. Then you vanish like I'm something you need to scrub off your skin."
My hands curled into fists at my sides. Every word landed like a blade between my ribs.
"It can't happen again." The response came automatic. Hollow. "You need distance. I shouldn't have touched you."
"Then stop acting like you want to."
The statement detonated between us.
I froze. Breath caught somewhere in my chest. Every defense I'd constructed crumbling to nothing under six simple words.
Stop acting like you want to.
Because she was right. Because despite every wall I'd thrown up, every attempt to create space, every cold word and averted gaze—she'd seen straight through to the truth underneath.
I wanted her. Again. Wanted her so badly it felt like dying.
She moved into my space before I could react. Suddenly, there—inches away, close enough I could count the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat.
I stepped back instinctively. My shoulders hit the wall. Trapped. Cornered by someone a foot shorter and half my weight, but somehow more powerful than any opponent I'd ever faced on the ice.
"Olivia—" Her name barely made it past my lips.
She placed both hands flat against my chest.
The contact burned through my hoodie. Hot. Shaky. Soft but determined. Her palms pressed over my heart like she could feel it trying to break through my ribcage.
I grabbed her wrists. Meant to push her away. Create the distance we desperately needed.
But my hands wouldn't cooperate.
My fingers wrapped around her wrists—gentle, trembling, holding her there instead of pushing her back. Betraying every intention I'd walked in here with.
She looked up at me. Eyes narrowed. Lips parted. Face flushed with anger and hurt and something else I couldn't let myself name.
"You're shaking," she whispered.
My grip tightened fractionally. "Stop."
"Stop what?"
Stop being everything I can't have. Stop looking at me like that. Stop making me want things I gave up years ago.
"This." The word came out broken. Desperate. "Whatever this is. It ends now."
"Liar."
Her pulse hammered against my thumbs. Quick. Frantic. Matching the rhythm of my own heart, trying to tear itself apart.