Chapter 2 #2
“Leo’s dating the bakery owner, right?” Blake says, like he’s listing facts off a stat sheet. “Is she the coworker or something?”
“Coworker, but friend first, I think,” I say, because it’s clear in the way Tess keeps touching Gwen’s elbow, checking in without making it obvious. “They’re close. At least that’s what Leo said.”
Blake hums again. “So she’s in your orbit now.”
I glare. “She’s not in my orbit.”
Blake’s eyes sparkle. “Zane.”
I grit my teeth. “We’re at a charity event.”
“And you’re distracted.”
“I’m not distracted.”
Blake’s grin widens. “Sure.”
It’s infuriating when someone says sure like they know you’re full of it.
The announcer calls the players back into position for a quick demo segment, something about shooting pucks at targets for donations. I skate to my spot automatically, muscle memory doing the work while my brain stays stubbornly on Gwen.
I tell myself it’s nothing. Curiosity. Basic human empathy. She fell. I helped. The end.
The segment starts. Pucks fly. Targets clang. The crowd cheers, money gets raised, and everyone wins. I move through it like I’m watching myself from a few feet away, performing the role I’ve performed a thousand times.
Smile at the right moments.
Wave to the kids.
Stop for a picture.
Sign something tossed over the boards.
Don’t look too serious.
Don’t look too tired.
Don’t look like you’d rather be anywhere else.
When it ends, we skate off.
The tunnel into the back areas of the rink is warmer, quieter, and instantly smells like sweat, rubber, and that sharp tang of disinfectant that lives in every arena on earth. The sound changes too, from echoing crowd noise to the clack of skates on concrete and the hum of machinery.
We hit the locker room, and the usual chaos greets us: guys half undressed, someone blasting music from a phone, trainers moving through with clipboards and ice packs, equipment managers wearing the weary expressions of people who have seen things.
It’s loud. Familiar. Safe.
And it’s exactly the kind of place where I should not be thinking about a woman named Gwen who fell on the ice in front of a crowd and then joked about it like she was trying to outrun the sting.
I drop onto the bench in front of my stall and start untying my skates.
Blake plops down beside me.
“Zane,” Blake says, voice dropping just enough so it doesn’t carry across the room. “Leo is your buddy. Leo is dating Tess. Tess is Gwen’s person.”
I pause. He’s right. It’s simple. It’s social math, not rocket science. And the fact that the thought sparks something like relief in my chest is… uncomfortable.
“Even if I were to reach out,” I say, too carefully, “it doesn’t matter.”
Blake’s eyes narrow, the teasing fading. “Why not?”
Because it’s complicated. Because everything is complicated. Because the second I get anywhere near a woman I actually like, the outside world shows up with cameras, opinions, and cruelty disguised as commentary.
Because I’ve watched it happen, I’ve watched girlfriends get ripped apart online.
I’ve watched women cry over things strangers said about their bodies, their faces, their clothes, their alleged motives.
I’ve watched people decide a woman is a gold-digger even if she’s richer than I am.
I’ve watched them decide she’s a distraction, a mistake, a PR stunt, a slut, a saint, a villain, anything except a person.
And Gwen…
She already looks like someone who’s had to be tough.
Not the loud, aggressive kind of tough. The quieter kind. The kind that grows when you learn early that the world will judge you no matter what you do, so you might as well control the narrative first.
If she got dragged into my world, I don’t know if I could stand watching that happen to her.
“Zane,” Blake says, nudging my knee. “Talk.”
I exhale slowly.
“It’s not a good idea,” I say.
Blake’s gaze sharpens. “Why?”
I don’t answer immediately.
Around us, the room is still loud. Someone’s telling a story about missing a flight. Someone else is arguing about playlists. Our goalie is eating something that smells like it came straight out of a protein lab.
Normal.
I latch onto normal.
“Because she’s not…” I stop again, the words catching in my throat.
Because the truth is, she is my type. Whatever type I thought I had, Gwen cuts straight through it. I haven’t had the chance to really know her yet, but I know enough.
I think about how gorgeous she is. The stories she might tell. The thoughts she probably keeps to herself.
Blake watches me, patient for once.
I settle on the part I can actually say. “Because she’s not built for this.”
Blake’s mouth tightens. “You mean your fame. Everything that comes with being on the team.”
I flinch.
“Yeah,” I admit. “My… everything.”
Blake leans back, eyes on the ceiling. “You don’t get to decide what people can handle,” he says, echoing a principle we’ve drilled into rookies a thousand times. Don’t baby them. Don’t limit them.
I swallow. “I’m not deciding. I’m just…”
“Scared,” Blake finishes, too gently.
My jaw tightens. I yank off my other skate and set it down harder than necessary.
“I’m tired,” I correct.
Blake doesn’t push. He nods like he understands that tired is sometimes code for I can’t talk about this without cracking open.
He stands, slaps my shoulder once. “I’m going to shower,” he says. “Try not to brood so hard you sprain something.”
I flip him off, not bothering to hide the affection.
When he walks away, I sit there for a second, skates off, thoughts loud, then stand and head for the showers.
Hot water hits, blasting away sweat and tension. The steam fogs my brain enough to quiet everything.
But the second I’m dressed again in sweats, hoodie, cap low, the thoughts come back.
Gwen.
I tell myself it’s because I’m concerned. Because she fell. Because she might be hurt.
But I saw her stand up. I saw her laugh. I saw her leave the ice under her own power. She’s fine.
So why am I still thinking about her?