Chapter 36
The practice facility was packed Monday morning. Media, staff, players’ families—everyone wanted to see Andrew Knox on the ice. His suspension was officially lifted. He was back on the roster, back where he belonged.
There was no way in the world I was going to miss it either, so I stayed in the stands, watching the team warm up on the ice.
Andrew stepped onto the ice like he’d never left. The rest of the team noticed immediately. Sticks started banging on the ice, voices shouting his name. Andrew just grinned, raised his stick in acknowledgment, and started skating.
And god, it was beautiful.
He moved like water. Like breathing. Fast, precise, effortless in a way that made it look easy when I knew it absolutely wasn’t.
This was what I’d fallen in love with about hockey in the first place. This.
Watching Andrew—watching him fly across the ice, watching the joy on his face, watching him fall back into rhythm with his team like he’d never been gone—
The whistle blew and practice started.
Andrew took a pass from Searcy, deked around two defenders like they weren’t even there, and fired the puck top shelf through a screen. The goalie didn’t even move. Didn’t have time.
The team erupted. Sticks banging on the ice, voices echoing through the rink.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” someone shouted. Morrison, maybe.
Andrew skated backward, grinning, arms spread like he was soaking in the attention.
Show-off.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I ignored it and kept watching Andrew. I watched him set up plays, watched the team fall into rhythm around him like they’d never been apart. The sound of skates on ice, puck hitting stick, the sharp whistle of the coach calling plays. Everything I loved about hockey was right in front of me.
Andrew scored again. Clean, beautiful, unstoppable.
This should be perfect.
My phone buzzed again.
No. Not now. Not during this.
But I pulled it out anyway and glanced at the screen.
Ben: Still thinking about our talk. Would love to catch up properly.
I stared at the message. At the words that looked so casual, so friendly, but weren’t. Nothing Ben said was ever just friendly.
I deleted the text and shoved my phone back in my pocket.
On the ice, Andrew was laughing at something Chappell said. The team was running a new drill, moving together like a single organism. This was what they’d been missing. This was what made them whole.
Andrew looked up at the stands. Our eyes met.
He winked, right there in the middle of practice, with half the team around him and media cameras in the corner.
I shook my head, but I was smiling.
My phone buzzed again.
This motherfucker.
I looked anyway.
Ben: I’m in Boston for another few weeks. Dinner?
I put my phone on silent and slid it into my jacket pocket where I couldn’t feel it vibrate.
The team eventually broke for water. Andrew skated over to the boards and stopped right below where I was sitting. He pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. His face was flushed, eyes bright, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.
“How’d I look?”
“Good,” I said honestly. “Really good. Like you never left.”
His grin widened. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You were at ninety-seven percent passing accuracy that last shift, and your zone exit speed looked faster than your pre-suspension averages.” I leaned forward slightly. “Plus you’re winning seventy-five percent of your board battles. You look happy out there.”
“You know it’s fucking sexy when you talk stats, right?” He was still smiling, eyes locked on mine.
My face heated. “Andrew—”
“What? It is.” He took a drink from his water bottle, still beaming. “But yeah, I am happy. Fuck, I missed this. Just being on the ice with them. You have no idea.”
“I can tell.” And I could. The tension he’d been carrying for weeks was gone. He looked lighter. Free.
“You staying for the whole practice?”
“Where else would I be?”
“I don’t know. Working. Being responsible.” He was still grinning, couldn’t seem to stop. “Boring shit.”
“Some of us have jobs.”
“You’re looking at your job right now, Quinn.” He gestured at himself, at the ice, at everything.
“You’re not wrong.” I smiled. “Now get back out there before Coach yells at you.”
“He can wait.” Andrew’s eyes softened slightly. “Thanks. For being here.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
As if on cue, coach whistled sharply. Andrew winked, pulled his helmet back on, and skated away. Fast, powerful, exactly where he belonged.
I watched him go, my chest warm.
He was back.
Andrew took the puck at center ice, accelerated past two defenders, and passed to Morrison. Morrison one-timed it into the net.
Perfect execution.
The team celebrated. Andrew skated past the stands again, caught my eye, and grinned.
That feeling in my chest—whatever it was—made it hard to breathe.
I didn’t have a name for it. Didn’t want to name it yet. But watching him out there, watching him be exactly who he was supposed to be—
It felt dangerous.
My phone buzzed again in my pocket.
I didn’t check it.
Later that afternoon, I was in Kirk’s office at the practice facility. Well, it wasn’t really an office; it was a converted storage room with a desk, two chairs, and a filing cabinet that looked like it had been kicked down a flight of stairs.
Kirk’s schedule was chaos.
“Okay,” I said, looking at my laptop. “You have media availability Wednesday at noon, which conflicts with your physical therapy appointment at one. So we need to move one of those.”
“Move the PT,” Kirk said without looking up from his phone. “Media’s mandatory.”
“Your shoulder—”
“Is fine. Move the PT.”
I made a note. “And Friday you have that charity thing for the children’s hospital.”
“Right. Yeah. I’m bringing my nephew.” He finally looked up. “Team feels complete again, you know? With Knox back. It’s like. . . I don’t know, man. It just feels right.”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?” Kirk tilted his head. “You’ve been weird all day.”
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
My phone screen lit up on the desk. Another text.
I flipped it face-down without reading it.
Kirk noticed. “Work stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“Must be important. You’ve checked your phone like twenty times.”
“It’s nothing. Just—” I stopped. Forced a smile. “Didn’t sleep well last night.”
Kirk studied me for a long moment. Then his phone rang, and he grabbed it. “Yeah? Oh hey, what’s up?”
I went back to my laptop while Kirk took the call. Tried to focus on his schedule, on the hundred small tasks that kept his life organized. But my phone kept lighting up on the desk.
I couldn’t help it. I flipped it over.
Ben: I know you’re seeing these, Matthew.
Ben: We should talk. For closure.
Ben: I really think it would be good for both of us.
Each text made my chest tighter. Made it harder to breathe.
“Matty.”
I looked up. Kirk had finished his call and was staring at me.
“You’re white as a sheet,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“I just—” I swallowed and shoved my phone into my pocket. “I told you. Didn’t sleep well.”
“Is it the job? Because if this is too much, we can—”
“It’s not the job.” I closed my laptop. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Kirk didn’t look convinced, but he let it go.
“Okay. Well, speaking of jobs—” He leaned back in his chair.
“There’s this sponsor thing Thursday night.
Kuzov Vodka is hosting some kind of celebrity mixer.
PR wants both teams there—Wardens and Sentinels.
They especially want Knox there since it’s his first public appearance since the suspension got lifted. ”
“Sounds like a circus,” I said.
“Yeah, probably. But it’s good for the brand or whatever.” Kirk shrugged. “Celebrities are supposed to show up too. You know, the usual Boston types. Actors, athletes from other teams. PR’s playing it up as this big networking thing.”
Celebrities.
Ben was a celebrity.
Ben was in Boston.
“You should come,” Kirk added. “Little Morrison won’t miss it, and probably Searcy, a couple other guys. It’ll be pretty chill.”
I forced myself to nod. “Yeah. Maybe.”
But my brain was already spinning.
Ben wouldn’t go to something like that. He was too busy. He was filming. He had better things to do than attend some vodka sponsor event in Boston.
Right?
Kirk went back to his phone, and I pulled out mine under the table.
I typed “Benjamin Harroway Boston” into the search bar.
The results loaded immediately.
Paparazzi photos. Ben at some upscale restaurant in the North End, looking perfect as always. Ben leaving a hotel downtown. Ben signing autographs on Newbury Street, smiling for the cameras.
The caption on one article read: “Benjamin Harroway Spotted in Boston Again—Filming or Pleasure?”
Another one: “Speed Run Star Enjoying Extended Boston Stay.”
My hands started shaking.
I scrolled further. Found an event listing for Thursday night.
“Celebrity Mixer at the Fairmont Copley Plaza. Sponsored by Kuzov Vodka. Celebrity attendees include. . .”
Benjamin Harroway was listed.
So were the Wardens.
So were the Sentinels.
I stared at the screen, my vision tunneling.
Someone could make the connection. Someone could dig up the old story. Find out I used to work for him. Ask why I left. Ask what happened.
What if Andrew found out that way? From some reporter at the event?
My phone buzzed.
Ben: I hear the Wardens will be at the Kuzov event Thursday. Will you be there as well? We should talk.
Then, seconds later:
Ben: Or I could talk to your hockey player instead. He seems interesting.
The threat was crystal clear.
If I didn’t show up, Ben would find Andrew himself.
I could skip the event. Fake sick. Invent an emergency with Angelica.
But Ben would find Andrew anyway. He’d introduce himself and mention that he knew me. Ben would plant seeds that would turn into questions I couldn’t answer.
I could warn Andrew. Tell him about Ben before Thursday. Explain everything—the hotel room, the NDA, the drugs, all of it.
And then I’d have to watch Andrew’s face change. Watch him realize I hadn’t told him the truth. That Ben still had power over me. That I was exactly as broken as I felt.
Or I could go. Be there. Try to intercept Ben before he got to Andrew. Try to manage it—like I’d managed everything else in my life.
It wasn’t really a choice.
I’d go. I’d handle it. I always did.
Andrew Knox’s career games played: 412.
The number didn’t help.
Goals: 187. Assists: 243.
They never helped anymore.
At the end of the day, I shoved my phone into my pocket, grabbed my jacket, and headed for the exit.
The building was quiet—empty offices, overhead lights clicking off one by one on their timers. Just the low hum of the HVAC system following me down the hall.
And then I heard it.
The scrape of blades on ice.
I stopped.
Listened.
Someone was still here.
I followed the sound past the locker rooms and into the rink. The overhead lights were dimmed—just the ice lights on, washing everything in cold white.
Andrew was alone on the ice.
Not practicing. Not drilling. Just skating.
Long, smooth strides. Effortless. The way he’d looked that morning during practice, but quieter now. More private. Like this was just for him.
I stopped at the boards and watched.
For a moment, everything else fell away. Ben, the texts, the event, the lies, the panic—all of it dissolved. It was just Andrew on the ice, moving like water, like breathing.
Andrew noticed me. He skated over and came to a stop at the boards in a spray of ice.
“Thought you left,” he said.
“I was about to.”
He looked at me for a long moment. I could see him trying to figure something out, trying to read what was wrong. But he didn’t ask.
Instead, he skated backward a few feet, then stopped.
“Just got off a call with Archibald’s team.
PR coordination bullshit for the rivalry promo.
” His jaw was tight. “I swear I hear more from Archibald’s agent than my own.
I needed to burn energy, and someone once told me that if I needed to do that, I should—”
“Skate.”
“Yeah.”
He left the ice and walked to the bench where he grabbed something. Andrew came back and dropped a pair of skates in front of me.
I stared at the skates. Then at Andrew.
“What’s this?”
“A toaster,” Andrew said, flatly. “What do you think it is, Quinn?”
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Probably Ben again. Probably another reminder that I was running out of time.
I looked at Andrew, who was waiting.
“Andrew, I—”
“Put the skates on, Matthew.”