Chapter 24 #2
“And that’s all?” Reid asks, skeptically. “You had dinner and a tour that didn’t include you taking off your pants.”
“We kissed.”
“Like the song,” Shelby confirms.
“Yeah,” I admit, my chest tightening. “Like the song.”
“And you didn’t try to sleep with her?” Reid raises an eyebrow.
I huff a dark laugh. “You know how I am, I wouldn’t have not slept with her.”
“Like a dog with a boner.”
Shelby smacks him on the arm. “Gross.”
But I can’t help laughing too, even if it’s bitter.
“He’s not wrong. I’ve never forced anyone–ever–but I usually don’t have to do much to charm a woman.
With Ingrid…” I trail off, the memory hitting hard.
“She kissed me, but there was this hesitation. This mistrust and obviously some baggage. I respected that. Then she walked away.” My throat feels tight, but I push on.
“When she showed up in Chicago, I was shocked. I honestly never thought I’d see her again.
Then we actually got to know one another. And I didn’t even mind waiting.”
Reid studies me for a long moment, then lets out a low whistle. “That’s how you know it’s real. You didn’t care about getting laid. You cared about her.”
Shelby nods, softer now. “Exactly. Ingrid’s not just another girl on your list. She never was. That’s why you wrote her name down in the first place, because she was different. She wasn’t a conquest. She was a manifestation.”
Her words dig deep, twisting in my chest. Different. Always different. That’s why she’s in my head every damn minute, why no one else even registers anymore.
But now? Now I may have run out of chances.
Because how the hell do you get to a girl like Ingrid Flockton when she doesn’t want to see you?
Reese drives, one hand draped on the wheel, the other flipping the radio stations until he lands on some old country song he hums under his breath. I stare out the window, jaw tight, phone facedown in my lap.
We’re rounding the corner by campus, the arena coming into view, when a guy steps out from the sidewalk.
Reese mutters, “Shit,” under his breath, slowing the truck.
I haven’t opened social media since Ingrid hung up on me. The silence between us is bad enough–I don’t need to scroll through a feed full of speculation, fan edits, and headlines dissecting every breath we’ve ever taken together.
The guy, different from the one I knocked to the ground a few weeks before, beelines for my side of the car, eyes sharp, mouth already moving as I open the door. “Jefferson, what do you have to say about–”
“No comment,” I snap before he can finish.
He keeps pace as we get out, grabbing our bags out of the back, relentless. “No comment to the fact that Ingrid was seen with Jake Merchant at the post-tour wrap party?”
My foot slips like it forgot what it’s supposed to be doing. The words hit me sideways, sharp and hot, like someone just shoved a live wire under my skin. Jake. Merchant.
Well. That was fast.
Reese reacts before I can. He circles the front of the car, his body a solid wall between me and the reporter. “He said no comment,” Reese growls, his voice low enough to mean business. “And get the fuck out of here before I call security.”
The reporter falters, but doesn’t stop scribbling in his notebook.
I follow Reese toward the doors, but all I can hear is the echo of that sentence. Ingrid was with Jake. The thought coils in my chest like something mean and hungry, and for the first time since she hung up, the silence between us feels less like punishment and more like the end.
Were the rumors about Ingrid and Jake right all along? Does she really run back to him every single time? Maybe this time I was the rebound?
“I’m assuming you didn’t know that,” he says, pushing the door open.
“No.”
“That sucks, man.” I wait for the lecture or some kind of spirited pep-talk from my captain, but he just shakes his head and enters the arena.
The lack of commentary from him is unsettling.
Does that mean he thinks I should give up?
That I fucked up so badly there’s no chance Ingrid will ever speak to me again.
“I’ve just never had this happen before.”
“Had what happen?” he asks.
“A woman ignoring me.” The internal conflict is unbearable. “Or publicly using me as a rebound.” I can’t quite comprehend it or the mix of emotions in my gut. “There’s the feeling of being used and, fuck, is this what she feels like? Did we use each other?”
“I’m not sure any of that is happening.”
“Maybe not, but I don’t even know how long I should wait before I try again. Or should I just let it go and cut my losses?”
“Maybe just give her time to cool off. Sometimes women need space.”
Well that isn’t helpful. Time is running out, each second speeding by faster than the last.
Music filters out of the weight room before we even reach the doors. A heavy beat, the kind of stuff Axel likes to work out to, filters down the hall.
“You ready for this?” I ask, not sure myself.
“It’ll be fine. We don’t have a dog in this fight,” he says as a way to keep perspective. “All we’re doing is smoothing the transition.”
The year after a big win can be tough, especially when you’re graduating out a lot of upperclassmen from the starting roster.
That’s probably why Coach is taking the risk on three guys from a junior college team.
But the details–that they were part of the Serendee cult?
There’s no other excuse than Bryant has a soft heart.
Right? He gave us a heads-up on the recruits: Holt and the Ward Brothers.
Defense, center, and a right winger. He said they’re rough, not quite as refined as the team we had this year.
The doors swing open and the music hits first–heavy bass that rattles in my chest.
“Jesus, did Axel leave his playlist up?” I joke. Four years of having to rotate through everyone’s music, I could guess one of the guy’s rotations in my sleep.
Three guys look up as we step inside, the kind of pause where everyone measures everyone else before deciding what to do next.
The one at the rack straightens, hand on the bar. Blond, built like a wall, sweat darkening the cut collar of his sweatshirt. The graphic on the front says, “Clinton Community College.” His eyes cut toward us, gray and sharp, and it feels like walking into a spotlight.
“Jeb Holt,” he says, voice low.
The guy on the bench peels tape from his fingers.
Dark hair is plastered damp to his forehead, the fabric from his threadbare t-shirt stuck to his back.
There’s a restless energy rolling off him, like he’s had too much caffeine or not enough sleep.
“Gideon Ward,” he adds, tossing the roll of tape onto the floor.
His tone is lighter, but his gaze lingers too long, curious in a way that isn’t entirely comfortable.
The last one doesn’t move from where he’s posted up against the shoulder press, arms down by his side, hands balled into fists.
Black hair curls at his temples. He’s leaner than the others, but no less ripped.
His eyes locked on the ground in front of him, jaw clenched tight as he flexes his thighs and pushes up.
Gideon jerks his thumb at him. “That’s my brother Noah over there trying to beat a personal record.”
Reese clears his throat, stepping in. “I’m Reese and this is Jefferson.
I nod. “Welcome to Wittmore. Looks like you’ve got a head start on us.”
The gym is kind of the perfect place for an intro like this.
For athletes this is our language and nothing breaks tension like moving weight.
Everyone falls into their own pattern. Reese and I spot for one another, like we’ve done for the past four years.
There’s a little small talk, and everyone’s civil enough, but underneath, there’s something else.
It’s in the way these guys move: like a unit.
Something deeper than just being teammates, which would track with Noah and Gideon being brothers.
Twins? It’s hard to tell since they’re not identical, but there’s enough similarities to see they’re related.
Shoulder to shoulder, even when they’re on opposite sides of the room.
I’ve only seen that kind of bond in brothers, or in guys who’ve been through some real shit together.
Holt racks his bar and wipes sweat off his face, casual as hell, asks, “So, the Frozen Four. What was it like?”
There’s no doubt what he means. Winning. What was it like to win?
“Incredible,” Reese says, “especially after coming up short last year.”
“Vindication makes it sweeter,” Noah says.
“So much fucking better,” I reply with a laugh.
Later, Gideon leans over a bar and asks, “You’re the one dating the pop princess, right?”
I pause, grip tightening on the dumbbells. “You know her?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t grow up with access to electronics. But we do now. Everyone knows Ingrid Flockton.”
Automatically, I picture telling Ingrid later that even guys who grew up off the grid know her name.
She’d laugh and roll her eyes at me. But the smile slips almost as fast. Because the truth hits me square in the chest: she hasn’t returned a call, hasn’t answered a text, not since she hung up on me.
Why the hell does it hurt that much?
Thank fuck, Reese takes mercy on me and switches the subject. “You dating anyone?”
Something passes through the room at that question. Subtle. Silent. Unspoken.
Jeb shakes his head. “Nah. We’re focused on this. Women are a distraction.”
“Ah,” I laugh. “The puck bunnies are going to love you.”
Reese snorts in agreement, but the guys look uninterested.
That kind of restraint is something I’ve never had to contend with.
Four years. Four years of fucking my way across campus.
Every girl in the stands or at a party, or at the bar.
I gave all that up for Ingrid and have no regrets, but the way they lived with the arranged marriages and shit like the people in Serendee? Hell. Fucking. No.
As we go through the reps, I can’t stop wondering how much baggage they’re carrying from those years.
From the documentary Twyler made us all watch, I remember the rules: no dating.
Marriages were arranged by the cult leader–if he decided to grant one in the first place and not keep the women for himself.
I glance at them again. Jeb’s arms are over his head, loosely holding the pull up bar, watching while Gideon lays on his back, with his brother sliding heavier and heavier weights on the edge of the bar.
They’re all quiet, but not closed off. It’s more like they’re communicating silently, through their eyes and actions.
Later, we lace up and move to the ice. The chill hits my face the second we step onto the rink, but it’s welcome. Cleaner. Sharper. Less claustrophobic than the weight room.
They already have sticks in hand, gliding along the boards, testing edges, snapping passes between themselves with an easy rhythm that makes me pause. They’re coordinated, tight, like a single unit despite having just met us.
I skate over to Reese, my shoulder brushing against his. “You see that,” I say, watching as they run through a passing drill. “There’s history in how they move together.”
Reese gives me a look. “Yeah, I can see that.”
I can’t stop watching them. The subtle way they shift, the way Cross shields Ward from a check, the way Holt anticipates both of them before they make a move. It’s the kind of connection that comes from more than just hockey drills. Whatever happens next year, it’s going to be interesting.