Chapter 4 - Nate
We should still be playing hockey.
Instead, the season’s dead and the sun’s too bright.
First-round exit. The kind that leaves a mark you can’t tape over. Everyone says, You’ll get ’em next year, but nobody means it. Not when the captain’s supposed to carry the team past round one. Not when the city’s already switched its loyalty to something else for the summer.
Brielle didn’t want to stay home and sulk through the off-season. “Somewhere hot,” she said, “somewhere where it matters to be seen.”
So we flew south with two of my teammates and their girlfriends, half hockey, half social-media royalty. Brielle hates being called an influencer now. She says brand architect like it’s a degree.
I’m at the pool bar when she appears in a tiny bikini, oversized hat, sunglasses big enough to hide behind. The world stops breathing for a second before it exhales again.
I feel that old pride. The kind that makes my shoulders square. She’s mine.
I remember last night: sand in our hair, heat under our skin, the hiss of the shower after the beach.
Her mouth tasted like salt and tequila. Her body pressed against the tile until she shooed me out so she could “do her nighttime routine.” Forty-five minutes of products I can’t pronounce.
I’d fallen asleep before she came to bed.
This morning started with cameras.
She gave me the shorts to wear and told me to make sure the logo was in the shot, perched on the balcony, golden light spilling across her. “Just one of you, babe. Casual. Like you’re not posing. I want it to feel authentic.”
I leaned on the railing, squinting into the sun, trying to look effortless while she adjusted angles and filters.
She captioned it ‘Off-season, on cloud nine ????’ before breakfast.
And for the first time, the thought slipped through me:
It would be authentic if I went home instead of being here.
It startled me. I blamed the heat, the exhaustion, the way my body still ached for the ice. This is what I wanted, right? I had to remember that. The sun, the luxury, the woman everyone stares at. Proof that I made it.
She spots me watching her and waves me over, phone always in her hand. I push off the bar, walk straight into the glare, and kiss her hard enough to draw cheers from the loungers. Her fingers dig lightly into my shoulders; her laugh vibrates against my mouth.
When I pull back, I grab a handful of her hair at the base of her neck, just to keep her close a second longer. She smells like coconut and something expensive.
She leans in, lips brushing my ear.
“Don’t you dare ruin my hair.”
I chuckle, pretending it doesn’t sting. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Brielle.”
She smiles for the camera again, radiant, untouchable. Everyone’s looking at us, the golden couple, the captain and the brand.
And I tell myself this is everything.
That the heat, the noise, the spotlight... this is the dream.
But somewhere under all that sun, I can still feel the ice calling.
Cold, clean, honest.
—
The clang of plates is a rhythm that calms me.
Metal on metal. Sweat and determination. The steady burn that reminds me I’m built for this.
Half the team’s in here. Everyone’s loose, laughing, trying to sweat off the off-season indulgence.
I rack the bar and drop into a set of squats when Anders calls across the room, voice full of that shit-eating grin.
“Hey, Captain! You see the interview your girl gave last night?”
A few heads swivel. I keep my eyes forward. “Which one?”
He shrugs with a look on his face that says 'how the fuck would I know' “The gala thing, red dress, perfect lighting. The reporter asked when you two are finally tying the knot. She said, he pitches his voice higher while sticking a hip out, ‘Oh, you’ll know soon enough.’ The press ate that shit up. You’re toast, man. She’s got your whole life planned out like her content calendar. ”
Laughter ricochets off the concrete walls. Someone adds, “Don’t forget the hashtag, #SponsoredByLove.”
I re-rack the bar, grab a towel, and shrug like it’s nothing. “Isn’t that part of it? You know, brand alignment, media visibility. Comes with the job.”
The older guys go quiet for half a beat. Then Reeves, the one everyone listens to, wipes sweat off his brow and shakes his head.
“Nah, Captain. That’s what they want you to think. Being good at hockey’s got nothing to do with playing celebrity. Hockey’s hockey. The rest is noise.”
He picks up his water bottle. “You decide what your life looks like off the ice. You wanna be a brand instead of a human, that’s on you. But don’t confuse it with the game.”
The room hums around us. I laugh once, forced, pretending it rolls off.
But something in his tone sticks.
Before I can answer, Colby, who is currently dating one of Brielle’s influencer friends, grins and says, “Whatever, man. I worked my ass off to get here. The money, the fame, the girls, that’s my reward.”
Across the benches, Jensen snorts. “My reward’s lacing up every night. Playing the game I love for fans who spend their hard-earned cash just to watch us skate.”
Their voices blur. The clangs, the laughter, all background noise while something inside me stirs.
Because I do love her.
I remember the first time she kissed me after a win, she pulled me in close like she didn't care that I was sweaty, her whisper against my throat, “I’m so proud of you.”
I’d believed it.
I still want to.
The guilt crawls up before I can stop it. Who am I to doubt her? She’s always believed in me, always known how to handle the spotlight when I didn’t.
I tell myself Reeves is just old-school. Times change. This is the cost of success.
Still, the thought sticks.
Flashes of winter ice, my brother yelling, “Heads up!” as we tore across the frozen pond, breath sharp, hearts light.
When was the last time I felt that free?
That alive?
Someone yells for a spot. I drop the towel, move to help, and the moment is gone.
But it lingers in the corners.
Sweat dries. The clang fades.
And the question stays, quiet and relentless.
When did the love of the game start feeling like a performance?
And if I stop pretending, what’s left of me?