Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Maddox
The hotel ceiling has thirty-six tiny holes in the acoustic tile directly above my bed.
I’ve counted them twice.
Once after we landed, once after the game.
It’s past midnight now, and the room’s too quiet. Too clean. Too cold in a way that has nothing to do with the thermostat.
The blackout curtains don’t block enough city noise. The bed’s too soft. The air smells like lemon disinfectant and recycled air, not bergamot and leather and something sharp like a warning.
Not like her.
I scrub a hand down my face and shift on the mattress, shoulder twinging from the hit I took in the second period.
Doesn’t matter.
The ache I feel isn’t in the muscle.
It’s under the skin.
Between being on the road and sneaking around, I haven’t heard her voice or touched her skin since I kissed her goodbye seventy-two hours ago.
But I can still taste her in my mouth, feel the imprint of her thighs around my waist, the drag of her nails down my back when I pushed into her like I was starving.
And I was.
I still am.
Fuck, I thought that night in the suite would burn it out of me. Instead, it lit something I can’t put out.
I roll onto my side and grab my phone off the nightstand. No new texts. No missed calls. No headlines—yet.
But that doesn’t mean anything.
And we weren’t careful.
Center ice. Her in my arms. Mouths locked, like we were alone in the world.
And then her hand pulling mine into the tunnel. Her voice in the dark. That kiss that stripped me bare.
We were reckless. Bold. Feral.
And I’d do it all over again.
But now, lying here alone, surrounded by things that aren’t hers, I can’t stop thinking about the cost.
If someone saw us.
If someone talked.
If this whole thing explodes.
What happens to her then?
I thumb over her name in my phone. Just her first name. No last name. No emojis. No photo. Just Sloane.
I don’t text.
I don’t call.
Instead, I toss the phone back on the nightstand and stare up at the ceiling again.
Thirty-six holes. Perfectly spaced. Probably machine-punched.
She’d hate them.
I turn my head to the right. My duffel bag sits in the chair, half-zipped. On top of the pile is the gray hoodie I shoved in last-minute before we left.
The one she wore once.
I drag it toward me like a fucking lunatic and bury my face in the cotton. It still smells faintly like her shampoo.
Like lavender and ambition and late-night sin.
I let myself hold it there, just for a minute.
Just long enough to remember what it felt like to be wanted by someone who knows what it costs.
Ice time on the road always feels like borrowed space. Neutral walls, neutral lines, no logo under your blades. Nothing to ground you.
You have to make your own edge.
Which works fine for me.
I’ve been edge and nothing else for years.
I hit the ice first, do my usual warmup drills, and let my body take over while my head tries to level out.
It doesn’t. The glide’s off. The rhythm’s wrong. My balance is fine, but something inside feels...misaligned.
Sloane’s voice is still in my head. Her nails still on my back. The taste of her still in my goddamn mouth.
“You always skate like a psychopath, or just today?”
Finn. Loud as hell, gliding up beside me like he owns the rink.
“Don’t you have some chaos to go cause elsewhere?” I mutter.
He grins. “I am the chaos.”
I cut away from him, chasing speed. If I can’t get her out of my head, maybe I can at least burn her out of my muscles.
After drills, we head to the weight room. The usual noise—jokes, shit talking, music that’s too loud.
I towel off, neck still damp, and grab a bottle of water. That’s when I feel it.
The rookie shadow.
Cal’s not obvious about it. He’s not clingy. Doesn’t ask questions. He just…watches. Studies.
I catch him mid-set, lifting clean, form tight, eyes flicking to me between reps.
I take a swig of water and nod at his stance. “You keep your knees locked like that, you're gonna blow’ em by midseason.”
He pauses. Adjusts. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t puff up or over-apologize like some wide-eyed rookie looking for approval.
It’s not the first time he’s hovered nearby, either. He’s quiet. Steady. Like he’s trying to download everything just by standing close enough.
Later, in the locker room, the vets are laying into him. Nothing brutal. Just the usual quips.
“You still bringing your mom’s casserole to team dinners?” Finn throws out.
Riley smirks. “Bet he’s got his name stitched in his jockstrap.”
“Better stitched than scratched,” Cal fires back, voice deadpan.
That earns a few laughs. Finn claps him on the back.
The kid doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t laugh too hard either. He just takes it. Rides it out.
I like that.
There’s something there.
“Don’t let’ em smell blood,” I tell him as I drop to the bench next to him, unwrapping tape from my wrist. “If they do, they’ll start circling and they won’t stop.”
He nods slowly, chewing on that. “So what—you just take the hits and pretend you like it?”
I shrug. “You skate through it. You hit back later. On the ice.”
He’s quiet a second, then says, “Guess that means I’ve gotta skate hard enough they choke on it.”
It’s not cocky. Not clean, either. But it’s got teeth.
I glance sideways at him. Cal’s watching me again, but not like he wants to be me. Like he wants to understand me.
And that unsettles me more than I care to admit.
The hotel lounge is too damn bright. Overhead lights buzzing, TV blaring some late-night highlight reel. Half the team’s spread out on couches and barstools, nursing recovery shakes or picking at overpriced snacks from the counter.
I’ve got my back to the wall, legs stretched out, hoodie pulled over my head like I’m off-limits. Doesn’t stop them.
Riley drops onto the armrest beside me, shaking a granola bar in my face. “You gonna stare at your phone all night or finally admit you’re in your feelings?”
I don’t look up. “Fuck off.”
Finn pipes up from the couch, sprawled across it like a golden retriever in a frat house. “Pretty sure he’s writing poetry in his Notes app. Real deep stuff.”
He clutches his chest dramatically. “Her eyes were like skates on fresh ice…her touch, a penalty I’d take twice.”
Laughter rolls across the room.
I stay silent. Let them have it.
Because the worst part? They’re not entirely wrong.
My phone’s in my hand. Again.
Sloane hasn’t texted.
And I sure as hell haven’t either.
Which is smart. Professional. Clean.
But it fucking sucks.
Across the room, Cal’s sitting at the high-top table, protein bar in one hand, water in the other. He’s not laughing with the others. Not chiming in.
He’s watching me again.
Not with judgment. Not with curiosity either. Just…focus. Like he’s learning the game off the ice too.
I let my head fall back against the wall, eyes closed, jaw tight.
Kid doesn’t know what he’s seeing.
But he’s seeing it.
I should head up to my room, but for once in my career, I’d rather be around my teammates, even if it means they make me crazy.
I’d rather be with them than be alone. And I don’t quite know what to do with that.
After a while, the room thins out.
Beau’s phone buzzes, and when he sees the name, his whole face softens. “Hey, my baby girl,” he says under his breath, already standing.
He throws a casual wave over his shoulder as he heads for the hallway, smile still tugging at his mouth.
Thankfully Riley and Finn—arguing over some player’s stats—decide to hit the weight room again, the silence in their wake like a rumble.
Logan and Eli peel off next, quiet and efficient, mid-conversation about zone entries and defensive breakdowns.
Jace lingers a little longer, throwing me a sharp look like he wants to say something, then thinks better of it and leaves without a word.
That just leaves Cal.
He finishes the last bite of his protein bar, crumples the wrapper, and drops it into the trash. Then he walks over—not close, but just enough that I can’t ignore it.
“You good?” he asks.
It’s not nosy. Just simple. Direct. Like he actually gives a shit.
I nod. “Fine.”
Cal doesn’t move. Doesn’t push. Just watches me for a second longer, then says, “You’ve been different lately. Quieter.”
I arch a brow. “That your subtle way of saying I’m off my game?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “You’ve been sharp in net. Just… different. Like something’s shifted.”
I lean back against the couch, eyeing him. “You ever think maybe the shift’s just settling in?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s something else.”
There’s a pause, just long enough to make me feel like he’s trying to read me.
“You don’t talk much,” I say. “Most rookies won’t shut up.”
He smiles faintly. “I talk when it matters.”
That actually earns a quiet laugh from me. “Smart.”
Cal nods again, then glances toward the hallway. “Night, Lasker.”
“Hey.”
He turns back.
“Don’t let them break you,” I say. “The noise, the pressure, the bullshit. You keep skating your game, and you’ll last.”
He holds my gaze. “I know. Thanks.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
I sit there a while longer. Long after the last joke fades, the last screen clicks off, and the lounge settles into silence.
By the time I make it back to my room, my legs are heavy, and my shoulder’s already starting to stiffen.
I grab an ice pack from the mini freezer, a fresh towel and drop it on the ache, before crashing back against the mattress like the night’s been waiting to cave in around me.
After a while, the ice pack’s gone warm against my shoulder, sweat beading where it’s soaked through the towel. I should get up and swap it.
Move. Shower. Sleep. Something.
But I don’t.
I lie there in the dark, one arm draped across my chest, staring at the faint green glow of the clock on the nightstand.
1:47 a.m.
I scroll through my phone. Again.
No messages.
No headlines.
No pictures.
But I feel it.
That night is still under my skin.
The look in her eyes when I touched her like she was mine. The way she let me in—truly in—not just to her body, but her space.
That suite. That hidden part of her world no one else gets to see.
She let me see it.
And fuck if it didn’t undo me.
I swipe to her contact. Just her name, still sitting there.
She’s probably asleep.
Or working. Or locked behind whatever steel-plated walls she’s built back up since I left.
She’s not mine. Not really.
But it felt like she was.
And that’s the problem.
I drop the phone on my chest and close my eyes.
And then, without warning, Cal’s face flashes in my head.
That quiet way he watches. That steady presence. The way he didn’t laugh when the others did.
He’s twenty-four. Barely out of college. He has no idea what he’s walking into every night. But he’s already learning. Watching me like I’m someone worth mirroring.
And that—
That might scare me more than anything.
Because I’m not built to be followed.
I’m built to survive.
But now I’ve got a rookie watching my every move, and a woman I can’t stop wanting—even if wanting her might burn the whole damn thing down.
I drag the towel off my shoulder and turn onto my side, staring at nothing.
I don’t know how to be what either of them needs.
But I know this much:
I’ll move heaven and earth not to let either of them down.