Chapter Seven
SIDNEY
The sound of pucks smacking against the boards echoes through the arena, sharp and familiar—like a heartbeat I’ve known my whole life. Training camp has officially kicked off, and somehow, the entire place smells like a mix of sweat, tape, and determination.
Home sweet home.
I sit on the bench, tightening the straps on my leg pads, waiting for Mason to show up so we can catch up through the warm-up like usual.
The locker room feels weird without him this morning.
It’s not like him to be late to practice.
Especially when training camp has us forced together for a little over two weeks.
Mason, the Nighthawks’ leading defenseman, isn’t the loudest of the team, but he has presence on the ice. Not like our captain, Max, who is a walking megaphone and a constant source of chaos. Mason being missing for morning drills is, well, a red flag.
I scan the ice.
Forwards everywhere. Defensemen pairing off. A few rookies still look like anxious deer in the headlights. But no Mason. I frown, adjusting the last clip on my pads.
Hey, someone says behind the boards. Max leans against the glass with his elbows hooked over the top, helmet flipped up, expression serious. Looking for Mason? he asks.
Yeah. Where is he? Did he oversleep? I smirk. Did his new lady love finally smother him with a pillow?
Max doesn’t smile back. Oh. That’s not good. Max always has a quick smile.
He left last night, Max says quietly. Victoria was in an apartment fire.
My stomach drops. What?
She’s okay, he adds quickly. Some smoke inhalation and a wrecked apartment, but the fire spread fast on her floor. Mason got the call last night and bolted.
Jesus. I run a hand over my hair, helmet resting on my knee. Is she in the hospital?
No. From what Coach told me, the paramedics checked her over but didn’t admit her or anything. She’s fine, but the place is destroyed. Mason’s helping her get settled elsewhere.
I exhale, chest tight. Mason is the Golden Boy of the team. He could do no wrong, but the poor guy had never had great luck with relationships. Yet something’s clearly different with Victoria. Sounds like that man would run through a brick wall for her.
Coach says he’ll be here later, Max says. Don’t know if that’s true or if it’s Coach being optimistic, but…try not to worry.
Yeah. I nod. Thanks.
You need me for anything?
Nah, I’m good.
Max pushes off the glass and rejoins drills, leaving me sitting there, thinking about my friend and his girlfriend and how quickly life can flip on you.
Celebrity girlfriend too. The media will spin that fire six different ways before noon. I hope Mason is okay and that Victoria can bounce back.
And then—because my brain hates me—I think about Eddie. And how she hasn’t texted me back. I haven’t even received a stupid emoji.
Over the last four days, I sent her four messages. One for each day. All reasonable. All normal correspondence. All friendly and PG rated. None of my messages crossed the we’re currently just friends line.
Nothing. I got nothing. Not even an acknowledgment of her receiving the text. No dancing dots telling me she was potentially writing something back. Thinking of me, at least.
Day five was today, and if I send another one…God, that feels like a lot. Is it too much? Am I being too eager? I’ve never been in this situation before and don’t know what to do.
Jesus, Crane, I groan to myself. I’m overthinking everything when it comes to Eddie.
I’m not even a big texter, normally. But with her…every time my phone buzzes, my stomach does that ridiculous, teenage-boy swoop. And every time it isn’t her, I feel stupid.
Maybe I’d misread her. Maybe she’d been polite at the rink because Joey idolized me, but she thought I was just a dumb jock with a great smile. Maybe she thought giving me her number was a moment-of-pressure thing and not me showing a real interest.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been in anything serious. Longer since I’ve liked someone enough to feel this dumb. This hopeful and yet devastated at the same time. I rub my chest, annoyed at myself.
Get a grip, man. She owes you nothing.
Crane!
Coach Taylor’s voice tears through my thoughts like a slapshot.
I snap my head up. Yeah?
Get your ass in the crease and warm up. We’re starting drills in five.
Right. I need to get focused and in my zone. Closing my eyes, I take a moment and focus on my breathing. In a matter of seconds, my mind clears and all the tension that was slowly building melts away. With one last exhale, I open my eyes and nod, ready.
Let’s do this. I shove my helmet on, secure my gloves, and stand. The moment my skates hit the ice, everything in me aligns.
This place—this painted sheet of frozen order—makes sense in a way the rest of life rarely does. Here, nothing is confusing. Here, I don’t have to interpret mixed signals or overthink text messages or wonder what I mean to someone.
On the ice, it’s simple.
Win or lose. Save or let it in. Fight or flee.
I push off, gliding into the crease. The ice hums under my blades, familiar and steady.
And for the first time all week, my thoughts go quiet. I leave the outside world behind and let my instincts take over.