Grizz
The pine tree air freshener hanging from the driver’s rearview mirror is so strong, I can taste it in the back of my throat. It’s bothersome but the least of my worries. I sit low, one arm draped over my duffel, forehead resting lightly against the cold glass as the city slides by.
We lost both games on the roadie.
Not blowouts. Far worse. They were both tight games and completely winnable for us. The kind of games that live in your head because they hinge on key moments, on you doing the thing you’re paid to do and not doing it when it matters most.
I didn’t score.
Not in Carolina. Not in Toronto.
Because my teammates are good at what they do, I had chances. Because I play with the best of the best, I always do.
A half-second late on a rebound. A post instead of twine. A stick lift that came just a hair too early. Hockey is cruel—it punishes you not with absence, but with proximity. There’s nothing so torturous in sports as when you’re close enough to taste it but can’t manage to take a bite.
Dry spells aren’t new to me. I’ve had them my whole career and anyone who says otherwise is lying or doesn’t play this game at a level where expectations have teeth.
You can do everything right and still come up empty, and the league doesn’t give a shit about your process. It cares about the red light.
I know the script. Stay patient, stick to your game, don’t force it and the goals will come.
They always do.
And still—every time it happens, it feels personal. Like the game is rejecting me. It seems my hands don’t belong to me anymore. Like everyone is watching and pretending they aren’t, waiting to see if I’ll self-destruct.
Part of me knows this is normal. Seasons have peaks and valleys. Rhythm and drought. You don’t panic over two games.
Another part of me knows I haven’t been fully locked in.
I’ve been distracted—Daisy is all I think about.
My thoughts haven’t stayed where they’re supposed to.
They drift between shifts, on flights, in hotel rooms when I should be sleeping.
They drift to conversations instead of plays.
To expressions instead of angles. To the sound of a voice saying my name like it matters.
Daisy.
I hate that.
I hate that someone outside the game of hockey can get under my skin this deep.
I’ve built my entire career on compartmentalization, on keeping the game clean and sealed off from everything else, and Daisy has toppled that foundation into rubble.
Hockey is supposed to be the one place where the noise shuts up, and it’s failing to protect me from her.
The cab hits a pothole and my shoulder bumps the door, jolting me out of my head.
“Sir,” the driver says, slowing to the curb. “We’re here.”
I blink, pull myself upright, and nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”
I pay, step out into the cold, and grab my suitcase from the trunk. The door thuds shut behind me and the cab pulls away, its taillights disappearing down the block.
My building looms in front of me, dark and familiar.
And then I see her.
Daisy’s standing off to the side, half in shadow, hands tucked into the sleeves of her coat like she’s been there long enough to get cold. The streetlight catches the edge of her hair, the curve of her cheek, and for a second my brain refuses to process it.
We just stand there for a moment, the two of us facing each other under the streetlight.
“Hey,” I say finally.
“Hey,” she replies.
That’s it. That’s all we’ve got.
It’s strange after the way things ended the last time we were together. After the heat and the certainty and the feeling that something had been broken for good, this quiet feels wrong. Like we’re both afraid the smallest movement will set off trouble.
“You… uh. How was the flight?” she asks.
“Fine,” I say. “Uneventful.”
“Good,” she says, nodding. “That’s… good. I’m sorry about the losses.”
“Yeah, well… that’s the game, right?”
Another pause. I shift my grip on the suitcase handle, suddenly very aware of how stupid I probably look standing there in team sweats at midnight, staring at the woman I walked away from.
I’ve not talked to her since my blowup and I have no clue what to say now.
But clearly, she’s here to talk and I know it’s only fair to give her that opportunity.
“Want to come up? It’s cold out here.”
She hesitates long enough for me to notice, then nods. “Okay.”
We walk toward the door side by side, close but not touching. The elevator ride up is worse—too quiet, too enclosed, every floor number lighting up.
Daisy clears her throat. “I watched the games. Both of them.”
I’m not surprised. I know she’s become a fan of the sport and the Vipers. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she continues carefully. “You had some really good chances. That one in the second period against Carolina—short side—if the puck didn’t bounce—”
“I didn’t finish,” I cut in. “That’s the only part that matters.”
She looks at me, then nods. “I know.”
“I just didn’t get the job done,” I say, staring straight ahead at the glowing numbers above the doors. “That’s on me. I’ve got to figure out how to get back on track so I can actually help this team win.”
The elevator hums. The doors slide open on my floor.
“So,” I say as we step out, my voice quieter now, more honest. “I know you didn’t just come here to tell me how to finish my scoring chances.”
She gives a small, almost sad smile. “No.”
We walk down the hall, my footsteps heavier than hers, until I unlock the door and step aside to let her in. The apartment feels the same—and completely different—with her standing in it again.
She doesn’t take off her coat but stands there, hands still tucked into her sleeves, eyes moving over the space like she’s grounding herself.
“I’ve been… doing some thinking,” she says.
I drop my bag by the door. “Me too.”
She looks up, surprised. “You have?”
“Yeah,” I say. “But—” I gesture lightly. “You go first.”
She exhales, slow and steady. Seems she’s been rehearsing this in her head and is finally committing to it. “When I first met you,” she says, “I thought working with you would be impossible.”
Everyone who works with me thinks that.
“I thought dating you would be even worse,” she adds.
“You were volatile and defensive and so sure you didn’t need anyone.
You represented everything I thought I couldn’t tolerate.
” She takes a step closer. “And then I realized I was wrong. You weren’t everything I hated. You were everything I was afraid of.”
I don’t want to hear this because I’ve spent a lot of time the last few days putting my walls back in place. I am safe and secure once again. Untouchable, really. Except for her fucking words.
“You’re honest in a way that doesn’t hide behind a veneer,” she says, her eyes locked onto mine. “You feel things deeply and you don’t pretend you don’t. You don’t always handle them well—but you’re real. And somewhere along the way, I realized you’re exactly the kind of person I need.”
She swallows, eyes still fixed on mine.
“And I think,” she says quietly, “that I might be the person you need too.”
Her admission hangs between us, heavy and exposed.
I don’t move or speak.
I stand there, the apartment silent around us, my mind going completely, terrifyingly blank.
I finally nod.
“Yeah,” I say. “You’re right.”
Relief floods her face, immediate and unguarded. Hope flashes there—bright, reckless.
“I knew it,” she says softly. “I knew you’d see it.”
I shake my head. “No. Don’t do that.”
Her smile falters. “Do what?”
“Build a future off one word,” I snap. “You’re hearing what you want to hear.”
“I’m hearing you say you need me.”
I let out a breath through my nose. “I said I do. That doesn’t mean I can.”
She takes a step closer. “Why not?”
Because the truth is ugly. Because if I say it out loud, it becomes real. “Because this—” I gesture between us. “It doesn’t end well.”
She frowns. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I say. Too fast. Too certain. “I always do.”
“That’s not fair,” she says. “You don’t get to decide the ending by yourself.”
I laugh once, humorless. “I absolutely do.”
“So what, that’s it? You walk away because things got hard?”
“No,” I bite out. “I walk away because this is how people get hurt.”
“I’m already hurt,” she fires back. “I’m standing here anyway.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” I say. “You shouldn’t be.”
She stares at me like she’s trying to see through a wall. “You don’t get to protect me from myself.”
“I’m not protecting you,” I say. “I’m stopping something before it gets worse.”
Her voice shakes. “You don’t believe that.”
I turn away. “I don’t have to believe it. I know it.”
“Grizz,” she says, stepping into my space now. “Look at me.”
I don’t.
“You’re scared,” she says. “That doesn’t make this doomed.”
“It does when fear turns into damage,” I snap back. “When it turns into rage. When it turns into saying things you can’t take back.”
She goes still. “You’re talking about yourself like you’re already lost.”
I swallow. “I am.”
Silence crashes down between us.
She searches my face, her voice softer now. “What are you saying?”
I finally look at her.
“I’m saying this ends here. Before it costs you more than you could imagine.”
Her eyes widen. “You don’t mean that.”
I do.
And that’s when it hits me—harder than any hit I’ve taken all season. I look away—at the wall, the floor, anywhere but her—because if I look at her when I say this, I won’t survive it.
“The truth,” I say. “The thing I’ve been running from my entire life.” I battle to put my greatest fear into words finally. “I’m going to become my father.”
The confession drops.
Her smile vanishes. Color drains from her face. “Grizz… no.”
“It’s inevitable,” I say, the conviction in my voice horrifying even to me. “It’s not a question of if. It’s when.”
She shakes her head, already fighting it. “You don’t believe that.”
“I do,” I insist. “Because I see it now. The rage and unhinged volatility. The way I lash out when I feel cornered. The way I hurt people when I don’t know how to sit with my own pain.”
She takes another step toward me. “That doesn’t make you him.”
“It means I’m becoming him,” I say, bitter. “I’ve spent my whole life telling myself I was different. And maybe I am—in the details. But the core?” I tap my chest. “It’s the same.”
She looks stunned. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying no matter what I do, I leave damage behind me,” I say. “And the closer someone gets, the worse it is.”
Her voice trembles. “What does that mean for us?”
I close my eyes for half a second, bracing myself.
“It means,” I say, broken and absolute, “you need to get away from me, Daisy.”
Her breath stutters.
“I’m destructive,” I go on, because once I start, I can’t stop. “I destroy people who love me. It’s in my blood. The men in my family don’t build things—we burn them down. Wives. Children. Entire families. Anyone who stays too long.”
She stares at me like I’ve just rewritten reality.
“I won’t do that to you,” I say hoarsely. “I won’t let you be another casualty.”
A look flashes across her face—and it isn’t pity or sadness, or even denial.
It’s fury.
“No,” she says, voice low and shaking. “I don’t accept that.”
“Daisy—”
“No,” she repeats, louder now. “I don’t buy this fatalistic bullshit for one second.”
I flinch.
“You don’t get to call fear destiny,” she snaps. “You don’t get to dress cowardice up as inevitability and pretend it’s noble.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“No,” she fires back. “You’re trying to run. You’re terrified,” she says, eyes blazing now. “Terrified of commitment. Terrified of love. Terrified of the fact that this actually matters.”
I shake my head. “You don’t understand—”
“I do understand,” she interrupts, voice breaking but unyielding. “I understand exactly what you’re doing. You’re quitting before you fail so you can tell yourself you chose this.”
“I’m protecting you,” I interject, because she’s not getting it.
“Bullshit.” She steps closer, tears finally spilling but her spine rigid. “You think I’m not scared? I’m terrified. Loving you scares the hell out of me. Building something real scares me. But I’m still here.”
I can’t breathe.
“I’m ready,” she says. “I’m choosing you. And you’re standing there telling me I don’t get a choice because you’ve decided the ending already.”
I feel like I’m drowning. Her words are rattling the walls.
“You need to get away from me,” I say again, quieter now. Hollow. Final.
“No,” she says, desperation in her tone. “I refuse to believe you—”
“YOU NEED TO GET THE FUCK OUT!” I bellow at her, finger pointed toward my door. I swallow down my frustration and lower my voice. “It’s over and you need to go.”
I hold my breath, waiting for her to come at me again with all the reasons we’ll work. With all the reasons I could be happy with her if I just took the risk. I brace, ready to fight, but instead she nods once.
“Okay,” she says, her voice devoid of emotion, and for some reason, that single word devastates me more than any scream could have.
She steps back, pulling her coat around herself like armor. “If that’s your choice,” she says evenly, “then this is where it ends.”
I open my mouth, my gut telling me not to let her go. But the logical part of my brain wins and nothing comes out.
Daisy moves toward the door, pauses with her hand on the handle. “Goodbye, Grizz.”
The door opens, then closes, and the sound echoes through the apartment.
And I stand there alone, surrounded by the wreckage of a future I didn’t even have the courage to try to save, knowing I’ve just become exactly what I’d feared most.