Chapter 9
Jamie
T
he locker room smells like sweat, disinfectant, and testosterone which is both familiar and grounding. It’s easier here. Simple. Skate, shout, sweat, repeat. No complicated emotions. No history lurking around every corner.
And yet, Ellie’s still in my head. Her voice. The way she looked at me in the café, like she was bracing for impact even while standing still. Like I was something dangerous she hadn’t learned how to disarm yet.
I shouldn’t have gone to see her. I especially shouldn’t have told her the truth. ‘If I stayed, I would’ve chosen you.’ What the fuck was I thinking telling her that? I knew it wasn’t going to change anything. She wasn’t going to automatically forgive me with that one confession. It wasn’t going to go back to the way things used to be before I fucked it all up. Do I want it to?
I think on that for a moment. Do I want things between us to go back to how we were before I left? Did I ever really stop loving her? Was this all a part of the universes plans to get us back together? Was it fate? I mean, Jesus, I don’t know. I sound ridiculous. Ellie’s just a girl. She’s a distraction from the goal. But even I know I’m lying to myself. She’s not just some girl. She’s Ellie Monroe. She’s my first love. She’s my first… everything.
I remember our first time together. How scared she was. She’d asked me if it would hurt, and I didn’t know what to tell her. I’d heard that it could pinch the girl a bit, but it wouldn’t last. I wanted to make it special for her. Of course, it was as special as it could be for a quickie in her bedroom before her parents came home. We had to stay quiet since her brother was in the next room.
“We’re going to get caught,” I told her.
“We’ll be quiet,” she’d argued.
“I don’t want to hurt you, El.”
“You’d never hurt me.”
God damnit, did I fuck that part up. I did hurt her, and she’d never trust me again. I don’t even know why I’m so caught up on this. Ellie wants nothing to do with me, and I have a career to focus on. She is the last thing I should be thinking about right now.
“Coach.”
I glance up to see Jacob Rostolvic hovering near the bench, helmet dangling from his fingers.
“What?” I say roughly.
He winces. “You’re scaring the freshmen.”
Good.
“Lace up,” I tell him. “We’re running drills.”
Groans echo through the locker room, but no one argues. They learned fast that I don’t bluff. On the ice, everything quiets in my head. The scrape of blades, the rhythm of passes, the sharp crack of puck against stick. It’s the only place my thoughts don’t spiral. My knee burns, but I welcome the pain. It reminds me I’m still here. Still useful.
For a moment, I can almost pretend this is enough.
The bus ride to the away game is loud and chaotic. Music blares from someone’s speaker, and the guys chirp back and forth, shoving each other like overgrown children. I sit near the front, scrolling through my phone without really seeing anything.
My mom’s name pops up in my notifications.
Mom
Mom: Did you eat today?
I smirk faintly.
Me: Working on it.
Mom: That’s not an answer.
Me: Yes, Mom.
Three dots appear, disappear.
Mom: I’m proud of you.
I lock my phone and lean my head back against the seat, staring at the ceiling. I wish my dad were here. He’d tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself. He’d say pain is temporary and legacies last forever. He’d always pushed me to be the best, to get up even when things got tough. My dad was my biggest fan, and the truth is… without him, I would’ve never made it to the NHL. I would have never gotten to be the Storm’s number one right winger. My life would be drastically different if my dad hadn’t been there to shove me in the right direction. I miss him every god damn day.
The game was rough. Kind of like how I’m feeling right now honestly. I want to say I’m shocked, but I’m not. These boys don’t have enough drive, not yet.
We lost by one point, and the boys are pissed. They should be, that was God awful. They played like absolute dog piss.
“You had them,” I tell them in the locker room after. “You let off the gas. That’s on you.”
They nod, breathing heavy, sweat dripping. They know I’m right.
When the bus finally pulls back onto campus late that night, exhaustion weighs down my bones. I’m ready for a long shower and my bed. Game days are always a lot, but when you’re the coach, it feels different. Like everyone is counting on you to make sure the team wins.
The house is dark when I unlock the door, making sure I stay quiet in case Ellie’s sleeping. I don’t want to wake her. It’ll probably just piss her off more.
I toe off my shoes and head to the kitchen for water. As I twist the cap open, I notice something on the counter.
A plate, covered with foil.
I stare at it like it might disappear, blinking a few times.
Underneath the foil is pasta. Still warm enough to steam faintly. No note. No explanation.
Just food.
My chest tightens.
I lean against the counter, staring at the plate longer than is reasonable, something dangerously close to gratitude swelling in my throat. Ellie has always taken care of people without asking for anything in return. I think acts of kindness might be her love language.
I eat slowly, like if I rush it, the moment will break. When I’m done, I wash the plate, dry it, and set it carefully back where I found it.
Hesitantly, I grab a pen and a scrap of paper.
‘Thanks. J’
I leave it beside the sink, hoping it doesn’t feel like too much.
Later, lying in bed, knee throbbing, ceiling staring back at me, I let myself think about her. About the way she stood in front of her class, commanding the room. About the way she looked at me like I was both familiar and foreign. About how she didn’t soften when I apologized, but she didn’t shut the door completely either. That scares me more than her anger ever did.
Because if there’s still space between us, even a small one, I don’t trust myself not to step into it.
I turn onto my side, jaw tight. I came here to heal. To wait out the injury. To figure out what comes next if hockey is no longer my life. I did not come here to fall back in love with the girl I broke.
As sleep finally drags me under, one thought repeats louder than the rest.
I don’t think I’ll have a choice.