Chapter Twenty-Seven Regrets
JULIAN
The silence of a hotel room at four in the morning is a dangerous place for a man who can’t get out of his own head.
I’m sitting on the edge of the mattress, staring at the generic carpet between my bare feet. The team just won the season opener against the Kingsmen. My body should be exhausted. My muscles should be screaming for sleep after taking such hard hits and throwing shoulders against the boards.
Instead, I’m vibrating. The adrenaline from the game is long gone, replaced by a completely different kind of heat that refuses to burn out.
Every time I close my eyes, I’m back in that empty office off the press hallway. I still feel the exact weight of her in my arms. The small, desperate way she gripped the fabric of my shirt, pulling me down with a bit of hesitation.
“Take me.”
The words repeat in my head. When my mouth met hers, she didn’t pull back. No, not Hadley. She embraced me with just as much desperation as I felt. She tasted so fucking sweet, I’m pretty sure I could get addicted to it…or maybe I already am.
I press the palms of my hands into my eyes until I see stars, trying to wipe the memory away.
I shouldn’t have done it. I definitely shouldn’t have said what I said afterward.
Panic had clawed its way up my throat the second she moaned into my mouth.
That soft, vulnerable sound had shattered the illusion.
It reminded me exactly who she was… a sweet, pristine girl who deserved everything good in this world, way too innocent for a fucked-up, damaged person like me.
I’m a walking disaster, and all I'd do is pull her down into the dark with me.
It’s the same suffocating terror that paralyzed me last week.
When I walked away from her then, leaving her alone after almost crossing the line, it felt like tearing my own ribs open.
I’ve spent the days since rotting in my own head.
I’ve forced myself to maintain the distance because I thought I was protecting her from the wreckage of my life.
Yet when she showed up tonight wearing my jersey, every ounce of my restraint had turned to ash.
You think you do now, but you’ll come to your senses and leave.
The words tasted like ash when I spoke them, but they were true.
My mother left before I could even read.
My brother left the second he was old enough to pack a bag.
My old man drank himself into a coffin. People leave.
It’s the only absolute truth I’ve ever known.
A girl like Hadley would eventually look at my scars, see my dark thoughts, and she would realize she made a massive mistake.
I look at the clock. Only a few minutes have gone by.
It feels like it’s been hours. The lack of sleep has turned into a dull, throbbing pressure behind my eyes.
I pull out my phone to clear the notifications, intending to delete the standard post-game wrap-ups from the league, and see that I’ve got an email.
Subject: Chicago Ironclads - Official Inquiry
I stare at the screen. It’s from Coach Williams’s office. The invite is official. They want a face-to-face meeting. A real, concrete conversation about what a mid-season trade or an off-season free-agent move would look like.
It’s exactly what I started weeks ago when I was worried about Mrs. Clay. It’s what I wanted.
Looking at it now, with the taste of Hadley still lingering on my lips, the reality of it suddenly feels suffocating. If I take this meeting, I’m taking a step across a line I may not be able to uncross.
I don’t give myself time to think. I can’t afford to over-analyze. If I do, I’ll think of the WILDER 18 jersey Hadley was wearing last night and I’ll lose my nerve. My fingers move quickly across the keyboard, typing a short, professional response.
I can fly out tomorrow. Let’s do it.
I send it and sit back, feeling like my stomach is sinking to the floor. It’s done. No taking it back.
For better or worse, I’m talking to Chicago.
The visit to Chicago is a bit of a blur.
On the surface, everything about the Ironclads organization is flawless.
The facilities are state-of-the-art. The locker rooms are pristine, the training staff has resources that rival Olympic training centers, and the budget is massive.
There are no salary cap gymnastics here.
They have the cash, and they are willing to spend it to get what they want.
After my tour, I met Coach Williams for the first time.
Sitting in his office, the leather chair beneath me smelling of expensive polish.
He’s a veteran coach, a guy with a couple of rings and a reputation for being a hard-nosed tactician.
Except, lately, he’s been on a losing streak, which I know is why he’s pushing so hard for me to join his team.
“We need a guy like you, Julian,” Williams declares, leaning forward and resting his thick forearms on his desk.
He points a finger at me. “We’ve got plenty of fast, flashy kids who can score goals when the sun is shining.
What we don’t have is grit. We don’t have a right wing who can grind people into the boards, protect the crease, and still put up twenty-five goals a season.
You fit the blueprint of what we’re missing. ”
He lays it on thick, walking me through line configurations, showing me exactly where I’d slot in next to their franchise center. He talks about power-play time, leadership roles, and the kind of stability a long-term contract offers.
It’s all pretty straightforward and a tempting situation…but there’s something that feels off about the whole thing.
There’s an edge to Williams’s voice. A slickness in the way he pushes the pitch that makes my stomach turn.
When he talks about the team, he doesn’t talk about them like a unit, but like pieces on a chessboard.
I don't see the respect I get with Coach Sullivan. Williams looks at me like I’m an asset he’s trying to acquire at a discount before my market value spikes.
Still, I brush it aside, telling myself it’s just business. This is the NHL. Not everyone gets the tight-knit, family culture we built in Colorado.
When we begin wrapping up the meeting, he shakes my hand and says, “We’ll email you the contract to look over, and once things are to your liking, we can meet again and sign. I’ll have my assistant arrange things.”
“All right,” I nod. “Thank you.”
With that, I leave, satisfied with the terms he outlined for me.
However, I carry the uneasy feeling with me, buried deep beneath my ribs as I leave the arena.
That night, I take the commuter train out to the suburbs. The transition from the gleaming downtown skyline to the weathered, working-class neighborhood of my youth is a physical weight.
As the train screeches to a halt and I step out onto the cracked pavement, I feel a surprising wave of relief wash through my chest.
The neighborhood is caked in grit and dirt, the neon signs of the local diners flickering over rusted chain-link fences and water-stained brick.
It’s a far cry from the pristine luxury of the Night Hawks' world.
Every ambitious bone in my body wants to conquer that gleaming downtown skyline.
I can't deny the truth as the cold, exhaust-heavy air fills my lungs.
I still feel at home here, among the rundown streets and the broken pavement.
When I walk up the porch steps of Mrs. Clay’s house, the familiar smell of old wood, lavender soap, and black tea relaxes me in an instant.
“Julian,” she greets me, her voice a little breathless.
Her face lights up, the deep wrinkles around her eyes crinkling. We go to the kitchen, and when she reaches for the kettle, her fingers have a slight, persistent tremor she tries to hide by gripping the handle tightly.
“You look exhausted, boy,” she scolds, setting two steaming mugs on the kitchen table. “Don’t they let you sleep in Colorado?”
“I sleep fine,” I lie, pulling out a chair for her. I don’t sit down yet. “You look tired, Grams.”
“I’m old, Julian. I’m allowed to be tired.
” She waves a hand dismissively, sitting down with a small groan she tries to muffle with a cough.
“Tell me about your game. I watched it on the television. You scored a beautiful goal. Who was that girl sitting behind the bench wearing your jersey? She looked like she was about to jump over the glass.”
My heart does a violent thud against my ribs.
“Just a friend,” I answer, my voice rough. I sit down across from her, leaning my elbows on the table, desperate to steer the conversation away from the girl who is currently burning a hole in my sanity. “Grams, I’m worried about you.”
She stops fixing her tea, her gaze sharpening. “I don’t need you worrying about me.”
“I’m serious,” I push, my voice dropping.
I look at her shaking hands. “You’re alone out here.
The winters are brutal. I’m looking at...
things. Opportunities. I might have a chance to come back here.
To play for Chicago. I could buy a house close by and be here every week. I could take care of things.”
Mrs. Clay sets her spoon down with a sharp clink. The warmth drops out of her expression, replaced by the fierce, unyielding strength that kept me from going to jail when my old man was at his worst.
“Julian Wilder, you listen to me,” she snaps, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.
“I did not sell my husband’s jewelry and send you to that camp so you could come back here and be an old woman’s nursemaid.
You have a life. You have a team that loves you.
You belong out there, chasing that Cup, not hovering over me because I move a little slower in the mornings. ”
“It’s not just about that,” I mutter, looking down at my mug. “The money is different. The security…”
“Do not lie to me,” she interrupts, her tone softening but remaining firm. “You are running scared from something, or you are trying to carry the world on your shoulders again. Stop it. I am fine. You focus on your life, Julian. Do you hear me?”
I look at her, seeing the stubborn set of her jaw. I know that look. There’s no pushing past it tonight.
“Yeah,” I whisper, reaching across the table to lay my hand over hers. “I hear you.”
I let it go for the time being, but the worry stays with me, a heavy, cold rock in the center of my chest.