Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Cal
It shouldn’t feel like this.
It shouldn’t feel like something ended when nothing official ever began.
But I still stood there behind the curtain, watching from the apartment window like a ghost, while she stepped into the back seat of a black SUV and never looked back.
She didn’t ask me to walk her down. Didn’t offer up a joke or soft dig to make the moment easier. She just smiled—polite, too polite—and said thanks for everything like we hadn’t stayed up all night tangled in each other’s limbs and laughter.
Like I didn’t put my mouth on her, my hands everywhere, my heart right on the fucking table.
And now I’m in the locker room trying to pretend that every inch of me doesn’t feel like it’s still chasing her down the damn hallway.
I swipe a hand over my jaw and drop my bag at my stall, just as Finn leans over from his locker like he’s been waiting to pounce.
“Reid,” he says, dragging out the vowel like he’s savoring it. “Why do you look like someone just ran over your puppy?”
Riley doesn’t miss a beat. “He’s got that heartbreak hangover look. Puffy eyes. Broody silence. Maybe even regret.”
“Must’ve been some snowstorm,” Finn adds with a grin. “You hole up with someone you didn’t want to let go?”
My jaw tightens. I keep my eyes on my skate laces, the same ones I’ve already tied once. “No.”
But I say it too fast. Too flat.
Finn whistles low. “Damn. That bad, huh?”
I shake my head. “Wasn’t like that.”
“Sure,” he says, not buying it for a second. “Except you look like you’re one beer away from writing a breakup song.”
Logan glances over but doesn’t say anything. Just nudges Eli, who doesn’t say anything either. But I can feel it—whatever they’re not asking, they already know the answer.
She left, and I let her.
The door shut. The elevator dinged. And just like that, she was gone.
Not mine to chase. Not mine to keep.
And still, it feels like I lost something.
“You got all quiet and moody since the snow melted,” Beau says, tugging off his hoodie. “You okay, man?”
“Fine.”
I say it sharp enough that it cuts off whatever Finn’s about to say next.
The locker room falls into its usual chaos—gloves slapping against the benches, sticks clacking, tape ripping in short bursts.
But under all of it, I feel brittle. Like I’ve been scraped raw and didn’t notice until now.
Coach barks out that we’ve got ten to hit the ice.
Standing, I grab my stick and force my feet to move.
I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked right before she left—hair still messy from my pillow, lips a little pink from all the things we didn’t say.
She didn’t cry. Didn’t hesitate. She just walked away like it was easy.
Maybe it was for her.
But for me?
It feels like getting benched in a game I didn’t even realize I was losing.
The feeling stays with me out on the ice, dragging me down like all the other times anyone left me.
My feet move, but I’m slow and the puck slips off my blade like it doesn’t want to be here either.
Shot goes wide again.
Not even close.
The thud echoes off the boards as it hits the glass behind the net, and my stomach turns with it—tight and sour.
I skate after it, not fast enough, lungs dragging in cold air that tastes like rubber and regret.
“Jesus, rookie,” Riley calls out as he skates past me. “You forget which end of the stick to use?”
I don’t answer. My jaw’s too tight, and my chest’s too full of shit I can’t name.
But it’s not about the shot. Not really.
The next drill’s already loading. A half-ice triangle passing pattern with a slapshot finish.
I cycle in. My shoulders are stiff, and my stick grip is too rigid. The puck jumps when I catch it, and I almost overcorrect.
My boots skid slightly on the turn, just enough for me to lose rhythm.
Slapshot sails off the heel of my stick, barely reaching the goalie.
“Damn,” Finn laughs from the blue line. “Someone get the kid a nap and a hug.”
My whole body flushes, hot under the pads. Sweat collects under my helmet and trickles down my back.
It’s not the hard kind of burn; this is frustration. Humiliation.
“Maybe he needs to get laid,” Riley says, laughing. “Or maybe he did, and now he’s all emotionally wrecked.”
Finn smirks when he bumps my shoulder during the next drill, making my stomach clench.
Maddox—the one guy whose opinion I respect the most—hasn’t said a word.
I miss another pass. The puck ricochets off my stick and clatters into the corner.
“Reid!” one of the assistant coaches barks. “Eyes up!”
I nod without looking back. My throat’s tight and dry, but I skate harder, trying to lose the noise in my ears.
But every stride feels off, like my body’s out of sync. It’s a foreign feeling, and I don’t know what to do with it.
My brain keeps pulling me backward—back to this morning, her curled up on my sheets like she belonged there.
Back to the way her fingers slid into my hair.
Back to the way she bit her bottom lip to keep from making too much noise.
Back to the way she looked at me when she said goodbye—like it meant nothing.
She’d changed back into her party dress and slipped on those thin flats.
Said, “Thanks for the bed.”
And walked out the door with her coat in one hand and her handbag in the other.
I didn’t stop her.
Just watched her go and stood there, letting it hollow me out like a dumbass.
Another whistle blows. I rotate into the next drill—breakouts.
Logan makes a clean pass across the zone. Beau skates it up the wall and drops it to me.
And I fumble it. Just flat-out fumble it like I’ve never held a goddamn stick before.
“Again!” the coach shouts.
This time I catch it, but my timing’s late. My angle’s off. The shot goes high, clanging off the crossbar and bouncing wide.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. My chest heaves, my face burning.
Finn loops by again, barely hiding his grin. “You want me to hold your hand next drill?”
“Maybe he’s thinking about someone special,” Riley stage-whispers. “Somebody snowed in with him?”
I shoot them both a look, but it’s weak. I don’t have the bite today. Just exhaustion and static.
During a line reset, Maddox skates over, slow and silent like he always does.
“You good?”
“Yeah.” The lie stings as it comes out.
His eyes narrow behind the cage of his helmet, unreadable. Then he exhales through his nose. “Fix it before game day.”
That’s it. Just that. And that’s all he needs to say in his own Maddox way.
But it lands like a brick.
Because he’s not wrong. I’m screwing this up. And I don’t even know how to pull myself out of it.
I nod, but it feels hollow and useless.
Maddox skates back to his crease, throwing one last glance at me over his shoulder.
I shift back into the drill line, blinking sweat from my lashes.
Everything feels wrong.
My gloves feel too tight; my stick is too heavy.
All I can think of is the scent of her still lingering in my hoodie, buried deep in the collar.
The puck hits the ice.
I go after it.
But for the first time in a long time, the ice doesn’t feel like home.
It feels like nowhere at all.
The cold of the ice hasn’t left my bones.
Even now, stripped down to just my compression shorts, sweat drying sticky across my back, the chill clings to me like failure.
Pads thud. Towels slap. The locker room’s alive with the sound of guys pretending everything’s fine.
I sit on the bench, elbows on my knees, staring at the scuffed toes of my skates. They’re untied, but I haven’t moved. The lace hangs limp, like I forgot what to do with it.
Riley’s chirping from the corner, tossing a roll of tape at Finn like they’re still in peewee.
“You see this kid out there today? Dude skated like his stick was glued to the wrong hand.”
Finn snorts. “You sayin’ he pulled a rookie ambidextrous move? Shit, at this rate, I’ll have to carry the third line on my own.”
“Third line?” Logan drawls, lounging with a water bottle in hand. “Cute that you think you’re staying on that long with those shot stats.”
Finn gives him the finger, and they keep going. Fast and loud and familiar.
The kind of razzing that usually makes me grin.
Today, it grates.
Because they’re not wrong.
I was garbage out there. My timing’s off. My head’s somewhere else. My hands feel foreign, like they’re not connected to my body.
My body still remembers her. Everything about her.
The slide of her skin and the breathless way she whispered my name like a prayer.
The way she pulled my mouth back to hers in the middle of a laugh, like she needed me to kiss her just to stay upright.
I blink hard and drag a hand down my face, jaw tight.
“Yo, Holloway,” Finn calls out. “Think Cal’s ghosted us mid-practice and forgot to tell the rest of his body?”
Beau, across the room, pulls his sweatshirt over his head and walks by, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “You good, rookie?”
I nod. Force a grunt. “Fine.”
He pauses, not convinced in the slightest, but he doesn’t push.
No one does. Not really. Not until Eli.
He’s lacing his boots slow, methodical, his gaze trained on the floor like he’s tuning out the chaos.
Then, real quiet, without even looking up:
“Whatever it is, figure it out.”
It lands like a puck to the ribs.
Eli doesn’t say much. Not unless it matters.
I breathe through the jolt of defensiveness. My fists curl, nails pressing into my palms, but I don’t say anything. Because he’s right. And I hate that he’s right.
Everyone’s moving on. Showering, joking, dumping gear. The scent of bodywash and stale sweat swirls in the air.
And I’m still sitting here stuck in something that doesn’t have a name.
My gear is half-packed, hands moving on autopilot, but my mind’s nowhere near The Pit.
It’s still back in my apartment.
In my kitchen, on that counter.
In my bed, where her body curled instinctively into mine even when she was asleep.
I kissed her like I meant it.
Touched her like she belonged to me.
And then let her walk out without a fight.
I bend forward, forearms on my knees, chest heavy like I can’t get a full breath.
Something’s pressing down on me. Something like grief, but not as sharp. It’s a slow, quiet ache.
I dig into my duffel and pull out my phone.
Swipe it open.
Thumb moves to contacts. Instinct.
Noelle.
Except…there’s nothing.
My contact list stares back at me. Empty of her.
Because I never needed her number before.
Every time we saw each other, it was arranged through The Pit—PR schedules, team assignments, logistics emails from Sierra. She was always there.
Until she wasn’t.
A hollow opens in my chest.
I don’t even have a way to reach her.
I stare at the screen. Like maybe her name will appear if I want it bad enough.
It doesn’t.
My thumb hovers. Then drops the phone back in my bag, screen down.
Everything about her feels unfinished.
Unsaid.
And now—unreachable.
I lean back, exhale slow, and let the truth settle in my bones.
It wasn’t a breakup.
But it sure as hell feels like one.