Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Cal
The locker room’s a blur of noise and motion—sticks banging, guys yelling, music thumping under the fluorescent buzz.
Riley and Finn are chirping over some stupid bet they made about who could land a date with a country pop star who’d never be caught dead with either of them.
I’m barely tracking any of it.
My hands move on muscle memory—tap, pull, wrap—taping the blade of my stick like it’s the only thing tethering me to the ground.
It’s been ten days. Ten days of pretending I don’t give a shit when I do. Of trying to forget how it felt to wake up next to her.
Of seeing her everywhere she’s not.
I don’t even realize I’ve zoned out until Riley’s voice cuts across the room.
“Hey, isn’t that the event planner chick from the holiday party in the stands tonight? The hot one in the red coat?”
My head snaps up like it’s been yanked on a leash.
Riley’s leaning over by the skate dryer, squinting toward the hallway monitor that’s cycling through the live crowd feed. “Yeah, that’s her. Damn, she’s even hotter from this angle. She smiled at me at the party. Think she’ll remember me?”
Finn snorts. “Pretty sure she was looking at the shrimp tray, not you, bud.”
“Whatever. She’s back. That means the Vipers might actually throw another decent party this season.”
I don’t say anything.
I can’t.
My fingers go rigid around the tape. The stretch pops against the blade. My jaw locks so tight it aches, and I’m suddenly burning under my pads even though the rink’s a meat locker.
She’s here.
She came.
And somehow that makes it worse.
I haven’t seen her or heard from her. Not that I expected to or had a right to.
We didn’t even exchange contact info. It was like I didn’t just give her every piece of me in the span of a weekend.
I didn’t stop her when she walked out the door to get in the car that took her away. Didn’t ask for her number.
Didn’t fucking fight for any of it.
Because I told myself it didn’t matter.
But it does.
It matters like hell.
I drop the roll of tape, flex my hands, and grab my helmet. My stomach twists, hard and sharp like I’ve taken a hit under the ribs.
Sweat beads at the back of my neck. Everything inside me hums with something restless and tight.
Finn glances over and notices I’m not biting back. His grin slips a notch.
“You good, Reid?”
“Yeah.” I shove my helmet on. Voice flat. “Let’s go win this fucking game.”
I don’t wait for a response. Just push off the bench and head toward the tunnel.
Because I don’t know what I’ll do if I see her.
But I know damn well I want her to see me.
The scrape of blades on fresh ice is usually my cue to drop in—to let it all fall away.
The noise. The pressure. The shit I can’t control.
But not tonight.
Tonight, everything’s sharp.
Too sharp.
My pads bite at the backs of my knees with every stride. The cold air hits the sweat on my skin and leaves a sting behind.
Again, everything feels wrong. The inside of my helmet slick against my forehead, the lights overhead are too bright.
I catch a glimpse as I circle toward the boards.
She’s really here.
By the glass, a few rows back. Red coat. Hair curled around her cheek like it did that night when she leaned over me and kissed me like she already knew what I’d sound like falling apart.
Noelle.
My stomach drops so fast it knocks the air from my lungs.
She’s smiling at Sloane, who’s standing beside her gesturing and talking animatedly.
And Noelle’s standing next to her like she belongs there.
Like she’s not the same woman who looked at me like I was hers just over a week ago. Like I didn’t spend the last ten days tasting her every time I closed my eyes.
The puck hits my stick, and I fumble it. It ricochets off the blade and skids across the ice like a fucking rookie mistake.
A mistake that even as a rookie, I never make.
“Shit,” I mutter, pivoting hard to recover.
My skate edge catches. I overcorrect and damn near eat it face-first into the boards.
The guys don’t miss it.
Finn shouts from center ice. “Yo, Reid! You tryna skate through quicksand or what?”
Laughter ripples behind me. Riley makes a whipcrack sound and throws a wink.
I pretend I don’t hear it. Don’t feel the sting of heat crawling up my neck, all the way to my ears.
I circle again, slower this time, chest hammering like I’ve taken a hit that rattled my ribs loose.
I shouldn’t care that she’s here.
I should’ve asked for her number. Should’ve said something. Should’ve done something other than let her walk out with nothing but a silent goodbye and the ghost of her kiss still burning on my lips.
But I didn’t.
Now she’s here, and I don’t know what the hell it means.
All I know is that she’s close enough to see me fall apart.
And that might be the worst part of all.
The game gets started and for the first two shifts, I feel like I’m skating through fog.
I’ve got the puck, but not the control.
Got the legs, but not the fire.
Every move is a beat behind. Every pass feels like I’m borrowing someone else’s hands.
Then, just before the second period, I glance over to where she’s sitting with Sloane.
Her green eyes meet mine, and what I see there mirrors mine.
I know she remembers. It meant something to her too.
The memory of her, curled in my sheets with that mouth on mine and her breath in my ear, whispering things I’ll never forget even if I try, slams into me.
Along with an adrenaline spike that has hope bursting in my chest.
And when the puck drops, there’s a flicker in my chest.
Like I’m starting to wake up. The fog is lifting.
I push off harder. Sink into the turn and feel the edge of my blade bite clean into the ice.
The puck lands on my stick like it was always meant to be there. I snap it back to Riley without thinking, shift wide, and he feeds it back.
My chest flares, tight and hot, and I drive.
Denver’s goalie blinks and the puck’s already behind him, the light going off.
I don’t smile, even when my teammates come up and bang on my helmet, congratulating me.
I just skate through it, heart hammering, breath cutting ragged through the cage.
This is what I know.
The glide. The burn. The thunder of the crowd bleeding into the heat crawling down my neck. My thighs ache in that deep, familiar way—like they were built for this. My chest heaves, sweat cooling too fast against the back of my neck.
I don’t look at her again, but I can feel her.
Like gravity. Like a flame I can’t see but still get burned by.
Finn yells something from the bench—something about finally waking up—and I ignore him.
I can’t hear anything but the slap of my stick, the hiss of my blades, the pulse pounding behind my ribs like war drums.
Second shot—I wind up at the top of the circle and hammer it home. It rings off the post and in.
I skate the curve hard, ice spraying high. Riley’s laughing, already reaching for me as I pass the bench.
Finn slaps my ass with his stick. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about, rookie!”
But I’m not slowing down.
I’m locked in the zone now.
In the third shift, there’s a defender on me, but I shake him off. Quickly cutting left, I flick the puck top shelf.
Hat trick.
I barely register the explosion of noise around me. The arena is on its feet. My heart’s in my throat.
I loop back toward the bench, and that’s when I see her.
Behind the glass.
Red coat. Dark hair. Smile like it could cut straight through bone. She’s lit up like the whole damn world’s turned gold.
She’s clapping.
Laughing.
Beaming.
And looking straight at me.
No cameras. No sponsor bullshit. No agenda.
Just pride. Like I’m hers.
Our eyes lock.
Everything slows down.
My lungs seize. My feet keep moving, but I don’t feel the ice. I feel her.
Right here in my chest.
I don’t even know if I’m breathing.
She’s not just watching.
She’s seeing me.
The real me.
The one who never let anyone in and didn’t even realize how alone he was until she walked out the door and took the warmth with her.
The buzzer sounds behind me.
Period’s over.
I coast toward the tunnel, chest heaving, whole body humming.
And for the first time in over a week, I don’t feel like I’m unraveling.
I feel like I’ve still got a shot.
We win 5-2 against Denver, and I’m named player of the game.
When I step off the ice, I’m still burning.
Not just from the skate.
From her.
My lungs drag in cold air as I look up into the stands, heart hammering behind my ribs like it’s got something to prove.
A few fans wave. A kid slaps the glass. My name gets shouted over the chaos, but not by her.
She’s not there anymore.
Not near the tunnel. Not by the glass. Not anywhere I can find her face.
Gone.
Like she was never real in the first place.
My gear weighs twice as much as it should as I move through the tunnel, past the noise, the lights, the congratulations.
Every time someone claps my back or bumps my glove, it feels like I’m being yanked out of that moment where she smiled at me like I was worth something.
Like she saw me.
And I let her walk away.
Again.
Finn’s voice cuts through the blur as I hit the locker room.
“Look who finally remembered how to handle his stick.”
I don’t even look at him. “Didn’t forget. Just needed someone to remind me why it matters.”
“Damn,” Riley crows from the other side. “For a guy who got a hat trick, he sure is moody today.”
My towel whips through the air and smacks the bench between us. “Y’all wish you skated half as clean.”
“Someone’s feeling himself,” Beau chuckles, pulling off his chest protector. “Hell of a game, Reid. Fast, focused, pissed off… whatever it was, it worked.”
I nod, jaw tight. “Thanks.”
But it doesn’t stick.
Because they didn’t see the reason behind the fire.
She did.
I don’t even know if she clapped. I was too busy chasing the high of making her proud. Too busy pretending I didn’t care that I still didn’t know how to reach her.
I sit, shoulders hunched, dragging my gloves off slowly while the chatter around me starts to fade into white noise.
The sharp scent of sweat and rubber lingers, mixing with the faint bleach of the floor. My base layer clings to my skin—soaked, cold, second skin now. My quads twitch from overdrive.
I still feel her eyes on me like heat through glass.
The bench shifts beside me.
I don’t need to look to know it’s Maddox.
He never says much. Doesn’t have to. His presence alone is like gravity—quiet, steady, and absolute. He doesn’t deal in noise. Just truth.
“You looked good out there,” he says finally, voice low.
“Thanks,” I manage, voice rough around the edges. “Tried to shake off whatever the hell that was earlier.”
“Well, you did.”
We sit in silence for a beat.
My fingers tighten around my knee pads. My ribs are still too tight, too full of all the words I didn’t say when she left. All the ways I let myself feel too much for something that was never going to last.
I clear my throat. “You ever skate like someone’s watching?”
Maddox doesn’t blink. Just leans forward on his knees, wrists resting against taped knuckles. “Of course,” he says. “Someone always is.”
His voice is even, but the weight behind it lands heavy.
He doesn’t say her name.
Doesn’t need to.
I’ve seen the way he looks at Sloane Carrington like she’s the only thing worth winning.
The way she watches him like he’s not just her goalie—he’s her reason for being.
That’s what it looks like when someone matters and you don’t run from it.
My chest squeezes like someone tied a skate lace around my heart and yanked it hard.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had that,” I say, before I can stop myself. “Not really.”
Maddox doesn’t offer comfort. He doesn’t do soft edges. But his voice is steel-cut steady when he says, “You will. When it’s real, you’ll know.”
I nod, swallowing past the knot in my throat.
My locker feels a mile away. I lean back, head hitting the cinderblock wall behind me, wishing I had answers. Wishing I had her number. Or even just a breadcrumb to follow.
But there’s nothing.
All our contact came through The Pit. Through the event. Through proximity that doesn’t exist anymore.
And now?
Now she’s just a ghost in red, cheering from the stands one minute and gone the next.
I close my eyes for half a second.
Then pull open my phone, fingers hesitating over the screen like maybe—just maybe—she’ll be there.
But there’s no contact.
No number.
No thread to pull.
Just a silence I can’t fill.
My thumb hovers over the screen for too long. Then I lock it and toss it into my gear bag like it burns.