15. February 5, Saturday
Chapter fifteen
Zoey
Leggings were traitors.
At home, the black pair she’d yanked on looked…
fine. Supportive. Hopeful, even. Paired with an old T-shirt that was roomy and long, she’d almost convinced herself she was channeling previously fit girl making a comeback instead of woman who owned three sports bras and suspected the elastic in all of them had unionized against her.
Under the unflinching fluorescents of the Cyclones’ locker room bathroom, the illusion cracked.
The fabric clung like it had taken a blood oath with gravity. It was stretched so taut there was an actual sheen, which was fine when sheen was the goal. These leggings had not been worn today to provide a sheen.
She looked like a bursting dinner roll can.
Okay. Maybe not that bad. But still. Not where she wanted to be.
Zoey used to rock leggings, damn it.
She let the anger flare—at her body, at herself, at how easily she’d stopped choosing the things that once made her feel strong.
No more. She was getting back in the gym.
Back to the clang of weights, the low chorus of grunts and encouragement, the sacred ritual of yelling at someone for not re-racking.
This was her year.
No. This was her life.
She didn’t feel strong right now—but she would. Eventually.
Determination got you through multi-page foster applications and life-ruining tabloid headlines. It also got her through her last pap smear without crying, so…useful skill set.
Zoey tightened her grip on her water bottle as Ilya’s voice slid into her memory, low and certain from the night before.
You want to feel strong again. Let me help.
Her throat did that inconvenient tightening thing. She hadn’t said yes. She’d said I’ll think about it, like this was a new brunch place and not a room full of ghosts from her old life.
But she had thought. All night. Between scrolling foster-mom forums and replaying the warmth of his hand at the small of her back as he’d walked her to the coat rack.
She was done letting life bench-press her.
So here she was. In leggings. In the locker room attached to the Cyclones’ elite training center. On the verge of tears. Or screaming. Or both.
Here goes nothing.
The gym opened up around her—huge and bright, ceilings soaring under long strips of white light. Rubber floors. Perfectly aligned dumbbells. Machines gleaming like they’d never known failure. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the waking city.
The air smelled like metal, sweat, and disinfectant. Music thumped low from overhead speakers, TVs mounted everywhere with captions racing along the bottom.
Zoey’s stomach swooped.
People moved through the space like they belonged in it. Players she recognized from media day pedaled on bikes, talking between breaths. A trainer spotted someone at the bench. Somewhere, a barbell groaned under a truly unreasonable amount of weight.
She squared her shoulders, adjusted the zipper on her small clutch, and made herself walk farther in.
She spotted Ilya near the squat racks before she fully realized she’d been looking for him. He’d texted the night before.
Ilya: Heading in early, less busy if you want to join.
It was quieter than peak hours. But not the ghost town she’d been hoping for.
He stood by a squat rack, head tipped toward a woman; tall, fit, legs for actual days. Tiny black shorts. A brand-name sports bra doing more for humanity than the Geneva Convention. Her blonde ponytail swung as she argued something Ilya had said.
Zoey’s lungs forgot how oxygen worked.
The profile clicked a beat later. Glossy ponytail. Camera-ready smile. Easy confidence. Thea Sharpee. Former ice girl. Now rinkside reporter.
Zoey had seen her on broadcasts. She threw sharp questions wrapped in charm, the camera loving her from every angle. Up close, she was…a lot. Strong legs. Defined shoulders. That ridiculous bra. A faint sheen of sweat along her throat. One hand planted on a jutting hip, posture combative.
Ilya said something Zoey couldn’t hear. He looked looser than she ever saw him at the arena. No captain mask, no distance, just relaxed. Teasing. Smiling.
Thea scowled like she wanted to punch him. He laughed harder.
The sight sliced straight through Zoey’s fragile courage.
Has he always smiled at women like that?
With her, his smiles felt earned. Rare. Something she’d secretly hoarded.
Maybe he handed them out here like Costco samples. Or Oprah and cars.
Awareness flooded her body—the cling of her T-shirt, the sports bra seam pressing into softer flesh where muscle used to live, the waistband dent at her hips. Her skin prickled, hot and tight.
This was ridiculous. She wasn’t the jealous type. So why the sudden, feral urge to throw down with a woman she didn’t even know?
Mitch had been an NHL superstar. Zoey watched women drape over him, slide numbers across bars, flirt shamelessly right in front of her. It annoyed her sometimes, but never like this. Never this sharp, territorial ache under her ribs. Never this ugly whisper, ‘Of course he wants someone like that.’
Thea grabbed Ilya’s forearm and spun him toward a nearby TV, pointing at a replay. Her hand stayed wrapped around him as she argued the play.
He didn’t move away. Just let her touch him. Like he was used to it. Like he was used to her.
Oh God. Were they—?
Heat flooded Zoey’s face.
She was a terrible friend. She’d never even asked if he was seeing anyone. She’d thought Thea was with Bobby, but maybe that wasn’t true anymore.
She could leave. Slip out. Go home. Hide.
But then he’d ask.
Her pride flared, wounded and stubborn. No. She would not retreat because a gorgeous woman with gravity-defying boobs existed in the same building.
Ilya was allowed female friends. Allowed girlfriends. Allowed to talk to beautiful women without Zoey spiraling like a telenovela heroine. She had zero claim on him.
Fueled by that sharp, foolish sting, she marched past the free weights and beelined for the treadmills.
She absolutely did not feel his gaze track her. She refused to check.
The treadmills faced the entire weight floor, because of course they did. Nothing said fun like sweating under public observation.
Zoey climbed onto the end machine, dropped her bottle in the holder, and stabbed the start button. The belt hummed to life.
She’d never admit it, but…she missed that sound.
She started at a walk. Then, because anger was excellent pre-workout, bumped it to a jog.
Her knees protested. Her boobs considered filing a class-action lawsuit.
Each step rippled—legs, hips, stomach.
You’re here to feel strong, not pretty, she reminded herself. Strong. Capable. Like the version of herself a child could trust.
Except her traitor brain replayed Ilya’s relaxed grin at Thea, and her lungs tightened.
Stop.
Eyes locked on the display. One minute. Two. Breathe. Left foot, right foot.
Why were her footsteps so loud? Could everyone hear this?
She focused on the red dot circling the track on the screen.
So what if Ilya laughed with a woman who looked carved from a fitness magazine. So what if they’d stood close enough for her brain to auto-fill the next frame with him turning and—
Nope. Abort.
Absolutely not picturing him caging anyone against anything while she was on a treadmill. That was how people flew off the back and became viral gym disasters.
“Easy, there,” a low, amused voice said from her right.
Zoey startled. The treadmill wobbled. Her hand flew to the rail, heart lurching.
The machine beside hers whirred to life.
Thea hopped on, punched a few buttons, and settled into an easy jog like she’d been born doing it. Up close, she was just as gorgeous, but the details sharpened. Faint freckles across her nose. A tiny scar near her eyebrow. Quick hands tapping a steady rhythm on the console as the speed climbed.
“Didn’t mean to spook you,” Thea said, eyes on her display. “You went from zero to Olympic trials face in about thirty seconds.”
“I…uh…what?” Zoey panted, lowering her speed and scrambling for a rhythm.
“You looked like you were outrunning a murder hornet swarm,” Thea said. “Or your feelings. Hard to tell.”
Zoey’s laugh came out strangled. “Definitely feelings. Murder hornets would be easier.”
Thea’s gaze followed Zoey’s brief, involuntary glance across the gym.
Ilya was at a squat rack now, shoulders rolling as he set himself under a bar stacked with an obscene amount of weight. Plates on plates. The bar already bowed.
He ducked under it, feet planted, thighs flexing as he settled the weight across his shoulders.
Zoey snapped her attention back to the treadmill so fast she nearly ate belt.
Thea’s brows flicked up, quick and knowing. “You know Ilya?” she asked, her tone just a little too innocent.
Zoey slowed another notch. If she was going to be interrogated mid-cardio, she needed oxygen. “Uh, yeah. We went to college together. And now we sort of…work together. I do community outreach. He does…captain…things.”
Cool. Smooth. Nailed it.
“Zoey, right?” Thea asked.
Zoey blinked. “You know my name?”
Thea shrugged, fingers drumming briefly on the handle. “Reporter. It’s my job to know who’s behind the stuff that makes the team look good.” A corner of her mouth curved. “Also, you were on Nina’s group home visit schedule. Hockey with foster kids—that’s you?”
Zoey nodded, breath still uneven.
“I like that,” Thea said simply.
No flirt. No fluff. Just approval. It landed like a steadying hand between Zoey’s shoulder blades.
“Thanks,” Zoey said. “Assuming the state doesn’t blacklist me for being a chaos goblin, I’m hoping to foster eventually. So…it felt like a two-birds situation.”
Thea’s eyes cut to her, then back to the room. “Foster?”
“Yeah. Foster. Adopt. Either. Both.” Zoey swallowed. “It’s a long process. I turned in half a forest worth of paperwork already. Now I’m waiting. And trying not to panic about being a single woman without established work tenure.”
“Yeah,” Thea said after a beat, careful. “That’s…a thing.”