Chapter 12 #2
The ache in my chest sits heavy, a bone-deep pull I know won’t fade just because she asked it to.
I can still see her in my mind, biting the inside of her cheek when she is trying not to smile, straightening her shoulders right before she shuts me out.
I miss her, and she isn’t even mine to miss.
She told me to forget, and there is no version of this where I do.
I drag a glove over my face, breath fogging the boards. My outline blurs there—helmet off now, hair damp, eyes hollow. I look like a guy trying to convince himself he didn’t just lose something he was never supposed to want. Maybe that is exactly what I am.
I skate toward the bench, blades cutting into the ice, the sound grounding me in the here and now. By the time I reach the gate, the others are already filing into the locker room. Cole claps my shoulder as he passes, the weight of it solid.
“Try not to get yourself fired.”
“Define fired,” I mutter, already knowing where this is going.
“Anything that starts with the word sweetheart probably counts.”
“Noted.”
He grins, disappearing down the tunnel, and I follow behind him, shoulders tight with things I can’t say out loud. The locker room hums—skates clattering, laughter echoing, steam rising from showers. I drag a towel through my hair and force myself to breathe, spotting Cole sitting on a bench.
“Showtime.”
“Because nothing says welcome to Portland like bright lights and forced smiles.”
“That’s the spirit.” He laughs, the sound easy in a way mine isn’t.
I pull off my helmet and gloves, more out of instinct than anything. I should probably shower, change, and do the whole polished-rookie routine, but the thought of standing still right now makes my skin itch. That’s way too much effort for something I don’t want to do in the first place.
“Guess I’ll just head out there,” I mutter, nodding toward the hallway, where the press area is that we always walk to after practice.
Cole looks up but doesn’t ask. He knows this drill better than anyone. He stands, tugging off his shoulder pads, and by the time I push through the locker room doors, he’s right behind me. A few feet down the hallway, we find Beau leaning against the wall.
“It’s baby’s first press conference.” Cole slaps me hard on the back as he strolls past. “Figured we’d make it a family outing.”
“What? To make sure I don’t trip over a microphone?” I snort.
“More like to keep you from saying something that gets us trending for the wrong reasons.” Cole shrugs, easy and unbothered, like this is just another Tuesday.
Beau falls into step beside me, shaking his head. “He’s not wrong. Last time you were on camera, you told a reporter their question was ‘statistically stupid.’”
“That was my freshman year,” I mutter.
“And?” Beau lifts a brow. “Patterns, kid.”
“Good to know the support squad’s got jokes.”
“Somebody’s gotta keep you humble.”
We walk in silence for a stretch. The weight of them on either side of me anchors me more than I want to admit.
I roll my shoulders, try to shake the tension, and remember how to act like everything is fine.
I have done this a hundred times. Press.
Interviews. Smiling for people who only ever see the surface.
Cole bumps my shoulder lightly. “You good?”
“Define good.”
“Still breathing. Still cocky. Close enough.”
I huff out a laugh that doesn’t sound quite right. My chest is tight, nerves twisting under my ribs. I know they came to help and make sure I don’t spiral, but it’s hard to look at either of them and not feel seen in all the ways I don’t want to be.
Beau doesn’t say much, just walks close enough that his presence feels like backup, the same way it did when I was the smallest Hendrix on the pond. Cole keeps talking, filling the silence with chirps and deflections, like he always does when things are on the edge.
By the time we step into the conference room, I’ve almost convinced myself I’m okay.
Then I see Alycia. Headset snug against her hair.
Posture perfect. Expression calm and professional.
It’s like last night never happened if you didn’t know where to look.
Everything in me leans toward her before my brain catches up and remembers we aren’t alone.
My chest recognizes her before my head does.
Vanilla and rain live in my memory, even if I can’t smell a thing in here.
She doesn’t look at me right away. This is PR Alycia, not the woman who kissed me like she had been holding her breath for years.
Her face is smooth, mouth neutral, eyes sharp.
But when her gaze finally lifts and collides with mine, the whole room tilts.
Every ounce of swagger I’ve ever practiced dies on the spot.
“Let me introduce the Timberwolves’ newest defenseman, Kyle Hendrix.” Her voice cuts through the noise.
My name in her mouth hums low in my chest, threading heat through every nerve until the edges of the room blur. For half a second, I forget everyone else is here. It’s just her voice and control and the way she is pretending this means nothing.
Cole catches the shift instantly. His grin slips into a knowing smirk that says he has seen this story before.
Beau exhales, slow and steady, like he does when the game is on the line.
Neither of them says a word. They don’t have to because I know they know.
But that’s future me’s problem. Right now, I have to remember how to move.
I start toward the podium and catch Cooper in my peripheral, standing off to the side with his arms crossed, expression unreadable.
He isn’t smiling. He never does, especially when it comes to me.
His gaze flicks between Alycia and me, sharp and calculating, like he’s already running the numbers on risk and fallout.
The weight of that look lands hard. Every move I make stops being just mine. Every word, every breath reflects on the crest over my chest and the brothers who wore it before me. I drag in a breath that feels too big for my lungs and step into the flash of cameras.
Alycia’s eyes meet mine for half a heartbeat, just long enough for something to flicker there.
The ghost of everything that shouldn’t have happened between us.
Then she blinks it away, posture tightening, and it fucking kills me.
Not the distance or silence, but the way she hides from me in plain sight.
Becoming someone untouchable the second our eyes meet, like last night was a dream we both agreed not to remember.
I should look away, but my gaze stays locked on her, tracing every detail I don’t deserve to memorize. Every bit of her control makes me want to ruin it, not out of spite, but because I know what she looks like when she lets go. I’ve never wanted anything more than to see that again.
A reporter clears his throat somewhere in the blur of flashes. “Kyle, welcome to Portland. How does it feel to be back home in Oregon, wearing the Timberwolves logo?”
Simple question. I have answered versions of it my whole life. All I can think about is the way her eyes lift to me at the sound of my name, like she is waiting for me to slip.
“Glad to be here,” I say into the mic, steady enough to pass for confidence. The words sound normal, practiced. But inside, they mean something else entirely.
Glad to be anywhere she is.
The room hums with polite laughter, cameras clicking. Out of the corner of my eye, Cooper’s jaw ticks once, already sensing the storm behind my easy grin. His warning hangs in the space between us. No distractions. No complications. No her. Too fucking late.
She’s right there, pretending not to look at me, while every cell in my body aches to cross the room.
I can’t stop thinking about the elevator, about how a simple ride between floors felt like the universe lining us up on purpose.
Fate does not make things easy. It just hands you the one thing you can’t let go of and waits to see what you do.
If that one thing is her, I already know exactly what I would risk just to feel this again.