Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Kyle
The rink at eight a.m. smells like cold metal and soap; it bites the inside of your nose and makes you feel like you’re starting over, whether you want to or not.
I lace my skates on the bench, each movement steady and familiar, like muscle memory, the closest thing I have to a prayer I know by heart.
If I focus on the rhythm long enough, maybe I won’t think about the meeting with Alycia yesterday.
Cooper greenlit the fake relationship plan as if were as simple as taping a stick.
Alycia agreed to something that looked a hell of a lot like sacrifice dressed as strategy.
And I’ve been pretending I’m fine ever since, even while every cell in my body hums with the urge to fix something I don’t know how to fix.
The locker room hums—chirps bouncing off lockers, tape snapping, two rookies playing knee-hockey with a roll of clear tape. I walk past, and they scatter like I’m a hall monitor. Normally, I’d laugh, but today, it just sits heavy on my ribs.
“Morning, Romeo.” Cole’s voice drifts from behind me.
He’s leaning in the doorway like a billboard for Do as I say, not as I did, black beanie pulled low, sporting stubble he forgot to shave or didn’t care to. He jerks his chin at my phone buzzing on the bench. “Your fan club is awake.”
I don’t have to look to know it’s no one I want to speak to right now. My agent. A podcast producer. Three beat writers. Probably half the league. Everyone wants a quote, a soundbite, a reaction to the story that’s already everywhere.
I ignore them all because the second I respond, it becomes real in a way I’m not ready for. If I don’t engage, maybe I can still pretend this whole thing is something Alycia chose, not something that’s choosing both of us by force.
“Careful,” I say, bending to retie a lace that doesn’t need it. “Your halo’s blinding me.”
“Please. I pawned that thing years ago.” His gaze sweeps my face, too sharp for a man who plays off everything like a joke. “You sleep?”
“Define sleep.”
“Closing your eyes and not obsessing over a girl for four to eight hours.”
“Then no.”
He grins, but it’s sympathetic around the edges. “Try not to look like a murder suspect at practice. Reporters are already sniffing around.”
“They can sniff somewhere else.”
“That’s not how sharks work.”
“Sharks smell blood, not bullshit.”
“Sometimes they smell both.” He bumps my shoulder with his knuckles. “Head up. Breathe.”
He says it like it’s simple, but it isn’t.
Not when the only thing I can think about is the way Alycia walked away like she was stitching her heart back together with every step.
Still, something in his tone—steady, low, a little protective—cuts through the noise.
It’s not advice from a teammate; it's my big brother talking. And that’s new.
He gets what it feels like for one woman to tilt your whole world off axis. He lived it. Fought for it. Earned it. And right now, I need someone who remembers what it feels like to stand at the edge of something that could either ruin or save you.
“Head up,” I echo, voice rough.
He nods once, and for the first time in a long time, it feels like it might be enough.
On the ice, the world narrows the way I need it to. The sound of skates carving into fresh ice and pucks clacking off boards, this is the only rhythm I’ve ever trusted.
Cooper’s whistle slices through the air. “Let’s go! Warm-up laps, keep the tempo high.”
I push into a lap, then two, lungs opening to the cold. For a few minutes, I’m just a body moving through space. No press releases. No PR scripts. No woman whose breath I can still feel against my mouth. Chirps start up because they always do.
“Yo, Hendrix!” Crosby yells from two skaters back. “You gonna keep up, or we gotta grab a tow rope?”
“Still faster than your shot,” I throw over my shoulder.
“That’s a low bar, kid. Even Beau’s glove hand moves quicker than you.”
Beau shakes his head from center ice. “Less talk, more skating.”
“Tell him that when he’s huffing behind me!” I shout back.
Light, familiar laughter ripples across the rink, loosening something in my chest. For the first time in days, the world doesn’t feel like it’s collapsing.
“Half-moon drill!” Cooper’s voice cuts through the noise. “Quick passes, keep your feet moving.”
The puck slides, sticks snap, and the rhythm builds until it’s all motion and muscle memory. Cole feeds me a pass from the corner. I cradle it, pivot, and rip a wrist shot top shelf. The puck hits off the post and goes in; the ringing of steel on steel always hits like a pulse I can trust.
“Save some for the game, Rookie!” someone yells.
“Tell your goalie to catch one, then we’ll talk!” I fire back, grinning.
Cooper shakes his head from the bench, but I catch the ghost of a smirk. It’s the closest he gets to approval.
We reset for battle drills. Tight spaces, body contact, and pure chaos. I win the puck off a scrum, fight off a stick to my ribs, and send a pass to Cole across the slot. He finishes clean, tapping his stick against the boards. “That’s how it’s done, little brother.”
“Try not to sound so shocked,” I say, breathless but smiling.
We roll right into the next sequence. The puck slides from me to Cole again, smooth and sharp, then back to my stick. I shift my weight and feed it up the boards to our winger streaking into open ice. A clean, simple pass that quiets the noise in my head.
On the next rep, I hold my spot near the blue line, waiting for the forwards to set their screen.
When the traffic builds in front of the net, I glide a few feet sideways, draw back my stick, and fire low.
The puck skims across the ice, just grazing the goalie’s pad before catching a teammate’s stick, who redirects it into the net.
Sticks tap the boards, and a couple of the guys whistle.
It’s the sound of approval without words, the language every player knows.
For a few seconds, everything makes sense.
The noise in my head quiets, my breathing steadies, and it’s just me, the puck, and the clean rhythm of the game.
Nothing else. No headlines. No fake dating. No Alycia Torres.
Cooper’s whistle blows again, sharp enough to bite through the air. “Reset. And the two-on-two, low zone.”
I line up across from Cole and one of the other rookies, stick tapping against the ice. The puck drops, and for the next sixty seconds, there’s nothing but motion and noise. Blades cutting. Bodies slamming the boards. Shouts bouncing off the glass.
I fight off a shoulder check, steal the puck, and thread it through Cole’s skates just to piss him off. He barks a laugh, but catches up, leaning in with a shove that nearly knocks me off balance.
“Nice try, kid,” he mutters. “Next time, pick someone slower.”
“Didn’t know there was anyone slower,” I shoot back.
“Cocky looks good on you. Don’t eat shit before Saturday.”
“Would want to ruin your highlight reel,” I say, grinning despite myself.
We break for a line change, and I coast to the bench.
Breath burning sharp in my throat, the world narrows to the hiss of my skates.
Sweat beads under my helmet, dripping past my collar, as I grab a water bottle and take a long pull.
My eyes fix on the far boards where the next line sets.
The noise dulls to a hum, blending into something steady, but then the entire energy in the rink shifts.
For a few minutes, I don’t see her face. The change is energy, a shift near the boards. The way guys straighten unconsciously when the media shows up. A flash of a badge. The flicker of red tally lights on shoulder cameras. The hair on my arms prickles inside my base layer before my eyes find her.
Alycia stands just past the Zamboni gate, headset pushed around her neck, her mouth arranged into a neutrality she doesn’t feel.
She looks like PR carved out of bone, but I know better because beneath the armor is the woman who walked out of Cooper’s office pretending that I hadn’t almost cost her everything.
My stride hitches for half a second—not enough for anyone to notice—but I shove it down and skate through it, forcing my legs back into rhythm like nothing cracked inside me.
She’s talking to a cameraman now, gesturing toward the boards, her lips moving in that quiet, decisive way that makes people listen.
The camera lights blink red. Probably here for B-roll for the morning segment, riding the wave of the press release she wrote.
She’s too good at making people believe what they’re told to feel.
Her eyes sweep the rink, like she’s auditing the chaos she helped choreograph.
Then they skip right over me, not even a pause or flicker or recognition.
Something in my chest tightens, an ache that hits between ribs and reason.
I almost forget to move. My blade catches, jerking against the ice, and the sound drags me back to where I am.
The whistle blares, slicing through the static in my head. “Move it, Hendrix!”
The bark of Cooper’s voice hits like a shove between the shoulders.
I blink hard, shake it off, and push forward, legs burning as I chase the next pass down the line.
Each stride scrapes the tension off my nerves, the sting of cold air biting deep enough to remind me what’s real: the ice, the puck, the weight of what I can’t have.
When he finally calls it, my lungs are raw, my gear is soaked, and my head is no clearer. I glide toward the bench slowly, trying not to make it obvious I’m stalling. Cole glides up beside me, eyes cutting from me to the tunnel.
“Lots of cameras for a Thursday,” he says.
“Guess their weather guy called in sick.”
“Guess PR didn’t.”
I take a pull from my bottle, water cold enough to hurt in a way I can use. “Don’t.”
“Not doing anything.”
“You’re watching.”
“Someone should.” His tone is light, but the glance he gives me isn’t. “You good?”
No.
“Fine,” I lie.