Chapter 22
The sound of the puck ricocheting off the boards is the only rhythm I want to hear tonight. My shirt clings to my back with sweat, my arms ache from repetition, but I keep pushing. Faster, harder, sharper. This game––this damn game has to be perfect. I can’t afford to slip. Not now.
I glide across the ice, take another shot. The puck slams into the net, but it’s still not enough. Nothing ever feels enough.
“Still trying to convince yourself you’re worth the hype?” Jack’s voice cuts through the air like a blade.
I freeze for a split second, my stick tightening in my grip. I don’t turn, don’t give him the satisfaction. “Don’t you have somewhere better to be?”
“I’m exactly where I want to be.” His skates scrape closer, the echo irritatingly casual. “Watching the great Cameron Gray sweat like a rookie. It’s almost… poetic.”
I exhale slowly, try to focus on the puck. Ignore him. Just ignore him.
“Not in the mood, Jack.” I gather another puck, fire it hard into the net.
“Touchy,” he mocks, coasting lazily in front of me. “What’s the matter, Gray? Can’t stand a little company? Or maybe you’re just embarrassed that even with all this extra practice, you’re still going to choke.”
I exhale through my nose, force myself to ignore him. Another shot, straight into the corner pocket. Clean. Precise.
Jack claps slowly, sarcastic. “Wow. What a shot. Too bad it won’t mean shit when the pressure’s on. Everyone knows you fold when it matters.”
My grip on the stick tightens. “Get off the ice.”
He chuckles. “And miss this? Please.” He circles me like a vulture. “Or maybe this isn’t about hockey at all.”
I glare. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“That little wife of yours,” he says, dragging out the word with a sneer. “She’s pretty. Real pretty. But I have to wonder––”
Heat flares in my chest, dangerous. “Leave her out of this.”
Jack’s grin widens. “Can’t, man. She’s part of the show now. The media loves her. And you—oh, you eat it up, don’t you? Makes you look less pathetic. A washed-up player and his perfect little wife. Adorable.”
My pulse hammers in my ears. Images of Brie flash in my head—her laugh, her touch, the way she trusts me. He’s trying to dirty it, twist it, and I want to break him for it.
But then he leans closer, voice dropping, eyes sharp.
“You know what the best part is? No matter how much you practice, no matter how hard you hit that puck, you’ll never escape it.
The truth. You’re just like your old man—angry, broken, violent.
The only difference is people actually expect something from you.
And when you crash, it’s going to be spectacular. ”
The words land like a punch to the gut. My stomach knots. My hands shake on the stick. He knows that he’s close enough to the truth that I feel exposed, raw.
I swallow hard, force my voice steady. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
Jack smirks, skating backward now, satisfied that he’s struck deep. “Right,” he mocks. “Keep practicing. You’ll need it.”
He turns and glides off the ice, whistling like it’s just another day, while I stand rooted, fists clenched so tight my knuckles ache.
His words echo, louder than the sound of my own breathing. Just like your old man.
For a moment, I can’t breathe.
And Brie’s voice comes back to me. Her warning about Miranda. About Jack. My jaw tightens. Maybe she’s right. Maybe something’s brewing.
I linger on the ice after most of the guys have hit the showers, but Keith hangs back too, stretching lazily near the bench. He’s always got that look of half concern, half curiosity, like he’s waiting for me to slip and tell him what’s actually in my head.
Finally, he tosses his towel over his shoulder and calls out, “You gonna keep pretending you don’t hear me, or are you planning on telling me why you’re skating like a man possessed?”
I smirk, breath still ragged, but it doesn’t stick. “Gotta be ready for the game.”
“Bullshit.” He steps onto the ice, skates crunching lightly. “You’re pushing harder than you ever did before. And don’t tell me it’s about fitness. I know you, Gray. Something’s eating at you.”
I drag my stick across the ice, staring at the scratches like they’ll give me answers. “Jack’s been in my face. Talking. Too much.”
Keith’s eyebrows shoot up. “That clown? What’s he got to say that’s worth you losing your cool?”
I don’t answer right away. The words sting too much, still fresh. Finally, I mutter, “He’s running his mouth about Brie. About me. He’s just saying a lot and it’s getting really hard to ignore him.”
Keith whistles low. “Yeah, that’s his style. Poke the bear, see what happens. Don’t give him what he wants.”
I snap my head up. “You didn’t hear the way he said it. Like he knows something. Like… like he’s waiting for me to fall apart. And then—” I hesitate, but the memory burns hot. “He said it’d be a shame if I didn’t get another shot. At all.”
That makes Keith straighten up, his joking edge gone. “What the hell does that mean?”
“That’s exactly what I’ve been asking myself.
” My grip on the stick tightens until my knuckles ache.
“And it’s not just him. Brie said she saw him with one of her colleagues.
Miranda. Caught them together. She’s convinced they’re working some angle.
I brushed her off at first, but now—” I shake my head. “Now it doesn’t feel so crazy.”
Keith steps closer, his voice lowering. “Look, if Jack’s playing games, I’ll keep an eye on him. Locker room, rink, wherever. He tries anything—he won’t get away with it. But you, Gray—don’t let him get in your head before the game. That’s what he wants.”
I let out a heavy breath, the weight sitting on my chest refusing to lift. “Yeah.”
“No, I mean it.” Keith jabs a finger at me. “You’re too damn good to let him rattle you. You’re better than him on the ice, always have been. The only way he wins is if you start fighting ghosts instead of playing hockey.”
The corner of my mouth twitches, but I can’t hold a smile. “You sound like a coach.”
Keith grins. “Nah. Coaches scream at you. I’m just reminding you who the hell you are.”
I let that sit for a moment. The tension doesn’t vanish, but the edge of it dulls. At least someone’s got my back.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But if Jack so much as breathes wrong, I’m done playing nice.”
Keith chuckles. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t put him through the glass before the game. We kind of need you on the ice, not in the penalty box.”
For the first time all day, I almost laugh.
I find her in the kitchen when I get back from practice, curled on the counter stool with her hair in a messy knot, nursing a cup of tea. She looks up when I walk in, those sharp eyes of hers scanning me like she can read what’s crawling under my skin.
“You look like you fought someone,” she says quietly.
“Almost did.” I drop my bag against the wall and rub at the back of my neck. My muscles are tight, my temper tighter. Jack’s words are still rattling in my skull. You’ll never be enough. Just like your old man.
Brie doesn’t press. Instead, she watches me like she’s waiting for me to breathe first.
I exhale, drag a chair out, and sit across from her. “You were right about him.”
Her brow furrows. “Jack?”
I nod. “Yeah. I kept brushing it off—what you saw, your gut. But today… I don’t know, something’s off. The way he’s been hanging around. The crap he said to me in the rink.” I shake my head. “It’s not just rivalry anymore. Feels darker than that.”
She places her mug down, leaning closer. “My gut’s never wrong, Cameron. I told you those two are up to something. I don’t trust Miranda, and I sure as hell don’t trust him. You shouldn’t either.”
Her certainty steadies me in a way I didn’t expect. My chest feels less like it’s caving in.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “For shutting you down before. For making you feel like you were overthinking. I just… I didn’t want it to be real.”
Her expression softens instantly. She pushes off the stool, rounds the counter, and slips her arms around me from behind. I freeze for half a second, still not used to the ease with which she touches me, the way she doesn’t flinch from my edges, but then I let myself lean back into her warmth.
“You don’t have to pretend everything is okay,” she whispers against my shoulder. “I can handle it, whatever it is. What I can’t handle is you shutting me out.”
I close my eyes. Her voice is an anchor. My fists unclench. “I’m not good at this,” I admit, rough, almost ashamed.
She shifts to face me, sliding onto my lap so I can’t escape her gaze. “You’re better than you think,” she says simply. “And you don’t have to be perfect. Just… be here.”
Something in me cracks open. I cup her jaw, drag my thumb over her lip, and the apology tumbles out again, softer this time. “I’m sorry.”
She smiles faintly. “Yeah?”
I lean my forehead against hers, staring at her mouth. “Yeah.”
She whispers, “Then kiss me.”
And I do because I can’t resist her.
The kiss is desperate, searching, like I’m clinging to the one thing that makes sense. My hands find her waist, her skin hot under my palms. She tastes like tea and safety, like home, and I don’t remember the last time I felt this steady while coming undone.
By the time we stumble toward the bedroom, clothes in half-torn trails behind us, I’m not thinking about Jack or the game or the echoes of my father’s voice. I’m thinking about her—about the way she fits against me like she was built to quiet the storms in my head.
And for that night at least, she does.
A few days later, practice ends late. Most of the rink is empty. That’s when I see Jack near the side entrance, slipping something into another man’s hand. The exchange is quick, too quick. The guy disappears into the shadows.
Jack notices me watching. For a moment, our eyes lock. Then he smirks, strolling over, casual as ever.
“You’re working hard, Cam. That’s good.” His tone is playful, but his words are edged with steel. “Because who knows if you’ll ever get another shot at this.”
My fist curls at my side. My entire body screams to grab him by the shirt, to demand answers, to beat the smugness off his face. But I force myself to breathe, to stand still.
“See you on the ice,” Jack says, tapping my shoulder as he walks past.