Ten
Westfield Sports the hostess clocks us in a second—game-day suits, post-win noise, money already spent.
Champagne sweats in a silver bucket. It smells clean at first—citrus, cold air—then something warmer pushes through.
Used. Like the night’s been here too long.
“You look almost human again,” Thompson says, sliding into the booth. “Thought Denver broke you.”
“Denver doesn’t get that honor.” I lift my glass and take a sip. It burns going down, same as every night this trip.
I pull out my phone, muscle memory now, checking the bar’s tagged stories on Instagram. Her posts. Nothing new since this morning.
A redhead with waist-length curls leans in. “You were electric tonight.”
“Just doing my job.” I flash her the signature camera grin, clinking the rim of my glass against hers. I can play the role without thinking. For a month, I’ve been going through the motions. And the one thing I should be doing is the one thing I can’t.
Apologizing.
I’ve drafted a dozen texts in my notes app. They all start with Ivy—and die there, the blinking cursor a trigger I can’t pull.
She says a name—Vanessa, maybe—sliding a hand up my thigh. It does nothing for me. Her nails are painted the color of a goal light. “Suite at the Cosmo?”
I take another sip I don’t taste.
“It’s a team night,” I hear myself say, using an excuse I’ve never used before.
She presses her mouth to my ear, her voice a low murmur against the bass. “It doesn’t have to be.”
My head flashes a single line of thought: You ruined her life.
It jumps to a memory from the Youth Day event—the way her hockey knowledge just slipped out, instinctive and sharp, and how her whole body went rigid when she realized I’d heard her.
The sharp intake of breath before she turned her back, scrubbing the wood so hard her knuckles went white.
“Another time,” I say, my voice rough. “Early flight.”
She blinks, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. Before she can recalibrate, Thompson appears, sliding into the leather bench across from us. “Hey now,” he says to her with that easy Ontario charm, dimples out. “Hate to interrupt, but I need to borrow my guy for a minute. Give us a sec?”
When she’s gone, looking annoyed, he turns to me. “You just passed on an empty net,” he says under the music. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Thompson looks right through me. He’s known the ‘fine’ I use as a weapon since we bunked together with our billet host.
“You’ve been chewing on something since we got back from that first home stand,” he pushes, lowering his voice. “Whatever it is with…not my business, but it’s throwing you off your game. The team can feel it.”
“Drop it.”
He does. Mostly.
I watch him disappear into the crowd, and the second his shoulders are gone—her voice, flat and certain: You don’t even remember, do you?
The bass shakes the floor, but I can hear her clearer than the music.
I spot the redhead near the bar, flagging down a bartender, already moving on, and something reckless fires in my chest—anything, just anything else. I’m on my feet before I’ve decided to be, crossing the floor, catching her wrist.
The elevator hums on the way up, a low, sterile drone against the silence. The lock clicks when the keycard trips it, and the room swallows us whole.
Ten minutes later, the second her—Veronica’s?—hands go to my belt, my stomach turns to lead. It feels hollow. Wrong. I politely book her an Uber to get her the fuck out of my room, leaving me to stare at the minibar like it has answers.
A muted buzz against my thigh breaks the staring contest with the liquor, and I pull my phone free.
Missed call from Valentina. I stare at her name longer than I should, then type: Hey Val, sorry I missed your call. You good? We’ll talk soon.
Twelve words. Same twelve I’ve been sending for years.