Chapter Twenty-Four
Aleksi
The coffee's gone cold.
I stare at the mug on my kitchen counter—white ceramic, some expensive brand stamped on the side, another one of Vivi's purchases to prepare the house for Kendall--and realize I've been standing here for twenty minutes, phone in hand, waiting for a reply that isn't coming.
The screen glows up at me, mocking in its silence.
I stayed here all night, hoping maybe she would have a change of heart and come back, but I was up all night, and she never showed up.
I have to get up and head in for practice, but I just sit here with the few minutes I have before I have to leave, thinking of what I could have done differently last night.
Me: Hey, doc. Just checking in. Movers tomorrow — I'll be there. Promise I won't hit anyone this time.
Sent at 7:43 AM.
Read at 7:43 AM.
Nothing after that.
Just that tiny, taunting word beneath my message: Read.
She saw it. She opened it. She chose not to answer.
I called the movers earlier this morning and left a message on their voicemail to confirm they were still scheduled for her apartment tomorrow morning but it was too early when I called so I left a message.
I tell myself it's fine. She's mad. She has every right to be. The brawl right outside the locker room, the cameras, the headlines that won't stop multiplying like weeds—of course, she's upset. Of course, she needs time to cool down. These are the kinds of headlines she was trying to avoid.
But the silence doesn't feel like anger.
It feels like the distance that I thought we were finally past. The kind that starts as a crack and ends as a canyon.
I set the mug in the sink, the clink of ceramic against metal is too loud in the empty apartment. The place feels bigger than it should—too much space, too much quiet, like the walls know something I don't want to admit.
My phone buzzes, and my heart does that stupid leap it always does when I think it might be her.
It's not.
Trey: You coming to morning skate? I just drove by the house, and your car is parked in the driveway.
I type back quickly.
Me: Yeah. Leaving now. I'll be right behind you.
Trey: Did Kendall ever show up last night?
Me: Nope.
I grab my bag, double-check that I have everything—skates, stick, tape, the protein shake I made this morning after a carb-loaded breakfast to fuel today's practice—and head for the door.
But I can't shake the feeling that something's wrong. Not just wrong. Off.
Like the world shifted two degrees while I wasn't looking, and now nothing lines up quite right.
I make the drive to the arena purely on muscle memory.
A left out of the gated community, right on Pine, straight through the stretch where the coffee shops blur into boutiques and bike lanes, then onto I-5.
I've taken this route a few hundred times since joining the team since Trey, Kaenan, Coach Haynes, and a few other retired players live out here, but today it feels longer. Heavier.
My phone sits in the cup holder, screen dark, taunting me with its silence. I glance at it every few seconds, willing it to light up. Willing her name to appear.
It doesn't.
At the red light on 4th, I pick it up and scroll back through our thread. The last few messages are all me.
Me: How are you feeling? Did Niko let you sleep?
Me: Saw the headlines. Ignore them. They'll move on.
Me: Can I bring you dinner tonight? Your choice.
All of them read. None of them answered.
The light turns green. Someone honks behind me. I toss the phone back into the cup holder and drive.
I'm halfway to the facility when my phone rings.
Not a text. An actual call.
My pulse kicks up, and I fumble for the phone, nearly dropping it in my lap. But the caller ID doesn’t say her name. It's a number I recognize from this morning: the moving company.
I answer, pressing the phone to my ear. "Hello?"
"Hi, this is Scott with Westside Movers. Just returning your call from earlier this morning, before we opened, regarding your appointment for tomorrow."
Relief floods through me. At least this is still happening. At least she's still moving into the house.
"Yeah," I say, flipping on my turn signal. "Nine AM, right?"
There's a pause. A shuffle of papers.
"Actually, sir… We got a call late last night that this appointment was cancelled."
The word hits like a puck to the chest.
"Cancelled?" I repeat, my grip tightening on the wheel. "Or rescheduled?"
"No, sir. Cancelled outright. Kendall Hensen left a message stating that she didn't need the service anymore."
The world tilts.
"Are you sure?" My voice sounds strange, too controlled for the news I just received. "Maybe she changed companies?"
"I don't know, sir. All I know is she called and cancelled. No rescheduling. No forwarding information."
I swallow hard, forcing the words out. "Okay. Thanks."
I hang up before he can say anything else.
For a long moment, I just sit there, one hand on the wheel, the other still holding the phone like it might ring again and tell me this is all a mistake.
She cancelled the movers.
Why would she cancel the movers?
Maybe she's doing it herself, I tell myself.
Maybe she hired someone else. Maybe she's just being stubborn.
But the explanation feels too thin to hold any weight.
Kendall doesn't just cancel things. She plans.
She organizes. She triple-checks every detail because chaos is the enemy and control is the only thing that keeps her safe.
So if she cancelled… That means something more is going on. How does defending her and defending myself against a drunk asshole one night equate to halting our plans? I just don't get it, and she's not offering any explanation that makes any sense.
The parking lot at the facility is already full by the time I pull in.
I grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head for the tunnel entrance. My phone buzzes again—another text from Trey, probably asking where I am—but I don't check it.
I just walk, trying to outrun the dread that's been building since the moving company called.
Inside, the familiar sounds of the locker room wash over me: It should ground me. It usually does. But today, all I can hear is the silence underneath it.
I scan the room automatically, looking for the one person who isn't there.
Kendall.
Her ponytail swinging as she moves between players, clipboard in hand, that calm, steady presence that makes everything feel manageable.
But she's not here.
Instead, there's a stranger.
A tall, broad man in scrubs, standing next to Theo, going over charts with one of the rookies. His voice is low, very clinical, and completely detached—nothing like Kendall's warmth, her dry humor, the way she makes even the worst injuries feel survivable.
I freeze, my duffel slipping slightly on my shoulder.
Who the hell is that?
Theo spots me and waves me over. "M?kelin. Come meet Dr. Grant. He's filling in for Kendall for a bit and he's getting familiar with the roster."
"Filling in?" I echo, crossing the room slowly.
Dr. Grant straightens, offering a handshake. His grip is firm and professional. "Good to meet you. Looking forward to working with the Hawkeyes for a bit."
"Yeah, welcome to the team," I barely manage to shake his hand, which isn’t like me. It's not his fault she's not here, and something tells me that the fault is mine alone. But how… and why? More importantly, how do I fix it?
My eyes turn to Theo as Dr. Grant moves on to meeting another player on the team that just walked in, and I search his face for answers---clues to what he might know that he's not telling me.
"She's not due for maternity leave until January," I say, keeping my voice even.
Theo glances around, then lowers his voice.
"Yeah, but with the press stuff… Penelope thought it'd be good for her to take a week.
Maybe more. Dr. Grant was the original doctor who was planned to take over for her and Penelope called him in sooner.
He's here if she..." he pauses and then rephrases. "...until she comes back."
He changed what he was going to say but I heard, "...if she comes back."
A week off? But why?
Kendall doesn't take time off. She works through migraines, through flu season, through every crisis the team throws at her.
So if she's taking time off… Something's really wrong.
And I know that if it was about the baby, she'd have told me personally, she wouldn’t let Theo and Dr. Grant be the ones I find out from.
This has to do with Tarron, the fight between us, and the media coverage from last night. Nothing else makes sense.
I spot Penelope heading down the hallway, tablet in hand, her usual brisk efficiency radiating off her like armor.
I jog after her, duffel bouncing against my hip. "Penelope."
She stops, exhaling like she already knows what's coming. "Aleksi. Practice in five."
"I called the movers," I say, stepping in front of her. "She cancelled. She's not answering her phone. Now there's a new doctor in the locker room. What's going on?"
For a second—just a second—Penelope's mask slips.
She looks tired. Uncertain. And that scares me more than anything else because Penelope doesn't usually let that stuff show. She was made to be the GM of this team and to put up with pushy sponsors and egomaniac players. She handles it all like it's just another day.
"You really need to discuss this with her," she says carefully.
"I can't," I say, my voice rising despite my best efforts to keep it steady. "She's not answering me."
"Then maybe give her space," Penelope says, but it sounds rehearsed. Practiced. "She's under a lot of pressure right now."
"Space?" I repeat, the word tasting bitter. "She's not just stressed, Penelope. She's shutting me out. Is this because of the press? Because of me?"
Her expression softens, just a fraction. "Aleksi… you know I can't speak for her. But you should let her come to you when she's ready."
"And what if she doesn't?" I ask quietly.
Penelope doesn't answer. She just squeezes my arm once, quick and reassuring, and walks away.
"I promise she has her reasons for why she's doing this. You're just going to have to wait it all out. She'll come to you when she's ready."
I want to ask more questions, but Cammy runs down and tells her that an important sponsor just called with concerns and they want to talk to her right away. I'm back in the locker room, tying my skates, when Theo sits down beside me.
"Everything good?" he asks, keeping his voice low.
"Yeah," I lie. "Just tired."
He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push.
I glance down at my phone one last time before tucking it into my locker.
Me: I'm sorry about what's happening. Can we talk?
Kendall: I need more time.
Relief that she at least answered me back, hits.
Me: How much time?
She doesn't answer back, and my time is up. I need to get on the ice.
The whistle blows for morning skate.
I grab my stick and head for the tunnel, forcing my legs to move even though every instinct in my body is screaming at me to turn around, to drive to her apartment, to find her and fix this before it's too late.
But I can't.
Because Coach is calling my name.
Because the team needs me on the ice.
Because maybe—just maybe—Penelope's right. Maybe she needs space. Maybe she'll come back when she's ready.
But as I step onto the ice, the cold biting through my gear, I can't shake the feeling that I'm losing her.
Not slowly.
Not quietly.
But right now, in real time, while I'm standing here doing nothing.
I skate harder than I have all season.
I'm faster, sharper, pushing myself until my lungs burn and my legs scream and the only thing I can hear is the scrape of my blades cutting into the ice.
If I just keep moving, maybe she'll come back.
Maybe she's just cooling down.
Maybe this isn't the start of losing her.
But when I glide past the bench, the empty spot where she should be feels louder than the crowd ever will.
And for the first time since I met her, I don't know how to fix it.