Chapter Twenty-Six
Aleksi
The jet sits on the tarmac, our next few games are away but I still haven’t seen or talked to Kendall besides the small handful of returned text messages she’s sent.
Fog rolls across the runway, turning this late-September morning into something softer than it feels.
I stand at the bottom of the jet as player after player passes by me with their headphones and duffle bags, everyone’s ready for another pre-season set of games.
We’re looking good out on the ice, but before I can board, I need to send one more call.
It feels wrong to leave town without calling her.
Maybe because this is the first away game since I got called up to the Hawkeyes that Kendall won’t be with us.
That odd feeling like I left the stove on is back, and it’s even stronger as I stare back at the Hawkeyes jet. I’m leaving something behind for sure. I’m leaving them behind. As much as I hate it, Kendall isn’t giving me a choice.
I stand at the bottom of the stairs, duffel slung over one shoulder, phone pressed to my ear for the third time in ten minutes.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Voicemail.
Again.
"Hey, Doc. It's me. Again. I know you're probably busy, but… I was hoping to see you before we left. Call me back when you can, okay? Please?"
I end the call and stare at the screen, willing it to light up with her name. It doesn't.
Behind me, Luka's voice cuts through the fog. "You coming, or are you planning to propose to your phone?"
I glance over my shoulder. He's halfway up the stairs, grinning like he thinks this is funny.
"Yeah," I mutter, pocketing the phone. "Coming."
But my feet don't move right away. I scan the parking lot one more time, half-hoping—stupidly, uselessly—that she'll pull up in that little sedan of hers, the one with the temperamental heater and the bumper sticker she pretends to hate but won't peel off.
She doesn't.
Of course she doesn't.
I exhale slowly, forcing my legs to carry me up the stairs and into the belly of the plane.
Inside, the cabin the seats are wide, plush, the kind of luxury that's supposed to make four-hour flights feel manageable. Most of the guys are already settled, headphones on, tablets out, pre-game rituals unfolding in the quiet choreography of a team that's done this a thousand times.
Scottie's already out from the dramamine, and Hunter’s got sparkle unicorn stickers covering up his face.
I drop into my usual seat near the back, toss my duffel into the overhead, and pull out my phone again.
One last try.
I type quickly, thumbs moving on autopilot.
Me: I was hoping to see you before I left. Is everything okay? Tell Niko I love him.
I hit send and watch the message turn from gray to blue.
The plane's door seals with a thud, the sound final and unforgiving.
I lean my head back against the seat, eyes closed, trying to breathe through the knot that's been sitting in my chest for the last week and a half. Since the hallway. Since the headlines. Since she stopped answering my calls.
My phone buzzes.
I nearly drop it in my rush to unlock the screen.
Kendall: Maybe we can talk when you get home.
Kendall: Niko knows. I tell him everyday.
Relief floods through me for half a second before the unease creeps back in.
We can talk when you get home.
Not I miss you. Not I'm okay. Not you’re right, I’ve moved back into the house and we can be a family again. But it’s something… and right now, something is everything.
I type back, trying to keep my tone light even though everything in me is screaming that something's wrong.
Me: Kendall, I’m sorry if I hurt you. I saw red the moment I saw him hurting you.
The typing bubble appears, disappears, reappears.
Kendall: I know. Have a good trip.
It’s not what I was hoping to hear, but it’s some level of understanding that she knows I was only trying to protect her. I stare at the words, reading them over and over, searching for something between the lines that isn't there.
It seems that everyone but me seems to understand. Why won’t she tell me what she’s telling everyone else? What is she afraid to tell me?
The engines roar to life, the vibration rumbling through the cabin, and I shove the phone into my pocket before I can type something desperate and stupid. Like, I love you… or marry me.
I glance down at the athletic tape ring on my right hand that I haven’t taken off since the night she left me in that motel and I moved it from my ring finger. It doesn't matter which finger it encircles, it still represents the same thing–that I’m hers.
I wonder if she still wears the ring around her neck.
Has she taken it off since that night in the hallway?
Does she still wear it? It’s a question I want to ask but I need to ask it in person.
She can hide behind a text message but she can’t hide when we’re face to face.
I need to know where I stand, good or bad.
She's fine, I tell myself. She's just stressed. She'll call when she's ready.
Behind me, Trey's voice drifts over the low hum of the engines, casual and unguarded.
"Yeah, the medical board might take away her license after that fight."
My spine goes rigid.
I twist in my seat, scanning the rows until I find him. He's two rows back, phone to his ear, nodding at whatever the person on the other end is saying.
"Wait—are you talking about Kendall?" I call over my shoulder, loud enough that a few heads turn.
Trey glances up, startled. He lowers the phone slightly. "Yeah. Why—wait, you didn't hear?"
"Hear what?"
He frowns, pulling the phone away from his ear completely. "About the review. The medical board's doing an inquiry. That's why Dr. Grant's been around."
The words hit like a puck to the chest.
"Theo said it was just for a week," I say, my voice sharper than I mean it to be.
Trey shakes his head slowly. "That's not how I understand it. She's trying to distance herself from the team. Keep the NHL out of it. Avoid sanctions."
My brain scrambles to catch up, piecing together fragments that don't make sense.
She didn't tell me.
She didn't tell me.
I'm out of my seat before I realize I'm moving, stumbling down the narrow aisle toward the front of the plane.
"I have to get off," I tell the flight attendant, my voice tight. "It's an emergency."
She's young, blonde, already halfway through sealing the galley. She blinks at me, startled. "I'm sorry, sir, but the doors are closed. FAA regulations. We're cleared for takeoff."
"I don't care," I say, louder now. "I need to get off this plane."
Behind me, Coach Haynes' voice cuts through the cabin like a blade. "M?kelin. Sit down."
I turn, chest heaving. "Kendall. I have to get to Kendall. The board's trying to take her license because of that fight."
Coach stands, moving toward me with the calm, measured authority of a man who's seen a thousand meltdowns and knows how to defuse them. He lowers his voice, stepping close enough that the rest of the team can't hear.
"She has lawyers. Hospital counsel. Insurance reps. She's not alone."
"She didn't even tell me this was happening," I say, my voice cracking. "I fucking hit Tarron, and now she could lose everything. Did you know about this?"
His expression softens, just a fraction. "I did. But I figured you did too."
"She's been icing me out."
"Then maybe she needs space to handle it," he says gently. "Don't make this worse for her."
The flight attendant steps forward, her tone firm but not unkind. "Sir, please take your seat. We're about to take off."
I look at Coach, at the attendant, at the sealed door that might as well be a prison wall.
There's no getting off this plane. Not now. Not until we land back in Seattle in four days.
I sink back into my seat, fists clenched against my thighs, jaw locked so tight it aches. My phone's already in my hand, thumbs flying across the screen.
Me: You didn't tell me about the medical board review. Why not?
I stare at the message, willing it to deliver faster, willing her to answer immediately with something that makes sense.
The plane climbs, the cabin tilting as we punch through the low clouds. My phone buzzes just as the signal starts to fade.
Kendall: Please focus on hockey. The board doesn't need to see us together. My lawyer's working on a deal.
The words blur on the screen.
A deal.
She's making a deal. And she didn't tell me.
I lock the phone and press it to my forehead, squeezing my eyes shut.
Don't make this worse, Coach said.
But how could it possibly get worse than this?