Chapter Twenty-Seven
Aleksi
The road trip is a blur.
Three cities. Three games. Four sleepless nights in hotel rooms that all smell the same—recycled air, industrial detergent and the faint smell of cigarettes even though you’re not allowed to smoke in these hotels.
I channel everything into the ice.
Every shift, every stride, every shot—I play like I'm trying to outrun something. Like if I skate fast enough, hard enough, the distance between me and Seattle will stop mattering, and maybe Kendall will see I’m trying. That I'm strong enough to fight for us. That I’m not the underdog anymore.
Two goals in the first game. One assist in the second. A power-play snipe in the third that sends the crowd into a frenzy and makes the highlight reels.
The guys are buzzing. The coaches are pleased. Penelope texts me after the second win: Whatever you're doing, keep doing it.
But all I can think about is Kendall and Niko and how I plan to come back to Seattle proving to her that I’m playing at my best, for her… for us.
I think of Kendall, sitting somewhere in Seattle, watching me on a screen, trying to convince herself that this distance is what's best for both of us.
I text her after every game.
Me: Two points tonight. Wish you'd been there to see it.
Me: Scored on the power play. Coach says I'm playing the best hockey of my career. I think it's because I miss you.
Me: I’m going to be home soon.
None of them get a reply but all of them are read.
I know she’s seeing them, and I know she’s watching because I hear the guys talking to their girlfriends on the phone at night, Kendall’s name coming up in conversation.
Every night I do the one thing I can do since she won’t take my calls.
After every score or assist, anytime I get a chance, I point to the sky…
to our stars, telling her that everything I do is for her, for Niko.
At every press table, I make sure my ring finger grips the microphone stand, the ring visible for her to see.
Because I know she’s watching the team interviews… She’s watching me.
By the fourth night, I stop sleeping entirely.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the hallway fight over and over in my head.
If I'd just walked away, if I'd called security, let them handle it, done literally anything except swing, maybe none of this would be happening.
Maybe she'd still be working. Still answering my calls. Still letting me in.
But I didn't walk away. Because I couldn't.
Because the thought of him touching her, hurting her, saying those things to her… it made something in me snap.
And now she's paying the price.
The flight home feels longer than the four days we were gone.
I don't sleep. I just sit in the window seat, forehead pressed to the cold glass, it’s dark and late. Kendall’s probably asleep by now. Tucked into her apartment when I wish she was at the house, safe and sound.
When we finally land, everyone’s exhausted and ready to recoup at home. I grab my duffel and head straight for the parking lot, phone in hand, checking for messages that aren't there.
Just the same unanswered thread, the same Read receipts, the same suffocating silence.
I get in my car and head for The Commons, because what else am I supposed to do? Go to her apartment in the middle of the night and bang on the door until she lets me in? Show up at the house she's refusing to move into and camp out on the porch like some lovesick idiot?
Yes, part of me screams. Do all of that. Fight for her.
But the other part—the part that remembers the look on her face in the hallway after I broke Tarron’s nose, the way she pulled away from me in her office, the careful, clinical distance in her texts—that tells me to give her space.
To trust that she knows what she's doing.
Even if it's killing me. Even if it’s the opposite of everything my gut is screaming at me to do.
The next morning, I head in for practice. Players are already getting their gear on.
My phone buzzes in my locker.
I glance at it, heart leaping stupidly, then sinking when I see it's not her.
It's Vivi.
Vivi: How are you holding up?
I type back quickly.
Me: Not great. Have you talked to her?
Vivi: A little. She's scared, Aleksi. And stubborn. Give her time.
Time.
Everyone keeps saying that word like it's the solution.
But time doesn't fix anything if she won't let me near her.
I'm halfway to the ice when Penelope intercepts me in the hallway.
"M?kelin," she says, her voice gentle but firm. "How are you doing?"
I stop, slinging my stick over my shoulder. "I'm fine."
She arches a brow. "You look like hell."
"Rough week."
"Rough month, more like." She crosses her arms, studying me with that sharp, assessing GM gaze that misses nothing. "You talked to her?"
"She's not talking to me."
Penelope sighs, glancing around to make sure we're alone. "She's trying to protect you."
"I know," I say, my voice tight. "She told me her lawyer's working out a deal. What does that mean?"
Penelope hesitates, and I see the moment she decides to tell me the truth.
"It means she's offering to surrender her license quietly. No contest. As long as the board keeps the NHL out of it."
The words land like a punch.
"What?"
"She thinks it's the only way to protect you and the team," Penelope says softly. "If she fights it, it goes public. The NHL gets involved. Sanctions come down. She's trying to take the fall so you don't have to."
I stare at her, my chest tightening until I can't breathe.
"She was never protecting herself," I whisper. "She was protecting me."
Penelope gives me a small, sad smile. "That's what Kendall’s love looks like, M?kelin. It’s maybe not as upfront or obvious as the way you show it. She’s been keeping you at arms length because she knows you’d never let her do this–not if you knew."
Kendall’s right. I’d never let her do this to protect me. I’d tell her to fight.
"When's the hearing?" I ask, my voice rough.
Penelope glances at her watch, and my stomach drops.
"Right now."
"Where?"
She hesitates. "Downtown. Medical Board offices. But, Aleksi, she asked everyone to stay away—"
"Where exactly?" I interrupt, already turning for the exit.
"Fourth and Union. The Cascade Building. But—"
I'm already running.
Behind me, Penelope calls out, "What about practice? Coach isn't going to be happy you're not there!"
"Tell him to bench me!" I shout over my shoulder, hitting the side exit at a full sprint.
The door slams open, cold air hitting my face, and I don't stop running until I'm in my truck, engine roaring to life, skates changed out in a rush for sneakers, and then tires screeching out of the parking lot.
The city blurs past—streetlights, traffic, the slow crawl of morning commuters who have no idea that my world is ending.
I weave through lanes, heart hammering, hands white-knuckled on the wheel.
She thinks she's protecting me.
But this time, I'm not letting her face the fire alone.
My phone buzzes on the passenger seat.
I glance down, just long enough to see the notification.
Scottie: Dude, where are you? Coach is pissed.
Me: Tell him I’m going to get our doctor back.
Because there's only one place I need to be.
And I'm already halfway there.