Chapter 3
Kai
The worst part is that we lose.
The final score is close enough that analysts will spend the next three days breaking down missed opportunities and momentum shifts and defensive mistakes.
Sports radio will call it a promising start to the season.
Commentators will praise how hard we fought.
Somebody will inevitably put together a montage of the game's highlights with dramatic music underneath.
My face will probably be in half of them.
The thought makes me want to throw up.
As I skate toward the tunnel, the crowd rises to its feet. Most of them are applauding. Some of them are already filing toward the exits. Kids lean over the glass hoping for fist bumps from players.
It should feel normal. It should feel familiar. Instead, all I can hear is one voice.
You should have been the one who died.
The words came from somewhere behind the bench during the second period. A drunk middle-aged man. The kind of person who would never say something like that if we were standing face-to-face in a grocery store. But people become brave when there's glass between them and the target.
You should have been the one who died.
The sentence has been echoing through my skull ever since. The worst part is that I don't feel angry. I agree with him. The arena noise fades behind me. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz softly.
My ribs ache with every breath. That hit into the boards did more damage than I'm willing to admit. The adrenaline kept it manageable during the game. Now that things are slowing down, every movement sends a dull throb through my side.
I press a hand against the spot instinctively. The gesture doesn't help.
The medical trainer catches sight of me almost immediately. “Hayes.”
I look up.
Andy's already walking toward me. He pushes up his glasses onto his head. Andy's been with the Wizards for a while now. He's 32, I think, tall, and that kind of rugged handsome that I think a lumberjack would have. I knew him before my hiatus, and it seems he's still memorized all of my tells.
“Let me guess.” He points at my ribs. “You're fucked.”
“A little.”
The look he gives me suggests he doesn't believe that answer. He's right not to.
“Come see me after you get your gear off.”
I nod.
“Will do.”
Andy disappears toward the treatment room.
I continue into the locker room. The atmosphere is strangely subdued. Nobody likes losing, especially on opening night. Guys are peeling off equipment in relative silence. A few conversations drift through the room, but they're quieter than normal.
I lower myself onto the bench and begin removing my gear.
The process is automatic at this point. Gloves. Helmet. Shoulder pads. Elbow pads. Each piece hits the floor with a soft thud. My ribs protest every movement.
Eventually, the room begins to thin out. A few players head toward the showers. Others disappear into the training area. Some leave entirely.
I should probably go see the medic. Instead, my eyes find Ash. He's sitting a few stalls away.
Only half-dressed while pulling equipment apart. Dried blood stains the tape wrapped around his hand. His knuckles are split open.
The sight sends a strange feeling through my stomach. Nobody has fought for me in a very long time. Before I can talk myself out of it, I walk over.
Ash glances up. His long black hair is loose now, falling around his face.
I have to consciously stop myself from staring. It's becoming a problem.
“Hey.”
Ash's eyebrows lift slightly. “Hey.”
For a second, neither of us says anything.
Then I gesture toward his hand. “Your knuckles look awful.”
He glances down. “Oh.”
A shrug. Like punching another professional athlete in the face until he loses a tooth is an everyday inconvenience.
“I've had worse.”
That somehow doesn't surprise me. My gaze lingers on the cuts.
Then I look back up. “Why did you do that?”
Ash studies me. “Do what?”
“You know what.”
A smile threatens at the corner of his mouth. Just enough to make something warm and dangerous stir low in my stomach.
“The fight?”
I nod.
Ash looks genuinely confused. Like, the answer should be obvious. “I told you I had your back.”
The simplicity of it catches me off guard. No dramatic speech or grand explanation. Just a statement of fact.
I told you I had your back. Therefore, I acted accordingly.
My throat tightens slightly because people don't do things like that for me anymore. Not since William. Maybe not even before William.
“I didn't need you to do that.” The words sound weak even to me.
Ash snorts. “Sure.”
“I'm serious.”
“So am I.” His gaze fixes on mine.
Steady.
Unwavering.
“You got driven into the boards.”
The memory flashes briefly through my head.
The impact.
The glass rattling.
The crowd reacting.
Then Ash appearing seemingly out of nowhere.
For reasons I don't entirely understand, my face grows warm. I look away first.
Coward. The thought arrives immediately.
Probably because of how aware I suddenly am of him. His size. His voice. The way he looks at people directly instead of dancing around what he means. It's unsettling.
Ash shifts forward slightly, bringing him close enough to touch. Close enough that my pulse notices.
Then his gaze drops. His fingers brush the side of my ribs. My breath catches.
The contact lasts less than a second. Barely anything. A simple assessment. A hockey player checking an injury. My entire nervous system reacts like he's electrocuted me. The warmth of his hand burns through my skin.
I hate how much I feel it.
Ash frowns slightly. “That's going to be ugly tomorrow.”
My brain struggles to catch up with the conversation. “What?”
“The bruise.”
Right.
The bruise.
Not the fact that his hand is still hovering dangerously close to my side.
The bruise.
Obviously.
I clear my throat. “Probably.”
Ash's expression shifts into something firmer. More commanding. The same tone he used on the ice. The same tone he used when he told that guy to shut the fuck up.
“Go get that looked at.”
The words shouldn't affect me, but something about the certainty in his voice settles beneath my skin. Not because he's ordering me around. Because he sounds like he genuinely cares whether I'm hurt.
(And maybe a little bit of a thrill from him ordering me around.)
I nod immediately. “Yeah. Okay.”
Brilliant response. Very articulate. I mentally curse myself.
Ash's mouth twitches like he's trying not to smile. “Good.”
I stand there for another second longer than necessary. The silence stretches. Not awkward but just charged in a way I don't fully understand.
Ash opens his mouth. For a moment, it looks like he's about to say something else.
Instead, he shakes his head. Whatever thought was there disappears. “Go.”
He smiles. “Before the trainer comes looking for you.”
I laugh softly. The sound surprises both of us.
Then I nod once. “Thanks.”
This time I'm not talking about the fight. Ash seems to understand that.
His expression softens almost imperceptibly. “No problem, Hayes.”
Then he stands and heads toward the showers. I watch him go for a second longer than I should.
Long enough to feel ridiculous.
Long enough to remind myself that this is a terrible idea.
Long enough to realize I'm smiling.
The smile disappears almost immediately.
But for a moment... it was there.
The city is dark by the time I pull into my apartment building's parking garage. My body is exhausted. The adrenaline from the game has finally faded, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness that settles into every part of me.
You should have been the one who died.
The sentence follows me all the way into the elevator. It follows me down the hallway. It follows me to my front door. By the time I unlock my apartment, I can practically hear it echoing around the inside of my skull.
I barely make it three steps inside before somebody starts knocking. Three quick knocks. Pause. Two more.
I smile despite myself. Only one person knocks like that. I pull the door open.
Angela is standing there in sweatpants and an oversized university hoodie. Her dark curls are piled messily on top of her head, and she's holding Cleveland against her chest like an oversized orange football.
The cat looks annoyed. Which is his default expression.
Angela's eyes immediately narrow. “You look terrible.”
I laugh. “Good evening to you, too.”
“I'm serious.” She points directly at my ribs. “You got launched into those boards.”
I lean against the doorframe. “I'm fine. Sweet of you to watch me get wrecked, though.”
She makes a face. “I’m fine is exactly what people say right before they collapse dramatically.”
“I'm not going to collapse dramatically.”
“How do you know?”
“I feel like I'd know by now. Also, the medic cleared me.”
Angela studies me. The concern in her eyes is immediate and genuine. It's one of the things I like most about her.
“Sorry you lost, but you were like a bat out of hell out there. It was crazy.”
Angela has watched almost every game since we became friends. Not because she enjoys hockey. (She doesn't. She's very open about that.) She watches because she knows it matters to me. Or at least it used to.
“Yeah?”
She nods, moving Cleveland higher on her hip. “Have you watched the replay yet?”
My stomach immediately tightens. “No.”
The answer comes out sharper than I intended. Angela notices. She's annoyingly observant.
I quickly try to fix myself. “I'm gonna watch it later tonight.”
A lie. The truth is that I avoid watching my own games whenever possible. Watching hockey means seeing replays and the last replay I watched ended with blood on the ice. The one everybody remembers.
“That hit was nasty. Are you sure you're okay?”
I sigh. “Yeah, promise.”
She points at me dramatically. “That Grant guy came out of absolutely nowhere.”
Despite myself, I smile slightly.
Angela shakes her head. “One second he wasn't there and the next he was beating the brakes off that dude.”
I laugh; the sound surprises me.