Chapter 7
Kai
The problem is that I can't stop thinking about Ash. Not Ash as a person. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.
It isn't Ash's face that follows me through the next morning. It isn't the way he smirks whenever he catches me staring at him or the way his voice drops when he's giving an order he expects to be obeyed. It isn't even the memory of his hands, though that particular memory is difficult to avoid.
What follows me is the silence.
For two years, my mind has been a hostile place to live.
Every night follows the same general pattern.
William dies. The crowd screams. Somebody writes something cruel online.
An old interview resurfaces. I remember a mistake I made six months ago.
Then a mistake I made six years ago. Then a conversation that should have gone differently. Then another one. Then another.
My brain collects guilt the way some people collect stamps.
There is always more.
Always another memory.
Always another reason to stay awake.
Then I met Ash. For a few hours, everything stopped.
No blood.
No headlines.
No William.
No endless replay of every terrible thing that has ever happened.
Just quiet.
I don't think most people understand how valuable silence becomes when you've spent years without it.
The memory follows me through breakfast, through meetings, and eventually onto the ice. Coach is explaining a drill. I'm pretending to listen.
In reality, I'm wondering whether Ash is going to text me. The realization is embarrassing enough that I immediately try to reframe it.
I don't miss him. I miss the feeling. That's different. At least it sounds different when I say it in my head.
Unfortunately, my brain isn't buying the argument. When I glance across the ice, Ash is already looking at me. I immediately focus on my stick.
The whistle blows. Practice begins. For the first half hour, I manage to concentrate. Hockey still has the ability to pull me out of myself when I let it.
The ice makes sense. It always has. There are rules. Expectations. Objectives.
You skate.
You pass.
You shoot.
You defend.
Everything else disappears.
Or at least it used to.
Lately there seems to be a six-foot-five defenseman interfering with the process. Every time I settle into a drill, Ash appears. Every time I stop thinking about him, he skates past. Every time I find a rhythm, he somehow ends up close enough to remind me he exists.
The man is becoming a problem. A very large problem.
During a board battle, I finally manage to gain possession of the puck and turn up ice. For approximately three seconds, I feel successful. Then a shadow falls beside me.
The puck vanishes.
I stop skating.
Ash continues forward with the puck on his stick as though stealing from teammates is a perfectly acceptable hobby.
“What was that?”
He glances over his shoulder. “That was theft.”
The answer shouldn't be funny. Unfortunately, it is.
I hate that.
A few players nearby laugh. Ash looks entirely too pleased with himself.
A few minutes later we're waiting in line for another drill when he glides past me again. “You look distracted.”
“I'm not.”
“You missed two passes.”
“I missed one.”
His mouth twitches. The fact that he counted is somehow more annoying than the comment itself.
Before I can respond, Coach blows the whistle.
The drill starts again. Ash pushes off and rejoins the line. I spend the next ten minutes trying not to think about him. The attempt fails completely. By the time practice ends, I'm exhausted. Not physically. Mentally.
The locker room is loud in the familiar way hockey locker rooms always are. Music plays from a speaker nobody remembers bringing. Somebody is arguing about fantasy football. Somebody else is trying to convince the room that pineapple belongs on pizza.
The conversation becomes surprisingly aggressive. I quietly decide not to get involved.
I start packing my bag with the intention of escaping before anyone notices me.
Unfortunately, Dante notices everybody. “Hayes.”
I look up. “Lopez.”
Dante is sitting on a bench with one skate half unlaced and the expression of a man who has just had an idea. That expression never leads anywhere good.
“You doing anything tonight?”
The question catches me off guard. “No.”
“Good.”
I immediately become suspicious.
Dante points at me.
Then points across the room toward Ash.
Then points back at me.
“You guys are coming out.”
I blink. “Coming out where?”
“A bar.”
“Why?”
The answer seems obvious to him. “Because I've known Grant for years and apparently you two are best friends now.”
A laugh comes from somewhere across the locker room. I don't need to look to know who it belongs to.
“I don't really—”
“You should.”
The interruption comes from Ash.
I glance over.
He's stuffing equipment into his bag without looking at either of us.
“Dante gets offended if nobody shows up.”
“That's true,” Dante says immediately. “I do.”
The thing is, this should be easy to refuse.
A year ago, it would have been.
Two years ago, I would've found an excuse before Dante finished the sentence.
The problem is that both of them are looking at me now.
Not pressuring.
Not pushing.
Just expecting.
It's a strange feeling.
For the last two years, nobody has expected me anywhere.
Most people stopped asking.
Most people assumed I'd say no.
Most people weren't wrong.
Dante, however, seems completely unconcerned by that history.
“I want to get to know you,” he says.
The honesty catches me off guard.
He shrugs. “We're teammates.”
For some reason, that simple statement hits harder than it should.
Such an ordinary thing.
Such an easy thing.
And yet for a long time I've felt like a guest wearing someone else's jersey.
My gaze drifts toward Ash. He's watching me now. Just waiting.
And somehow that makes the decision even harder.
“Fine.”
Dante points at me immediately. “Excellent.”
“You haven't even told me which bar.”
“It's a dive bar.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“It is terrible.”
“Then why are we going?”
“Because terrible bars are the best bars.”
I stare at him.
Dante beams.
I learn absolutely nothing.
The conversation moves on after that. Guys start leaving. Equipment bags disappear over shoulders. The music shifts to a different song. Somebody wins the pineapple pizza argument by sheer volume rather than logic.
Eventually I finish packing my things and head toward the showers.
As I walk away, my gaze catches on Ash one last time.
He's talking to Thomas now.
Laughing at something.
Completely normal.
Completely relaxed.
The sight should make me feel better.
Instead, my mind drifts back to the hotel room.
To his hands.
To his voice.
To the way my thoughts finally stopped spinning.
I don't think I'm looking forward to tonight because of Dante. And I definitely don't think I'm looking forward to the bar. I think I'm looking forward to seeing Ash again. That feels like a much bigger problem.
I change my shirt four times. The first one is too plain. The second makes me look like I'm trying too hard. The third somehow manages both at once. By the time I throw it onto the bed, my bedroom looks like somebody broke in and specifically targeted my wardrobe.
I stand in front of the mirror wearing nothing but jeans and stare at my reflection. This is ridiculous. I'm getting ready to go drink cheap beer with teammates. There is absolutely no reason I should be standing here evaluating T-shirts like I'm preparing for a first date.
The thought arrives without warning. I immediately reject it.
Not a date. Definitely not a date.
I rub a hand across my face and look away from the mirror. The problem is that my brain keeps circling back to the same question.
Why do I care?
For two years, I haven't cared.
I've worn whatever was clean.
Whatever fit.
Whatever attracted the least amount of attention.
Attention stopped feeling good a long time ago.
Attention meant recognition.
Recognition meant questions.
Questions meant William.
Everything eventually led back to William.
The easiest solution was to become forgettable.
Maybe that's why tonight feels strange. Because for the first time in a very long time, I want to be seen.
Not by strangers.
Not by reporters.
Not by fans.
Just—
I cut the thought off before it finishes.
The black T-shirt stays.
The jeans stay.
Simple.
Comfortable.
Normal.
My eyes drift toward the dresser. The jewelry tray is sitting exactly where it has been for years.
Dust has gathered around the edges. I haven't touched it in a long time.
Not because I dislike jewelry but because putting effort into my appearance started feeling pointless after the accident.
My feet carry me across the room before I've consciously decided anything. The silver hoops are exactly where I left them. A little tarnished and dusty. Still recognizable.
I pick one up. The cool metal settles against my palm. For a moment I simply stare at it.
Before, I used to wear these constantly.
Team dinners.
Road trips.
Parties.
Dates.
I used to enjoy getting dressed up. I used to enjoy being looked at. I used to flirt. I used to smile more. The guy I was at twenty-two feels like someone I read about in a book once. A character I remember but don't entirely recognize anymore.
My throat tightens.
I clean the earrings with the edge of my shirt before sliding them into place. The familiar weight feels strange. Comfortable. Like finding something I thought I'd lost.
The silver chain follows. Nothing dramatic or flashy. Just enough.
When I finally look up, the reflection staring back at me seems different.
Not fixed.
Not healed.
Just familiar. Closer to the person I remember being before everything shattered.
Then my phone rings.
Ash.
My stomach immediately performs an embarrassing maneuver.
I answer before the second ring. “Hello?”
“We're outside.”
I can hear Dante laughing somewhere in the background.
“Get down here, Hayes.”
Then the call ends. Just like that. I stare at my phone. The smile remains. Unfortunately.