Chapter 12
Ash
The bed is cold. My hand drifts instinctively across the mattress before I've fully opened my eyes, searching for warmth that isn't there. My fingers meet nothing but rumpled sheets.
Practice starts in an hour. I groan. Normally, I'd already be halfway through coffee by now. Instead, I've apparently slept like the dead. My shoulders ache pleasantly as I stretch. Every muscle reminds me that yesterday ended very differently than I expected when I woke up that morning.
Yesterday started with a trade announcement. It ended with Hayes asleep in my arms royally fucked and pleased.
Life comes at you fast.
I glance toward the bathroom. Empty. The shower isn't running.
The bedroom door stands open, revealing a quiet hallway beyond.
“Kai?”
No answer.
I climb out of bed, expecting to find him making coffee or standing in my kitchen reading one of the books he'd inevitably steal from my shelves. Nothing.
The condo is silent. His shoes are gone from beside the front door. So is his hockey bag.
I lean against the kitchen counter for a moment, surprised by the disappointment settling somewhere beneath my ribs. The logical part of my brain reminds me that the man has his own apartment. His own life. He doesn't live here.
The less logical part of my brain thinks he could've at least said goodbye.
I open the refrigerator, mostly out of habit, and immediately remember there's nothing inside worth eating. Still tragic. My phone sits on the counter where I abandoned it sometime during the night.
The screen lights up the second I pick it up. One unread message. Hayes. The corner of my mouth lifts before I've even opened it.
Went home to get a fresh set of clothes. Didn't want to wake you since you did all the work again
See you later xx
I read them once. Then again. Then a third time.
“...Little shit.”
The laugh escapes before I can stop it.
He's making jokes. Yesterday afternoon he'd looked like the world was ending. Last night he'd barely been holding himself together. Now he's teasing me before eight o'clock in the morning.
Progress.
I stare at the little “xx” for longer than I'd ever admit out loud. He's never signed off a text like that before. Most of our messages have been painfully practical.
Here.
Okay.
On my way.
Now I'm apparently getting kisses. I should probably play this cool.
Instead, I type back almost immediately.
I appreciate you finally acknowledging my hard work.
The typing bubble appears almost instantly.
It seemed only fair.
I grin as I respond.
You could've woken me up.
You looked peaceful.
I stare at the words. Peaceful.
Nobody has ever described me that way.
Intimidating?
Sure.
Grumpy?
Frequently.
An asshole?
According to Dante, almost daily.
Peaceful isn't one I've heard before.
Another message appears.
Besides, I figured if I woke you up you'd convince me to stay.
I snort.
Correct.
Something warm settles low in my chest. The exchange shouldn't mean anything.
It's just a few text messages. That's all. And yet I can't remember the last time something so small made my morning noticeably better.
I lock my phone and slip it into my pocket. The condo suddenly feels much quieter.
Not lonely. Just...missing someone.
An alarming realization. I really need to get a grip. Instead of examining that thought any further, I head toward the bathroom to get ready for practice.
By the time I pull into the arena parking lot forty-five minutes later, my eyes are already scanning the rows of cars. The first thing I notice when I pull into the players' parking lot is Kai's car.
Or rather, the lack of it.
His beat-up silver Civic is impossible to miss. It has a dent in the rear bumper that he's been insisting he'll fix “eventually” for at least a month now. Normally it's already sitting three rows over by the time I arrive.
This morning the space is empty. I cut the engine but don't get out immediately.
Maybe he stopped for coffee.
Maybe traffic is worse than usual.
Maybe—
I shake the thought away before it has time to grow teeth. He texted me this morning. He sounded alright. He'll be here.
I climb out of my truck, sling my bag over my shoulder, and head inside.
The arena feels different today. Busier. Louder. Everyone seems to be talking at once.
The moment I step into the locker room, I understand why.
“They said he's already in the building.”
“I heard he landed last night.”
“Wonder if he's actually as good as William.”
“Nah, different player.”
“The media's gonna have a field day.”
Every conversation circles back to the same topic.
The trade.
Late last night the organization sent out the official email. The Arcane Wizards have acquired Noah Grove.
I must have read it six times before finally putting my phone down. The email had included the usual corporate language. Asset management. Future considerations. Salary retention. Paragraphs of sterile business jargon attempting to disguise the fact that people's lives had just been rearranged.
None of it mattered. All Kai would see was one name.
Grove.
I look toward his stall. Empty. His gear isn't there. His water bottle from yesterday still sits beneath the bench exactly where he left it.
Something twists unpleasantly in my stomach.
“He here?” Dante's voice pulls me out of my thoughts.
He drops his equipment bag beside his own stall before following my gaze. Then his expression changes.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“He text you?”
I start tying my hair back, avoiding his gaze. “This morning.”
“And?”
I hesitate. “He sounded okay.”
“But?”
I look back at the empty stall. “I'm not so sure anymore.”
Dante's easy smile disappears. For once, he doesn't have a joke. “Shit.”
Neither of us says anything for a few seconds.
The room keeps filling around us. Players laugh. Trainers move through the aisles carrying medical kits and tablets. Somebody starts arguing about fantasy football despite the fact that it's completely unrelated to hockey.
Life goes on.
My eyes keep drifting toward the doorway. Every time someone walks in, I expect to see Kai.
Coach enters a few minutes later, and the conversation dies almost immediately.
Someone walks in behind him.
Noah Grove.
The room instinctively straightens. Noah looks younger than I expected.
Twenty-three. Maybe twenty-four. He's built like a hockey player but not quite as heavily as William had been.
His auburn-brown hair falls a little longer across his forehead, and he carries himself with the quiet confidence of someone who's spent most of his life in NHL locker rooms.
The resemblance is unsettling.
Not identical.
Different jaw.
Different nose.
But the eyes...
The eyes belong to William.
For just a fraction of a second, my brain forgets what year it is.
Then Noah smiles politely. The illusion disappears.
“Morning, boys,” Coach says. “This is Noah Grove.”
A few players nod. Someone offers a handshake.
Noah returns it with practiced ease. “Happy to be here.”
He looks around the room politely, introducing himself to whoever happens to be nearby. Professional. Reserved. He doesn't seem particularly interested in making friends today.
I barely hear any of it. I'm still looking at Kai's stall. Still empty. Coach notices it too. His eyes flick toward the vacant space for barely a second.
Strangely, he doesn't seem surprised.
The realization catches my attention. He knew. He must have known Kai wasn't coming. Whether Kai called him this morning or last night, I don't know.
Coach doesn't comment.
Instead, he claps his hands together. “Everybody make Noah feel welcome.”
Then, just like that, the meeting ends. The room breaks apart. Players scatter toward their stalls.
Noah chooses the empty locker across from the equipment room and quietly begins unpacking his gear. He doesn't force conversation. Doesn't seem offended that nobody knows quite what to say to him.
I almost feel sorry for him.
My phone comes out before I can stop myself.
You alright?
Sent.
No reply.
I wait thirty seconds.
Nothing.
A minute.
Still nothing.
The little “Delivered” beneath the message never changes.
I tell myself he's driving. Then I remember his apartment is only fifteen minutes from the arena.
A different thought occurs to me. Maybe he went home… and couldn't make himself come back.
The possibility sits heavily in my chest.
Practice begins.
It passes in a blur.
Noah skates well.
Solid edges.
Good positioning.
A dependable second-pair defenseman by the look of him.
Nothing flashy. Nothing that makes the coaches whistle in appreciation. William had possessed that rare quality where the game seemed to slow down around him. He saw passing lanes before anyone else. He dictated pace without appearing to try.
Noah doesn't. He's a different player entirely—reliable, steady, workmanlike. Which leaves me wondering why management wanted him badly enough to bring him here. Of every team in the league…Why this one? Why this locker room? The question lingers throughout practice.
I barely register the drills. Every whistle pulls my attention toward the empty spot where Kai should be. Every break finds me checking my phone. Still nothing. By the time Coach dismisses us, I've sent three texts.
None answered.
The locker room gradually fills with the familiar sounds of equipment hitting the floor and showers starting in the background. I sit down heavily at my stall.
For a long moment, I simply stare across the aisle Kai's locker looks exactly the way he left it yesterday. His water bottle tucked beneath the bench.
The sight bothers me more than it should. I stand and walk over. Without really thinking about it, I pick up the water bottle. He'll forget it otherwise. He's always forgetting little things.
The thought almost makes me smile.
Footsteps echo behind me. I look up to see Noah walking by. His eyes linger on the empty locker for barely a second.
Then, so quietly I almost think I've imagined it, he mutters, “Fucking coward.”
I straighten immediately. “What did you say?”
The entire room seems to pause.
Noah turns. His expression remains calm. “I didn't say anything.”