Chapter 15 #2
Another defenseman joins the conversation. “So who made the first move?”
Ash's grin is impossible to miss. “I did.”
“I don't believe that.”
Ash raises an eyebrow at him.
“You seriously just walked up to Hayes?”
Ash shrugs, glancing over at me. “Pretty much.”
I stare at the ice.
Technically, he's not wrong. He had approached me first.
Granted, his version leaves out several important details.
Like accidentally becoming my Dom.
Like buying me Dickens.
Like somehow bulldozing every wall I'd spent two years building.
Another whistle cuts through the rink. We reset for the next drill. This time Coach pairs Noah and me together on the same rush.
For one brief second, panic threatens to grab hold. Then instinct takes over.
Noah carries the puck through the neutral zone while I drive wide toward the boards. The defense closes the middle, forcing him toward the wall. He doesn't panic.
Instead, he threads a crisp pass across the blue line.
Tape to tape.
Perfect.
The puck settles on my stick like it belongs there. I cut toward the slot before snapping a quick wrist shot past Andy, who's filling in as our practice goalie.
The puck rings off the back bar.
Coach nods. “Again.”
Noah doesn't say anything. Neither do I.
We skate back to the line. The next rep goes even smoother. This time I carry the puck.
Noah recognizes the defense collapsing toward me and slides into open ice exactly when I expect him to.
The pass finds him cleanly.
He buries it.
Coach blows his whistle. “That's it.”
Noah simply nods once before skating away.
I watch him disappear toward the opposite line. His shoulders look tight. His expression unreadable. For a second, I wonder if he's frustrated.
Then I immediately scold myself.
Maybe I'm imagining it.
Maybe he's just having an ordinary practice.
Not everything has to be about me.
The thought settles some of my nerves.
As the morning continues, the guys somehow circle back to Ash. Again. We finish a conditioning drill and coast toward the benches while Coach explains the next exercise.
Dante skates up beside Ash. “So.”
Ash sighs dramatically. “I don't like that tone.”
“You've gone soft.”
“I have not.”
“You smile every time somebody says Hayes.”
Ash immediately looks offended. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I think you're imagining things.”
Tyler joins in. “No, he's right.”
Another teammate laughs. “It's honestly kind of disgusting.”
Ash shakes his head. “You people spend way too much time watching me.”
“We’re literally on a team together,” Tyler says. “Watching you is part of the job.”
Dante points at me as I try not to look like I'm paying attention. “Say Hayes.”
Ash rolls his eyes. “No.”
“Say it.”
“I'm not participating.”
“Grant, Come on. Prove me wrong.”
Ash sighs theatrically. “Hayes.”
Dante immediately throws both hands into the air. “There! You smiled.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely smiled.”
“I was already smiling.”
“No, you weren't.”
The argument continues without me. I don't hear most of it because they're right.
I saw it too. Every single time someone says my name, Ash smiles. Not a huge grin.
Not something dramatic. Just warm. Easy.
Like my name has somehow become something pleasant inside his head. The realization pinches somewhere beneath my ribs. Nobody has looked happy to hear my name in a very long time.
I find myself staring at him longer than I should.
He's laughing at something Dante says now, shaking his head while effortlessly gliding backward across the ice.
God. He's done so much for me. He's carried me through panic attacks. Held me while I cried.
Fed me.
Protected me.
Made me laugh.
Bought me books because he'd noticed I'd finished the last one.
Even now he's standing here smiling because somebody mentioned me.
What exactly have I done for him?
The question follows me through the remainder of practice. Coach finally blows the final whistle.
The locker room fills with the familiar sounds of equipment hitting concrete floors, showers turning on, and conversations overlapping in every direction.
I shower quickly.
Dress.
Pack my bag.
Across the room, Noah finishes taping his stick before sliding it into his equipment bag.
He's almost out the door. If I don't do this now, I never will.
I swallow hard. “Ash.”
He looks up from tying his shoes. “I'm gonna talk to him.”
His expression immediately sharpens. “You sure?”
“No.”
A tiny smile flickers across his face. “Honest answer.”
“I think I need to.”
Ash studies me for a long second.
Finally, he nods. “I'll be right here.”
Somehow those four words steady me.
I swallow once before walking across the locker room. “Noah?”
He's sliding his stick into his equipment bag when he looks up. “What?”
I glance toward the hallway. “Could I steal you for a minute?”
His expression immediately hardens. “For what?”
“I just… I'd rather not do this in front of everyone.”
For a second, I think he's going to refuse.
Instead, he lets out a quiet breath through his nose and nods once. “Fine.”
He follows me into the hallway outside the locker room.
The arena is strangely quiet here. The muffled sounds of showers and conversations drift through the closed locker room door behind us while a Zamboni hums somewhere deeper inside the building.
Neither of us speaks right away.
I shove my hands into my pockets to keep them from shaking. “Thank you for coming out here.”
Noah crosses his arms. “You've got about thirty seconds.”
Fair enough.
I nod once. “I know this situation has to be incredibly uncomfortable.”
His expression doesn't change.
“I can't imagine what it feels like getting traded here.”
Still nothing.
“I don't expect you to forgive me.”
“I don't.”
“I know.” I take a slow breath. “I don't expect you to like me either.”
Silence.
“I just…” The words are harder than I expected. “I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry.”
Noah's jaw tightens.
“I'm sorry William died.”
The hallway suddenly feels much too small.
“I'm sorry your family lost him.” I force myself to keep looking at him. “I'm sorry fate decided to put us on the same team.”
For one long moment, Noah simply stares at me.
Then something behind his eyes breaks. “You don't get to apologize.”
His voice is low.
Controlled.
“You don't know anything about me.”
“I know.”
“No.” He steps closer. “You don't.” His breathing becomes uneven. “You don't know what my family went through. You don't know what it was like watching my mother stop sleeping.”
Each sentence lands harder than the last.
“You don't know what it was like cleaning out my brother's apartment.” His laugh is short. Bitter. “I still catch myself reaching for my phone because I think I should call him.”
His eyes shine with angry tears. “Then I remember he's dead.”
I don't interrupt. There's nothing I could possibly say.
He points at my chest.