Chapter 17
Kai
Idon't sleep.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling until sunrise paints pale gray light across my apartment, replaying every second of last night until I've memorized all the places I could have answered differently.
Ash knows.
The thought circles endlessly through my head.
He knows.
Enough to see me differently. Enough to realize I'm not somebody worth dating. Worth loving. Worth keeping around.
My phone buzzes against the nightstand for what feels like the hundredth time.
I don't look at it. Another minute passes. It buzzes again. Eventually curiosity gets the better of me.
Ash.
Three missed calls.
A handful of unread texts.
Kai, don’t ignore me.
Baby, please.
The word baby makes my chest ache.
Another message arrives before I can put the phone back down.
I'm sorry I left last night. I got too hot headed.
I was scared.
I want to talk about this.
I lock the screen. Set the phone facedown. I can't do this. If I hear his voice, I'll crumble. And then he'll realize he should've left last night and never come back.
Silence is easier.
At least that's what I tell myself.
The strange thing about insomnia is how quickly your body remembers it.
For weeks I'd been sleeping again. Not perfectly—Sonia had warned me there would probably never be a magical morning where nightmares disappeared forever—but well enough that waking beside Ash had started feeling ordinary.
Some nights I still startled awake convinced I was back on that ice with William.
Most mornings, though, I found myself wrapped around Ash instead, his arm thrown possessively across my waist while he snored softly into my shoulder.
Somewhere along the way, that became my new normal.
One bad night is apparently all it takes to undo months of progress.
My body slips back into old habits with frightening ease.
My eyes burn before I even climb out of bed, my thoughts move through syrup, and every sound inside the apartment feels just a little too loud.
The coffee maker hisses like it's angry with me.
The cabinet doors close harder than I remember them closing yesterday.
Even the sunlight pouring through my kitchen window seems brighter than usual.
I hadn't realized how much better I'd been doing until I lost it.
That realization follows me through the entire morning.
I shower because routine has become important.
Sonia calls it behavioral consistency. Ash calls it “not giving depression extra ammunition.” Either way, I let muscle memory carry me through the motions while my brain lags several steps behind.
Shampoo. Toothbrush. Deodorant. Wizards hoodie. Keys.
My phone vibrates while I'm tying my shoes.
I don't have to look to know who it is.
I tell myself I'll answer him later.
The lie feels familiar.
The arena is almost empty when I arrive. I like it this way.
Before the coaches arrive. Before trainers start hauling equipment through the hallways. Before Dante appears somehow already talking at full volume despite it being barely eight in the morning.
An empty rink gives me room to breathe. Or at least enough space to pretend I'm breathing normally.
The familiar smell of sharpened steel, rubber mats, and fresh ice settles something inside me the moment I step through the tunnel.
Hockey has always spoken a language my body understands, even when my mind doesn't. I lace my skates slowly, tugging each knot tighter than necessary before stepping through the gate and onto the ice.
The cold air catches in my lungs.
The first push is awkward.
The second feels better.
By the third lap, my body remembers what to do without asking permission from my brain. Edge work. Crossovers. Forward-to-backward transitions. Tight turns around the circles.
Every drill demands just enough concentration that my thoughts begin to quiet. My blades carve familiar arcs into the fresh sheet while the arena remains almost perfectly silent except for the scrape of steel echoing through empty seats.
For twenty minutes, I almost convince myself today will be okay.
A knock against the glass breaks my concentration.
I glance toward the stands expecting to see one of the equipment guys.
Instead, I find Angela. She's holding a paper bag in one hand and waving with the other.
Despite everything, I smile.
I skate toward the boards. “What are you doing here?”
“I brought lunch.” She lifts the bag. “You weren't answering your phone.”
My smile disappears before I can stop it. “Oh.”
Angela studies my face for several long seconds. “You look exhausted.”
“I've looked worse.”
“You've looked better too.”
She's right.
I rest my forearms on the top of the boards while she leans against the other side. For a moment neither of us says anything.
Then she sighs. “Ash came to see me.”
Of course he did. The thought doesn't surprise me nearly as much as it should.
“He told me what happened.”
I stare out across the empty ice. “He shouldn't have.”
“No.” She doesn't argue. “Probably not.”
I glance at her. “Then why are you here?”
“Because he looked terrified.”
Something twists painfully in my chest.
Angela's voice softens. “Kai… He loves you.”
The sentence lands so quietly that I almost miss it.
I laugh once. Not because it's funny. Because I genuinely don't know what else to do.
“You don't know that.”
“I do.”
“How?”
“I watched the way he talked about you.” She smiles sadly. “I've never heard somebody describe another person like that unless they were already hopelessly in love.”
I look away before she can see the tears threatening behind my eyes.
“Angela, thanks for the food, but I'm good. I have a game.” I push off from the boards and skate to the other side of the rink to the players' entrance.
“Kai!” Angela gets on the ice with her sneakers doing her best not to eat shit. “You need help!”
“I don't remember asking you or Ash for your opinions, Ange.”
“We're scared!” she calls out.
I turn on the ice, making her run into my chest. “I'm not broken.”
She looks up at me. “I know.”
“Then stop treating me like I am!” My voice pings around the rink.
Angela backs up, a strike of fear crossing her face. “I'm treating you like someone who's hurting.”
“I'm fine. Go home. I'm going inside.”
“Kai—”
“I'm done talking.” I push away from her. My skates dig sharply into the ice as I head toward the players' tunnel.
Behind me, I hear Angela call my name once.
Then again.
I keep skating.
If I stop now, I'll apologize.
If I apologize…
I'll cry.
I don't trust myself to do either.
By the time I step off the ice, I can hear her hurrying down the concourse behind me. “Kai!”
I don't turn around.
The hallway leading toward the locker room feels strangely narrow, the concrete walls pressing in around me as my pulse pounds louder and louder in my ears.
Just before I reach the secure entrance, a uniformed security guard steps politely into Angela's path.
“I'm sorry, ma'am.”
She stops short. “I just need to talk to him.”
“I understand.” His voice is kind but practiced. “Players and team personnel only beyond this point.”
“I'm his friend.”
“I don't doubt that.” He offers an apologetic smile. “But I can't let anyone back here without credentials.”
Angela looks around him, searching for me. “Kai.”
I don't stop walking.
Her voice follows me anyway. “Please call Sonia.”
I go into the equipment room. The anger feels too hot. Like someone poured gasoline into my veins. I lean both hands against an equipment locker and close my eyes.
Angela.
Ash.
Noah.
Everyone wants something from me.
Everyone thinks they know what's best.
Nobody understands what it feels like to wake up in my own head every morning.
“Fuck!” My fist collides with the metal locker, pain blossoming across my knuckles.
Focus.
The locker room is quieter than usual. Game days always carry a different kind of energy. Nobody is laughing as loudly. Conversations are shorter. Equipment is laid out with practiced precision. Everyone has their own ritual before puck drop.
Mine begins with a shower. Mostly because I need the hot water. I need something stronger than my insane energy drinks to get me into gear. Steam fills the room as I step beneath the spray.
The heat beats against my shoulders, but it doesn't touch the anger sitting inside my chest.
I tip my face toward the water and let it rinse the shampoo from my hair. Breathe. Just breathe.
The locker room door opens somewhere behind me.
Heavy footsteps.
I don't have to turn around.
I'd recognize them anywhere.
Ash doesn't say anything at first. I keep rinsing my hair. Pretend I don't know he's standing there. Pretend my heart didn't immediately speed up.
“Kai.” His voice is careful. I've never heard him sound unsure around me before. “I've been trying to call you.”
“I know.” The answer comes out flat.
I reach up and shut the water off. Silence immediately replaces the steady hiss of the shower. I grab a towel from the nearby shelf and drag it through my hair before wrapping it around my waist.
The movement is automatic. It's strange. A month ago, I would've died before standing here half-naked in front of another man.
Now it barely registers.
Being undressed around Ash feels almost normal.
That realization hurts more than it should. Because I miss him already. Even while I'm angry.
“What the hell happened to your hand?”
I glance down. Blood has seeped through the athletic tape I wrapped around my knuckles earlier.
“Nothing. Leave me alone, please.”
“Kai.” His eyes immediately sharpen.
I move past him, going towards the lockers. Behind me I hear his footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Not crowding me.
Just following.
“I'm getting ready.”
“Talk to me,” Ash begs.
“I don't want to.”
“I know.” His voice softens. “But I need—” His fingers close gently around my wrist.
Something inside me snaps.
I spin before I consciously decide to move. My free hand grabs the front of his shirt. The next thing I know, Ash's back hits the tiled wall with a dull thud.