Chapter 12
Nick
The ice doesn't lie. That is why I love it. It is a binary surface—you are either standing, or you are falling. You are fast, or you are slow. There is no nuance, no gray area, no messy emotional context to interpret. It is physics and brutality, pure and simple.
But today, the ice felt different. It felt heavy.
My left hip was screaming. It was a high-pitched, keening wail of agony that radiated from the joint down to my knee. I ignored it. I pushed harder.
Faster, the voice in my head commanded. It sounded disturbingly like my father. You’re dragging the leg. You look weak. Fix it.
I dug my edges in, accelerating into the turn. The G-force pressed me down, compressing the injury. I gritted my teeth, welcoming the pain. Pain was focus. Pain was a reminder that I was still here, still fighting, still the machine they needed me to be.
I had been in the penthouse with Jess all weekend. I had been soft. I had been happy.
And now, the bill was coming due.
A whistle blew, cutting through the silence like a knife.
I looked up. Coach Harrison stood on the bench, arms crossed. He wasn't alone. Standing next to him was a man in a trench coat holding a tablet. Even from center ice, I recognized the silhouette.
Scout. Chicago.
My stomach dropped. Not with fear—fear was useless—but with a cold, heavy dread.
I skated over, stopping with a spray of snow that dusted the boards. I didn't lean on my stick. I stood tall. I breathed through my nose, hiding the fact that my lungs were burning.
"Coach," I nodded.
"Vance," Harrison said. His face was grim. "This is Mr. Kovich. From the Blackhawks organization."
Kovich didn't smile. He looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on my left leg. He looked like a man who bought livestock for a living and was checking a horse for glue factory potential.
"Nicklas," Kovich said. His voice was dry. "We've been watching the tape from Friday's game."
"We won," I stated.
"You won," Kovich agreed. "But your shift times dropped by twenty percent in the third period. Your top speed was down three miles per hour. And you avoided contact in the neutral zone twice."
He tapped his tablet.
"We draft players who run through walls, Vance. Not players who skate around them."
"I was managing the game," I lied smoothly. "We had the lead. I was playing conservatively."
Kovich raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you call it? Because the report I'm filing says you looked... hesitant. Distracted."
The word hung in the air. Distracted.
It was the same word my father had used. It was the death knell for a draft pick.
"I am not distracted," I said, my voice hardening. "I am the most focused player in this conference."
"Are you?" Kovich leaned over the boards. "Because the rumor mill says you've got a new... living situation. A girlfriend. A dancer."
He said dancer like it was a disease.
"Personal life doesn't affect my game," I said, my hands tightening on my stick until the carbon fiber creaked.
"Everything affects the game, son," Kovich said softly. "The draft is in two weeks. You're currently slipping on our board. We need a franchise center. We need a killer. Right now? You look like a kid who's worried about getting home for dinner."
He straightened up. "You're coming to Chicago next week for the interviews. Prove me wrong, Vance. Because right now, I'm advising the GM to look at the kid from Michigan instead."
Kovich turned and walked up the tunnel steps.
I stood there, frozen. The cold of the rink seeped into my bones.
Look at the kid from Michigan.
That kid was inferior. His stats were lower. His hockey IQ was nonexistent. But he was hungry. And apparently, I looked full.
Coach Harrison sighed, rubbing his temples. "Nick. I told you. You're walking a fine line."
"I know," I rasped.
"Fix it," Harrison said, turning to leave. "Whatever it is—the hip, the girl, the head—fix it. Or you're going to watch your legacy evaporate."
I was left alone on the ice.
I looked up at the banners hanging from the rafters. Championship years. My father’s name was on one of them.
Fix it.
I slammed my stick against the glass. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the empty arena.
I knew what I had to do. I had to become the machine again. I had to purge the softness. I had to purge her.
The penthouse felt different when I walked in three hours later.
Usually, it felt like a sanctuary. It smelled like Jess—vanilla and warmth. Now, it felt like a trap. Every comfortable cushion, every unwashed coffee mug, every sign of our domestic life looked like evidence of my failure.
Jess was in the living room. She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by textbooks, her hair in a messy bun, chewing on a pen.
When she saw me, her face lit up. It was a transformation. Her eyes crinkled, her mouth curved into that smile that usually made my chest ache.
"Hey!" she chirped. "You're back early. I was just about to make—"
"I need the office," I interrupted. I didn't stop walking. I didn't look at her. I kept my gaze fixed on the hallway.
Jess paused. "Okay. Do you want lunch? I can make those wraps you like."
"No."
"Nick?" Her voice changed. The happiness evaporated, replaced by concern. "Is everything okay? How was practice?"
I stopped. I turned slowly.
I summoned the Ice King. I pulled the mask down over my face, the one I used for press conferences and hostile negotiations. I made my eyes flat. I made my posture rigid.
"Practice was fine," I said coldly. "I have work to do. Do not disturb me."
Jess blinked, recoiling as if I’d slapped her. "Okay. I just... you seemed upset."
"I am busy, Jessica. I have a career to salvage. I cannot spend the day playing house."
The hurt flashed across her face instantly. It was raw and visible. I hated myself for putting it there. But I told myself it was necessary. If I was cold, she would stay away. If she stayed away, she was safe from my father, and I was safe from the distraction.
"I wasn't playing house," she said quietly, standing up. "I was studying. And waiting for you."
"Well, stop waiting," I snapped. "You have your own life. Focus on it. I have to go to Chicago on Monday. I need to prepare."
"I know you're going to Chicago. We talked about it." She took a step toward me. "Nick, what happened? Did your dad call again?"
"This isn't about my father!" I roared. The volume surprised us both. "This is about me! This is about the fact that I am slipping, Jess! The scouts think I'm weak. They think I'm distracted. And they are right."
I gestured to the room, to her.
"This," I said, my voice dripping with disdain I didn't feel. "This is making me weak. I am comfortable. I am happy. And happy players don't win championships."
She stared at me. Her face was pale. She wrapped her arms around herself, a protective gesture.
"So I'm the problem?" she whispered. "Me? Us?"
"The lack of focus is the problem," I said, turning my back on her. "I need to focus. Alone."
I walked into my office and slammed the door. I locked it.
I leaned back against the wood, sliding down until I hit the floor. My heart was hammering in my chest. I felt like I was going to throw up.
I did it. I pushed her away.
It felt like cutting off my own limb to save the body.
For the next two days, I existed in a state of self-imposed purgatory.
I didn't leave the office except to go to the gym or the rink. I slept on the leather sofa in the study. I ignored the knocks on the door. I ignored the texts.
Jess: I left dinner outside the door. Eat it.
Jess: Nick, please talk to me.
Jess: You're hurting yourself. Stop.
I didn't stop. I doubled down.
I watched game tape until my eyes burned. I analyzed every shift, every mistake. I worked out in the home gym until my muscles failed.
I was trying to exhaust the part of my brain that wanted her. I was trying to kill the need.
But it wouldn't die.
Every time I heard her footsteps in the hallway, my body reacted. My pulse spiked. I wanted to open the door and drag her inside. I wanted to bury my face in her neck and tell her I was sorry, that I was scared, that I was drowning.
But Kovich’s voice echoed in my head. Look at the kid from Michigan.
I couldn't be the kid with the girlfriend. I had to be the Vance.
By Sunday night—the night before I was set to leave for Chicago—I was a wreck.
My hip was locked up so badly I could barely walk. The stress had triggered a massive spasm that refused to release. I had run out of anti-inflammatories. I hadn't eaten a real meal in forty-eight hours.
I was in the gym, attempting to do squats with a loaded bar. It was stupid. It was dangerous.
I went down for a rep.
My left leg gave out.
The weight shifted. I couldn't correct it.
I collapsed.
The barbell crashed onto the safety racks with a deafening metallic clang that shook the floor. I crumbled to the mat, gasping, clutching my hip. The pain was blinding. It was a white-hot spear driven straight into the joint.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, tears of agony and frustration leaking from my eyes.
I couldn't get up. I physically couldn't move.
I was alone. I was broken. And I had pushed away the only person who knew how to fix me.
This is it, I thought bitterly. This is the legacy. Dying alone on a rubber mat under a set of weights you can't lift.
The door to the gym burst open.
"Nick!"
It was Jess. She must have heard the crash.
She ran in. She wasn't wearing my shirt this time. She was wearing her old, oversized grey sweatshirt and leggings. Her hair was down. She looked tired. She looked beautiful.
She dropped to her knees beside me.
"Oh my god," she breathed, her hands hovering over me. "Did it hit you? Is anything broken?"
"Get out," I wheezed. I tried to roll away, but the pain nailed me to the floor. "I told you... to leave me alone."
"Shut up," she hissed. Her eyes were flashing with anger. "Shut the hell up, Nick. You dropped three hundred pounds. You're not invincible. You're an idiot."
She put her hands on my chest. "Where does it hurt? The hip?"
"Everything," I groaned. "It's all... seized."