Chapter 22
Calder
Iblew the whistle.
Sharp. Clean. The sound cut through the rink like a blade through muscle.
The girls stopped mid-drill, chests heaving, breaths fogging in the frozen air. Kira bent over her knees. Reese dragged the back of her glove across her forehead.
And Billie just stood there. Stick planted in the ice. Eyes straight ahead.
Not looking at me.
Good.
Better that way.
"Line it up," I barked. "Breakout drill. Same as yesterday. If you can't remember it, you don't belong here."
They scrambled. Positions reset. Hannah took center. Billie moved to left wing without a word.
I watched her skate. Watched the way her shoulders hunched just slightly, the tightness in her stride that hadn't been there a week ago.
She was playing scared. Playing small. And I didn't say a goddamn thing.
The whistle blew again. Pucks dropped. Bodies moved. The drill unfolded like it should—clean passes, crisp transitions, no wasted movement.
Except for Billie.
She fumbled the first pass. Caught it on her backhand but couldn't settle it fast enough. The puck skittered wide, and Kira had to chase it down.
"Reset," I said. Flat. Emotionless.
They lined up again.
Billie's jaw tightened. I saw it from here—the way her teeth ground together; the muscle flexing beneath her skin.
Second attempt. Better. But still hesitant. Still half a second behind where she should've been.
I didn't correct her. Didn't tell her to shift her weight forward. Didn't remind her to keep her head up on the entry. Didn't give her the one small adjustment that would've fixed everything. Just stood there. Arms crossed. Silent.
She glanced at me. Brief. Searching.
I turned away.
The rest of practice dragged. Sixty minutes that felt like six hours.
I ran them through conditioning drills. Power skating. Transition work. Everything I could think of to keep my mouth shut and my hands busy.
Because if I stopped—if I let myself slow down for even a second—I'd see her.
Really see her.
The way her hair stuck to her neck when she skated hard. The way her eyes burned even when she was exhausted. The way she moved like the ice was the only place she'd ever belonged.
The way she'd looked at me two nights ago. Bare and breathless and mine.
And then the way she'd kissed him.
My jaw locked.
I blew the whistle. "Water break. Two minutes."
The girls scattered. Billie stayed on the ice, bent over her stick, gulping air.
I could've walked over. Could've said something. Checked in. Done my job.
Instead, I turned my back and headed to the bench.
Coward.
Hannah skated up beside Billie. I heard their voices—low, urgent. Hannah's hand on her shoulder.
Billie shook her head. Pulled away. She straightened. Skated a slow lap. Alone.
And I hated myself for watching.
By the end of practice, she was a wreck. Missed passes. Botched zone entries. A shot that went wide by three feet. Not like her. Not even close.
The other girls noticed. Kira shot me a look—are you going to say something?
I didn't.
When the final whistle blew, Billie was the first one off the ice. Didn't wait for the team. Didn't linger.
Just gone.
I stood there in the empty rink. Alone. Staring at the spot where she'd been.
But it was easier than admitting the truth.
That I'd crawl across broken glass to touch her again.
That I'd burn my entire career down just to hear her say my name one more time.
That watching her kiss Nate had damn near killed me—and I had no right to feel that way.
None.
I picked up the pucks. One by one. Methodical.
And I told myself tomorrow would be different.
But we both knew it was a lie.
I was halfway through logging the day's stats when the door to my office slammed open.
She stood in the doorway, chest heaving, still in her practice gear. Sweat-damp hair plastered to her temples. Eyes blazing.
"I'm done."
I didn't look up from my clipboard. "Then get out."
"You want to bench me?" Her voice cut through the silence like a blade. "Do it. But stop pretending I don't exist."
My pen stilled. I raised my eyes slowly, met hers across the small office.
She looked wrecked. Exhausted. Furious.
Beautiful.
"Fine." I tossed the clipboard onto the desk. "You're benched. Saturday's game. You sit."
The color drained from her face.
I watched it happen—the fire in her eyes flickering, dimming. Her shoulders sagged just slightly, like I'd landed a body check she hadn't seen coming.
"Please don't."
And that was when her voice cracked.
Not much. Just a hairline fracture in all that armor she wore. But I heard it. Felt it like a punch to the gut.
She swallowed hard. Looked away. Then back at me.
"I can't do this." Her hands curled into fists at her sides. "Nate won't leave me alone. He's watching me. Waiting for me to screw up so he can—" She stopped. Shook her head. "And you won't even look at me."
I stood. Slow. Deliberate. "What do you want me to say, Donovan?"
"I want you to stop punishing me for something I didn't choose."
"You chose to kiss him."
"I chose to protect you." Her voice rose, sharp and raw. "Because if anyone finds out what happened between us, you're done. Not me. You."
Silence crashed down between us.
"He doesn't know—"
"He suspects," she said. She took a step closer.
Then another. Until she was standing right in front of my desk, close enough that I could smell the ice still clinging to her skin.
"I'm barely hanging on," she whispered. "I can't have him circling me like a shark and you treating me like I'm nothing. I can't do both."
My jaw clenched. Hands balled into fists. "You're not nothing."
"Then why does it feel like I am?"
Because I couldn't touch her. Couldn't tell her the truth. Couldn't admit that every second she was near me and out of reach was torture.
I moved around the desk. Stood close enough to see the flecks of gold in her eyes.
"You're the best player on that team," I said. Low. Rough. "And I've been a bastard to you because I don't know how else to keep my hands off you."
Her breath hitched. "Calder—"
"Don't." I stepped back before I did something stupid. "Just… go home, Billie."
She stared at me. Wounded. Furious. Lost. She didn't move. Just stood there, eyes glistening, jaw tight. "He said he has something on you."
The words landed like a blade between my ribs.
I went still. Every muscle locked. "What?"
"Nate." Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"He said if I didn't play along—if I didn't do what he wanted—he'd make sure everyone knew.
About us. I know he doesn't actually know.
But he suspects. And you know Nate's reputation.
And you know yours. But… but he said there's more.
And... something else. Something worse."
My blood turned to ice.
"He didn't say what it was." She wrapped her arms around herself, shaking. "I didn't ask. I just—I know it's bad. Bad enough that you'd lose everything."
I stared at her. Heart hammering against my ribs.
She was protecting me.
This girl—this fierce, talented, brilliant girl—was letting my son manipulate her. Kiss her. Use her. All to keep me from getting buried.
"You're protecting me," I said. Flat. Stunned.
"I don't care if you hate me." Her voice cracked. "I'm not going to be the reason you lose your shot."
Something broke inside me.
"Jesus, Billie." I dragged a hand down my face. "You shouldn't have to carry that."
"Well, I am." She swiped at her eyes, angry at herself for crying. "Because somebody has to, and you're too stubborn to protect yourself."
She was right.
I'd spent my whole life wrecking things. Burning bridges. Pissing off the wrong people. And somewhere along the way, I'd stopped caring about the fallout.
But this… This was different. Because it wasn't just me anymore.
Billie's shoulders started to shake. She turned away, one hand pressed to her mouth like she could hold it all in.
She couldn't.
The sobs came—quiet at first, then harder. Her whole body trembling with the weight of everything she'd been carrying alone.
And I couldn't stand it anymore.
I crossed the office. Slowly. Deliberately.
When I reached her, I didn't ask permission. I just pulled her into my arms.
She stiffened for half a second—then collapsed into me. Her face pressed against my chest. Hands clutching my jacket. Breathing ragged and broken.
I held her. Tight. One arm around her back, the other cradling the back of her head.
We were two broken people clinging to the only person who really saw them.
"I've got you," I murmured into her hair. "I've got you."
She shook harder. Fingers digging into my shoulders like I was the only thing keeping her upright.
Maybe I was.
"He doesn't get to do this to you," I said. Low. Fierce. "Not anymore."
"He'll ruin you—"
"Let him try." I pulled back just enough to tilt her face up, thumbs brushing away the tears on her cheeks. "You think I give a damn what Nate threatens me with? I've been ruined before. I'll survive."
"Calder—"
"But I won't let him hurt you." My voice dropped to something raw. Dangerous. "Not again. Not ever."
Her eyes searched mine. Red-rimmed. Desperate.
"What if you lose everything?" she whispered.
"Then we lose it together."
She closed her eyes. Fresh tears spilled over.
I pulled her back against me. Held her while she cried. Let her break in the only safe place she had left.
And for the first time in weeks, I stopped pretending I didn't care.
Because I did.
More than I'd ever cared about anything.
And that terrified me more than any threat Nate could throw my way.
She cried herself out somewhere around midnight.
Her breathing evened. The tremors stopped. Her grip on my jacket loosened—just slightly—but she didn't let go.
I shifted her gently. Guided her toward the worn couch shoved against the back wall of my office. She didn't wake. Just followed the motion, curling onto her side like her body knew it was safe.
Her hand stayed fisted in my sweatshirt.
I tried to ease it free. Careful. Slow.
Her fingers tightened.
"Don't," she mumbled. Eyes still closed. Voice thick with sleep.
I froze.
"I'm not going anywhere," I said quietly.
She settled. Exhaled. Her face went slack again.
I stayed crouched beside her for a long moment. Watching the rise and fall of her shoulders. The way her lashes rested against her cheeks. The faint crease between her brows that didn't smooth even in sleep.
She looked young.
Too young.
And I felt like the worst kind of bastard for wanting her, anyway.
I should've left. Gone home. Put distance between us before this got worse.
But I didn't.
I lowered myself to the floor beside the couch. Back against the wall. Legs stretched out in front of me.
Her hand hung over the edge, still tangled in the fabric of my sweatshirt.
I took it. Gently. Threaded my fingers through hers.
She didn't pull away.
The office was quiet. Just the hum of the old fluorescent lights overhead and the distant rumble of the ice machines shutting down for the night.
I stared at the opposite wall. At the whiteboard covered in half-erased drills and scribbled line combinations.
Her name was up there. Center of the first line. Right where it belonged.
She's the best player on this team.
I'd known it from day one. Before I even knew who she was. Before I knew she was Nate's. Before I knew she'd wreck me.
Now?
Now I couldn't imagine the ice without her.
She shifted in her sleep. Turned toward me slightly. Her breathing hitched, then settled again.
I squeezed her hand. Just once.
She squeezed back.
Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was nothing.
But it felt like everything.
I should walk away.
I told myself that. Over and over.
Every time her chest rose. Every time her fingers twitched against mine.
Walk away before you ruin her.
Before she realizes what you are.
But I didn't move.
Because every time she exhaled—soft and steady and safe—I felt a little more human again. Like maybe I wasn't just the wreckage everyone said I was. Like maybe I could be something else. For her.
I wasn't good at words. Never had been. Couldn't promise her things would be okay or that I'd fix this mess we were in.
But this?
Sitting here in the dark. Holding her hand while she slept. Making sure she knew—even unconscious—that she wasn't alone.
This I could do.
So I stayed.
Her hand warm in mine.
Her breathing slow and even.
I closed my eyes. Just for a second, I told myself. Just to rest them.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The couch springs creaked every time she shifted. The building settled around us with those late-night sounds old arenas make—metal contracting, pipes groaning, ice machines cycling down.
I should've been uncomfortable. Couch was hard. My back pressed against cold cinderblock. Legs cramping from sitting too long in one position.
But her hand was still in mine.
Warm. Small. Callused from years of gripping a stick.
I breathed in. Slow. Deep.
She smelled like ice and sweat and that cheap floral shampoo all the girls seemed to use in the locker room. Something clean and young and completely at odds with the weight she carried.
My thumb moved without permission. Traced the ridge of her knuckles. The thin scar across her index finger she'd gotten blocking a shot in practice two weeks ago.
She'd barely flinched. Just wrapped it and kept playing.
Stubborn. Tough. Too damn good for this broken-down mess of a man holding her hand in the dark.
Her breathing evened out completely. Deep and rhythmic. Safe.
That word kept circling back.
Safe.
When was the last time I'd made anyone feel that way?
My chest tightened. I tried to swallow past it. Failed.
She shifted again. Her fingers tightened around mine, like even asleep she was afraid I'd disappear.
I wouldn't.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever, if she'd let me stay.
The thought should've terrified me.
It didn't.
My head tipped back against the wall. Eyes still closed. Her scent wrapping around me like a promise I had no right to make.
The exhaustion I'd been fighting for weeks finally caught up.
Pulled me under.
And somewhere between one breath and the next, I fell asleep holding the one thing I couldn't keep.