Chapter 23
Billie
Iwoke to warmth.
Not the scratchy wool blanket kind or the too-hot dorm radiator kind. The kind that came from another person. Arms wrapped around me. Chest pressed against my back. Breath slow and steady against the nape of my neck.
Calder.
His grip was loose but deliberate. Like even in sleep, he'd anchored himself to me.
I didn't move. Barely breathed.
Just let myself feel it.
Warm. Safe. Seen.
Three things I'd stopped believing I deserved somewhere between Nate's lies and every camera flash that turned me into a prop.
But here, in this dim office with its flickering fluorescent light and faint smell of coffee and old hockey tape, I felt real.
His thumb moved against my ribs. Just once. A sleepy reflex that made my throat tighten.
For one perfect second, I let myself believe we could stay like this.
That morning wouldn't come. That the team wouldn't arrive. That Nate wouldn't circle back with more threats and manipulations.
That I could just be the girl sleeping in her coach's arms and have it mean nothing more than two people finding shelter in each other.
But the clock on the wall ticked louder.
Reality crept back in, cold and sharp.
I can't be caught here.
Not like this. Not when people were already watching my every move. Not when one photo, one whisper, one wrong assumption could blow both our lives apart.
I shifted carefully. Tried to slide out from under his arm without waking him.
His hand tightened. Just a fraction.
Then his voice, rough with sleep and something heavier. "Sneaking off again?"
I froze. Heart hammering. Turned my head just enough to see his face. Eyes half-open. Hair mussed. Jaw shadowed with stubble.
He looked younger like this. Less haunted.
"Trust me," I whispered. "I wouldn't if I didn't have to."
His gaze held mine. Searching. Like he was trying to memorize the exact shade of my eyes in the early light.
Then he did something I didn't expect.
He leaned in. Pressed his lips to my forehead. Soft. Reverent. More intimate than anything we'd done in that locker room. More devastating than any kiss.
"I won't ask you to wait for me," he murmured against my skin. "You deserve to be happy."
The words cracked something open inside me.
I turned in his arms. Met his eyes. "So do you."
He smiled. Barely. Just the faintest curve of his mouth that looked more like grief than joy.
I pulled away. Stood. Smoothed down my hoodie and tried to pretend my hands weren't shaking.
He stayed on the floor. Watching me. Not reaching. Not asking. Just letting me go.
I grabbed my bag. Paused at the door. Looked back one more time.
He was still there. Back against the wall. Head tilted. Eyes dark and unreadable.
"See you at practice, Coach."
His jaw worked. Then he nodded. "Yeah. Practice."
I left before I could change my mind.
The hallway was empty. Cold. The kind of quiet that only existed before the building woke up.
My footsteps echoed on the tile. Each one louder than the last.
By the time I pushed through the exit doors into the gray morning light, my chest felt like it was caving in.
Not from fear.
From wanting something I couldn't keep.
I pulled my hood up. Walked toward campus. Tried to focus on the crunch of gravel under my boots. The sting of cold air in my lungs.
Anything but the warmth still ghosting across my forehead.
You deserve to be happy.
I didn't know if I believed that anymore.
But I knew one thing.
I wasn't done fighting for it.
The week blurred into drills, smiles, and silence.
Practice became the only place I could breathe. Calder didn't bench me. Didn't ice me out. Just coached — hard, fair, relentless. Like nothing had changed. Like I hadn't woken up in his arms two days ago.
Maybe that was the point.
On the ice, I didn't have to pretend. Didn't have to measure my words or angle my face for cameras. Just skated. Hard. Fast. Angry.
Saturday's game, I earned two assists. Clean passes that threaded through traffic like I could see the play before it happened.
Wednesday, I led the forecheck so aggressively that Reese whistled and called me a "feral beast." Thursday, I held a team meeting in the locker room when half the girls wanted to quit after a brutal conditioning session.
"We're better than this," I said. Voice raw. Hands still shaking from exertion. "And if you don't believe that, get out."
They stayed.
Kira looked at me like I'd grown wings. Reese squeezed my shoulder on the way out.
Calder watched from the doorway. Said nothing. Just nodded once before he walked away.
The ice was the only place I didn't have to lie.
Off it?
I played the part Nate demanded.
Friday morning, I stood beside him at a press event for the NHL's youth outreach program. Held his hand while reporters snapped photos. Smiled when he wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me close enough that I could smell his cologne — expensive, suffocating.
"How does it feel supporting Nate's career?" one reporter asked.
I wanted to laugh. Wanted to scream. Instead, I tilted my head and said exactly what Nate coached me to say.
"I'm proud of him. He's worked so hard for this."
Nate squeezed my hand. Too tight. A warning and a reward all at once.
The cameras loved it.
Saturday, I sat in the front row of his press conference. Nodded along while he talked about "resilience" and "overcoming adversity." About how his "support system" kept him grounded.
He looked right at me when he said it.
I smiled. Again.
Lie after lie after lie.
Sunday, we grabbed brunch at some trendy spot downtown. All windows and exposed brick and people who recognized him immediately. He ordered for me without asking. Eggs Benedict. I hated hollandaise.
"You're doing great," he said, cutting into his steak. "Keep this up and they'll forget you ever embarrassed yourself."
I stabbed a tomato. "Right."
"I mean it, B. You look good on my arm. Better than you did on the ice last season."
My fork clattered against the plate.
He leaned back. Smirked. "Relax. I'm kidding."
But he wasn't.
I excused myself to the bathroom. Locked the stall door and pressed my forehead against the cool metal. Counted to ten. Then twenty.
You can do this. Just a little longer.
Until what?
I didn't have an answer.
By the time I returned to the table, Nate was scrolling through his phone. Didn't even look up when I sat down.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Yeah."
We left. He drove me back to campus. Kissed me at the curb — brief, performative, tasting like coffee and control.
"See you next week," he said. "Big interview with ESPN. Wear the blue dress."
I nodded. Watched him drive away.
Stood there until the cold seeped through my jacket and my fingers went numb.
Pretended I wasn't slowly drowning.
The puck hit the back of the net for the third time, and the arena erupted.
My teammates swarmed me. Gloves flying. Helmets knocked askew. Reese grabbed my face and screamed something I couldn't hear over the roar. Kira slammed into my back so hard I nearly went down.
"Hat trick!" someone yelled. "Donovan just got a fucking hat trick!"
The ref blew the whistle. Play stopped. And then the hats came.
Not many — we didn't have that kind of crowd yet. But enough. A dozen beanies and ball caps sailed onto the ice, scattered across the blue line like confetti.
I stood there. Chest heaving. Stick loose in my grip. Staring at the evidence that I'd just done something real.
Three goals. Clean. Earned. Mine.
Hannah skated over with the pucks. All three of them stacked in her glove like trophies. She grinned so wide I thought her face might split.
"Coach said these are yours."
I took them. Heavy. Cold. Scrawled in black Sharpie with the date, the score, and my name in block letters.
DONOVAN.
Not Nate's girlfriend. Not Shaw's player.
Just me.
I looked up. Across the ice. Past the celebrating girls and the scattered hats and the few parents cheering from the stands.
Calder stood near the bench. Arms crossed. Face unreadable.
But his eyes weren't.
They were sharp. Focused. Proud.
He didn't clap. Didn't smile. Didn't move.
Just held my gaze for three seconds that felt like three years.
Then he nodded. Once. Slow and deliberate.
That's my girl.
He didn't say it.
I felt it in my bones.
Something cracked open in my chest. Not grief this time. Not longing.
Victory.
I turned back to my team. Let them pull me into another chaotic hug. Let Kira dump water over my head. Let Reese bang her stick against the boards until the sound echoed through the whole building.
This was mine. Not because someone gave it to me. Not because I smiled pretty or played a role or bent myself into shapes that fit someone else's story.
Because I earned it.
Puck after puck after puck.
I tucked the three discs under my arm. Skated to the bench. Sat down beside girls who saw me as a player first and everything else never.
Across the rink, Calder turned and walked toward the tunnel.
But not before I saw it.
The smallest curve of his mouth.
Pride.
The locker room emptied in waves. First the defenders, then Kira still buzzing about the win, then Reese with a backward glance and a raised eyebrow.
"You coming?"
"Yeah. Just need a minute."
She hesitated, then nodded. The door swung shut behind her.
I sat on the bench, still in my gear. Shoulder pads cutting into my collarbones. Skates heavy on my feet. The three pucks lined up beside me like sentries.
Three goals. Mine.
The door opened.
I looked up, expecting Reese back with some forgotten water bottle or chirping comment.
It wasn't Reese.
Nate stood in the doorway. Suit jacket slung over one shoulder. That smile plastered across his face — the one that used to make my stomach flip and now just made it turn.
"Congrats, B. Looked hot out there."
He stepped inside. Locked the door behind him.
The click echoed through the empty room like a gunshot.
Every muscle in my body went rigid.
"What are you doing?" My voice came out flat. Controlled.
He crossed toward me. Slow. Confident. Like he had every right to be here. In this space. In my space. "Celebrating with you." His hand found my waist. Fingers pressing through the fabric of my undershirt. "You were incredible tonight. Really. Made me remember why I liked watching you play."
I stood. Put distance between us. "Nate—"
"Come on." He followed. Closed the gap again. His hands were familiar. The weight of them. The way they assumed permission. "We should celebrate properly. I can make you feel like you did back then."
Back when I thought his attention meant something.
Back when I mistook control for love.
I stepped back harder this time. Shoved his hands away. "No. I said I'd pretend in front of people. That doesn't include this."
His smile faltered. Just for a second. Then it came back sharper. "Oh, come on. It's me."
"Exactly."
His jaw tightened. He reached for my wrist — fingers wrapping tight, pulling me toward him. His mouth aimed for mine like this was choreographed. Expected.
I shoved him. Hard. Both palms flat against his chest.
He stumbled back into the lockers with a metallic clang.
"Touch me again," I said, voice low and sharp as a blade, "and I'll go public with everything. I don't care who it takes down."
Silence dropped between us like ice.
Nate straightened. Smoothed his shirt. Laughed — but it was hollow. Bitter. His eyes had gone dark. Cold.
"You really want to play that game?"
"It's not a game. It's a boundary."
He stared at me. Calculating. Measuring how serious I was. How much leverage he still had.
His hands found my shoulders before I could react. Shoved me backward. My spine hit the wall hard enough that my teeth clacked together.
He leaned in. Close enough that I could count the flecks of gold in his eyes. Close enough that his breath ghosted hot across my face.
"Tell me how my dad fucked you." The words slithered out. Quiet. Venomous. "Tell me."
My hand cracked across his face before I could think. Palm stinging. The sound sharp and vicious in the empty room.
His head snapped to the side. When he looked back, something feral flickered behind his eyes.
He grabbed my arms. Slammed me against the wall again. Harder this time. My shoulder blades screamed protest against cold concrete.
"You bitch—"
A knock rattled the door.
"Anyone still in there?"
Calder.
Nate's grip tightened. His mouth curved into something ugly. Triumphant.
"Just trying to fuck my girlfriend, Dad," he called out. Voice bright. Casual. Like this was all some joke. "Want to watch? Maybe I can teach you a few things."
Rage flooded my veins. I ripped my hand free and swung for his face again.
He caught my wrist mid-air. Fingers bruising. Yanked me forward so hard I stumbled into his chest.
I hissed through my teeth. Pain shooting up my arm.
"Billie?" Calder's voice sharpened. Dropped an octave. "You okay?"
Nate's smile widened. He opened his mouth—
The door exploded inward.
Wood splintered. The lock ripped clean from the frame. The door slammed against the interior wall with a crack that made me flinch.
Calder stood in the doorway. Shoulders heaving. Fists clenched. Eyes blazing with something I'd never seen before.
Not anger.
Murder.
He took in the scene in one sweep. Me pinned against the wall. Nate's hands still gripping my arms. The red mark blooming across Nate's cheek.
His gaze locked on his son.
And the temperature in the room plummeted.
"Let. Her. Go."
Each word fell like a stone.
Nate's grip loosened. Just a fraction. But he didn't step back. Didn't drop his hands.
"This is between me and my girl, old man. Walk away."
"She's not your girl." Calder's voice was gravel and ice. "And if you don't take your fucking hands off her in the next three seconds, I'm going to break every bone in them."
Something flickered across Nate's face. Uncertainty. Fear, maybe. Hidden beneath layers of ego and entitlement.
But he still didn't move.
Calder did.
He crossed the room in three strides. Grabbed Nate by the collar and yanked him backward. Threw him away from me like he weighed nothing.
Nate stumbled. Caught himself against the bench. Straightened with fury written across every line of his body.
"You really want to do this?" Nate snarled. "Over her? She's just—"
"Shut your mouth." Calder stepped between us. A wall. A shield. "Before I shut it for you."