Chapter 22
Line Change
Leo
The rink hums with the sound of blades on ice, sharp and relentless. Every stride burns like punishment, but I keep pushing. Faster. Harder. The boards blur past, the cold air bites my lungs, and still it isn’t enough to drown out the noise in my head.
Grayson’s voice—smug, echoing through that radio clip I shouldn’t have listened to. Sage’s silence from last night, heavy and unforgiving. The media spinning their own story about me, the team, the fight. It’s all a loop I can’t escape.
I take a corner too tight, the edge of my skate catching in the groove. I barely keep my balance. A few guys on the bench whistle, laughing under their breath.
“Easy there, Voss,” one of them calls. “You break a stick again, you paying for it this time?”
Another voice chimes in. “Maybe he’s just practicing his right hook.”
The laughter hits like a slap. I keep my head down, pretending I didn’t hear, but the blood in my ears roars louder than the scrape of the ice.
“Voss!” Coach’s whistle cuts through the noise. “Line change!”
I coast toward the bench, chest heaving, vision blurring at the edges. My gloves are slick with sweat. I drop onto the seat, jaw locked, eyes forward. The boards rattle from another hit down the ice, but I barely see it.
“Relax, man,” Nolan says beside me, nudging my shoulder with his stick. “You’re wound tighter than a skate lace.”
“I’m fine,” I mutter.
“Sure,” he says, but his tone says he doesn’t buy it. “Just don’t explode mid-game. I like my face the way it is.”
I almost smile, but it dies before it starts.
The next drill starts, and I’m back on the ice before Coach even calls for me. My legs move on instinct, muscle memory taking over where my brain’s checked out. Each stride feels like an argument I can’t win.
I collide with the boards after a sprint, the hit sending a jolt up my side. It stings—but in a good way. Pain means I’m still here. Still moving. Still not thinking.
When the whistle finally blows for a break, I skate toward the bench, head down. Coach meets me halfway, hand clapping down hard on my shoulder.
“Whatever’s eating you, fix it before it eats the team,” he mutters. His voice isn’t angry—just tired. “You’re one bad shift away from losing the room, Voss.”
I nod because there’s nothing else to do. No excuse that won’t sound hollow.
He studies me for a second longer. “You got a fire, kid. Don’t let it burn the wrong people.”
Then he’s gone, barking at the next line. I stand there, chest tight, watching the ice reflect the lights above like fractured glass.
Fire. Yeah. That’s one word for it.
The problem is, I’m starting to think I don’t know how to stop it from spreading.
The locker room smells like sweat, rubber, and damp gear—familiar, grounding, and suddenly unbearable. Helmets clatter into cubbies, laughter bounces off the walls, and the sound of a few sticks slapping together echoes through the space. Normal noise. Normal day. But not for me.
I sit in front of my locker, still in half my gear, staring at the floor. A pair of skates dangles from the bench across from me. Someone tosses a roll of tape that bounces off my shoulder.
“Hey, Voss,” Jensen says. “You ever think of taking up boxing? Might suit you better.”
The room erupts in snickers. Someone adds, “He’s already got the press for it.”
The tape roll rolls to my feet. I pick it up, grip tightening until the plastic warps. My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it.
“Enough,” Nolan says from across the room. His tone is calm but edged. “You idiots done?”
Jensen shrugs, muttering something under his breath, but the laughter dies off.
I drop the tape into my bag, trying to breathe through the pulse pounding in my temples. One wrong word, one wrong look, and I’ll make things worse. I know it. But the restraint feels like choking.
Coach’s voice cuts through from the doorway. “Team meeting tomorrow morning. Film at eight. Don’t be late.” He pauses when his gaze hits me, and something in his expression shifts. “You hear me, Voss?”
I nod once. “Yeah, Coach.”
He lingers a beat longer, then moves on. The chatter starts back up immediately, like the tension never happened.
By the time the room empties, the quiet feels louder than the noise ever did.
I take my time peeling off my gear, each piece feeling heavier than the last. My chest aches, not from skating, but from the weight of everything pressing down—expectations, guilt, Sage’s voice in my head from last night: You’re gonna destroy everything that’s real.
She’s right.
When I finally shoulder my bag and push out into the hallway, the cool air hits me like a slap. I expect the corridor to be empty.
But Anya’s there, leaning against the wall with her press badge tucked into her jacket pocket. The recorder isn’t in her hand. For once, her expression isn’t sharp or curious—it’s soft. Concerned.
“Hey,” she says quietly. “You okay?”
The words catch me off guard. Not what happened? or what’s the story? Just—you okay?
I blink. “You off the record now?”
She smiles faintly. “I can be.”
I don’t answer right away. My throat tightens. The walls, the ice, the noise—it all blurs for a second.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
She studies me, then nods slowly. “If you ever want to tell someone the truth, not the headline—my number hasn’t changed.”
And then she’s gone, walking down the hall, leaving me with the echo of words I didn’t know I needed to hear.
I should feel better.
But I don’t.
By the time I get home, the sky’s gone dark and the street outside hums with low traffic and drizzle. My body’s a wreck—legs heavy, shoulders burning—but my head won’t quiet down. I kick off my shoes by the door and drop my gear bag beside the couch, the sound echoing through the stillness.
Sage is there, sitting on the counter stool like she’s been waiting. Her arms are crossed, but her eyes aren’t angry—they’re uncertain. The way someone looks when they’ve rehearsed every version of a conversation and none of them felt right.
“Hey,” I say, my voice rough from hours of silence. The kitchen light throws soft shadows across her face, and the faint scent of rain drifts in from the open window.
She nods once. “You skipped dinner.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
She exhales slowly, like she’s been holding her breath all day. “We need to talk, Leo.”
The words hit harder than any check. I set my gloves on the counter, the leather creasing under my palms. “About what?” I ask, even though I already know.
She looks down at her hands, thumb tracing a line along her wrist. “About… all of this. The fight. The headlines. The way people are talking.” Her voice trembles just enough to sting. “I’m scared of what they’ll think—of what this makes me. I don’t want to be the reason you fall apart.”
Her words slice through the quiet, and for a second I can’t breathe. “You’re not the reason,” I say. “You never were.”
“Then what is?” she whispers. “Because you’re breaking, Leo. And I can’t tell if you want me close or gone.”
I drag a hand over my face, the ache behind my eyes spreading. “I’m just tired,” I say finally. “Tired of everything feeling like a fight. On the ice, off it. With everyone. With myself.”
Sage steps closer, her voice barely above a whisper. “Then stop fighting me.”
That lands like a hit to the chest. Because she’s right—and I don’t know how.
The silence between us stretches, heavy with everything we can’t fix in one conversation. She doesn’t move, but her eyes soften. There’s hurt there, sure, but something else too—hope, fragile and flickering.
I reach for her, but she steps back before I can touch her.
“Get some rest,” she says quietly. “You’ve got practice tomorrow.”
Her voice is steady, but her hands are shaking as she walks away.
The door to the bedroom closes behind her with a soft click.
And I’m left standing in the kitchen, staring at the spot she was just in, wondering if this is what it feels like when something real starts to crack.
The apartment feels colder once she’s gone. The hum of the fridge fills the silence, too loud in the quiet she left behind. I move to the counter, palms pressing into the cool surface. The same place where we collided days ago—where things felt simple for half a second before they fell apart.
Now, even the air feels fragile.
I catch my reflection in the glass of the window. My eyes look like a stranger’s—tired, hollow, bruised in places no one can see. I should go after her. Say something. Fix it. But I don’t even know where to start.
I grab a glass of water, take one sip, then set it down. My stomach twists too hard to drink. The weight in my chest presses heavier with every breath.
Out of habit, I reach for my phone, thumbing it awake. Notifications flood the screen—mentions, headlines, a dozen messages from teammates and PR. And right there, buried in the noise, is a new clip.
Grayson Locke. The bastard’s face fills the thumbnail, smirking like he owns the world.
I shouldn’t press play.
But I do.
His voice fills the silence, smooth and condescending.
“Look, emotions run high in this game. Some guys just don’t know how to keep it together—especially when they’ve got off-ice distractions.
” He pauses just long enough to twist the knife.
“Sometimes it’s not about hockey at all, if you catch my drift. ”
The host laughs. “You talking about Leo Voss?”
Grayson smirks. “I’m just saying—some people need to learn the difference between passion and losing control.”
My vision tunnels. The phone screen blurs. I slam it face down on the counter, the sound sharp and final. For a moment, I just stand there, shaking.
He said it without saying it. The implication. The threat.
And all I can see is Sage’s face when she hears her name next.
I close my eyes, drag in a breath that doesn’t help.
If this keeps going, if he drags her into it—I don’t know what I’ll do.
But I know one thing for sure: I can’t stay quiet anymore.
The apartment stays quiet, but not for long.
Just as the silence starts to settle, both our phones buzz on the kitchen counter at once—one sharp vibration after another. I glance at mine, and the headline freezes my blood.
Puck Whisperer Alert: “Voss’s Mystery Roommate Revealed? Sources Hint at Chef Connection.”
Sage returns and stands across the counter. Sage’s face drains of color. Her phone lights up with the same notification.
Our eyes meet. Neither of us speaks.
Whatever fragile peace we had left just shattered.