Chapter Fourteen
Brinley
My eyes flick open at the sound of a loud thump against the hardwood. I sit up quickly, hand pressed to my chest, and Cooper’s face falls.
“Shit,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He’s halfway bent over at the foot of the bed, one boot tipped on its side where it must’ve slipped from his grip. Guilt flashes across his face.
I push up onto one elbow, blinking away the sleep from my eyes. “You were just gonna sneak out on me?”
I’m trying to smooth over my initial reaction, hoping he doesn’t think too much about the panic-stricken way I jolted awake.
His mouth curves like he’s been caught. “Wasn’t sneaking.”
“Mm-hmm.”
He straightens, running a hand through his hair. It’s still messy from sleep, his face soft in a way that makes him look younger despite the rough stubble covering his jaw. He looks less like someone who throws himself in front of flying pucks and more like the guy who held me all night.
“Morning skate,” he explains, stepping into his boot and adjusting his jeans back into place. “I was tryin’ to let you sleep.”
I study him, taking in the way his shoulders flex as he stands. His large hands run over his pockets, like he’s checking to make sure he has everything.
“You could’ve said goodbye,” I tell him quietly.
Something in his expression softens.
He crosses the room in two easy strides and leans down, his firm hand gripping my hip as he presses his mouth to mine. Nothing about his kiss feels rushed now.
“I’m sorry, I was gonna leave a note. I didn’t want to wake you. I have a game tonight,” he says when he pulls back, his forehead still close to mine.
“I know.” I let my fingers trail along his jaw. “I have to work, but I’ll be watching. Cheering you on.”
“Yeah?” A small smile curves his mouth, as though it matters more than he wants to let on.
I nod, and he leans in to kiss me once more. It’s quicker this time before he grabs his keys.
“I’ll see you after.”
The way he says it leaves no room for doubt.
***
The bar is packed in the way I’ve come to learn it always is when the Wolves play. People are crowded shoulder to shoulder in a sea of Rixton jerseys. Half of the room is facing the TVs, shouting at the screen, while the other half just wants something on in the background while they drink.
I’m stuck behind the bar, taking orders and wiping up the second spilled beer of my shift. I try to keep my mind focused on work, not wanting to have another one of those nights where I mix up someone’s tab.
It hasn’t happened again, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been paranoid about it ever since.
My eyes keep drifting back to the screens, searching for a glimpse of Cooper standing in front of the goaltender’s box. I keep hoping they’ll show him when he takes his helmet off during a stoppage to take a drink.
Just seeing him skate onto the ice wearing his number—87 stitched boldly across his back—does something strange to my stomach.
I can’t pretend it doesn’t pull me right back to the messages we exchanged on Dead Zone.
I checked them again before my shift. He hasn’t been online since we last talked. I keep replaying that conversation in my head, wondering what he’d say if he knew who I really am. If he’d laugh or be mad, or if he’d feel as thrown off as I do.
I’m not sure if I’m ready for him to know yet, though.
Cooper hops over the boards and settles into position again, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off tension. I’ve never been this invested in a game before. Every time the play moves toward him, he drops into position, and I realize I’m holding my breath like I’m bracing for impact.
“Beer.”
The voice snaps me back. I blink, refocusing on the bill waving impatiently in my face. I grab a glass, fill it, and slide it across the bar with a polite smile that feels stretched too tight.
When I glance back up at the screen, I see Keaton, from the other team, is already charging forward again.
Macklin Greer.
Even I’ve heard his name before.
The commentators were talking before the game, calling him the kind of player who sets the tone—whatever that means.
All I really caught was that he used to play rough.
That he had to learn how to rein it in to be here.
But watching him now, I can tell… the edge is still there. It just looks different.
The puck deflects, and one of their players charges straight toward the net. Cooper drops low, putting himself right in the way.
It all happens in a blink.
They slam into each other hard—shoulder to shoulder—but Cooper takes the brunt of it. His body jolts on impact, his leg catching wrong as they both go down.
The puck slides away, and the whistle blows. The crowd in the bar reacts a second later, watching the replay, and I realize I’m not the only one holding my breath.
Greer is already skating away with a smirk, not even bothering to look back.
Cooper rolls once before pushing up onto his knees. His stick clatters beside him, and for a split second, he just stays there, his right arm held tight against his side.
Then he stands, moving slowly.
Cooper gets up, rolling his shoulder once. It’s subtle, almost nothing, like he’s trying to shake it off without making it obvious. But I know what he looks like when he’s okay.
And that… isn’t it.
My grip tightens around the bar rag, the noise of the room fading under the rush in my ears.
Someone skates out to check on him, crouching in front of him. They talk briefly, and Cooper nods almost immediately.
Of course he does.
A second later, he’s back in position like nothing happened. If you didn’t know him, you’d think he was fine.
But something about the way Macklin Greer skated off like it was nothing makes my lip curl.
The game keeps going, but I don’t relax.
I can’t. Every time the puck comes near him, my chest tightens all over again.
Especially when I catch the way he favors his left side just slightly.
It’s small—the way he shifts before he moves, as if he’s bracing for it.
The hesitation before he reaches, and how quickly he pulls back, like something doesn’t feel right.
No one else notices. But I do.
I keep pouring drinks, wiping down the counter, nodding along when someone talks to me. My hands move without thought, the familiar routine carrying me through orders and tabs, but my eyes keep drifting back to the screen around the bar.
When the final buzzer sounds, the bar erupts. Someone pounds the counter hard enough to rattle the bottles behind me as cheers break out across the room.
The Wolves win, but I can’t bring myself to celebrate.
The camera finds Cooper as his teammates crowd around him, tapping his helmet and pulling him into quick hugs.
He skates off with his mask tucked under his arm, his hair damp with sweat.
He’s smiling—but it doesn’t feel real. Not when I notice how he keeps his arm tucked a little too close to his side.
“Rowden took a hard hit earlier in front of the net,” one of the commentators says. “Got checked out but stayed in and finished the game.”
Finished the game.
Like that’s supposed to mean he’s fine.
It’s all I can think about for the next two hours as I move through the rest of my shift.
I check my phone more than I mean to, telling myself it’s just out of habit.
He saved his number this morning before he left, and we’ve exchanged a few messages after I wished him good luck at his game.
It shouldn’t feel like that big of a deal.
So when I finally glance toward the back hallway and see him standing there, leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting a while, my breath catches.
He’s wearing a black Rixton bomber jacket, hands shoved into the pockets. His hat is turned backward, damp curls spilling out from underneath it. His hair still looks like it hasn’t fully dried from the postgame shower.
He looks unfairly handsome.
My heart flutters the second his eyes find mine and soften, like the whole room narrows down to just us.
Relief washes over me at the sight of him, but it fades the second I fully take him in.
It’s easy to miss, but I catch the way one shoulder sits just a little off, the way he leans more to one side when he moves. The rush from the game has worn off, and now there’s nothing masking it.
The crowd has thinned since the game ended, the noise fading into tired laughter and half-finished drinks. I close out my last tab and glance toward Sasha. She catches my look and tilts her chin toward him with a small smile.
“Go,” she mouths.
I wipe my hands on a towel and round the bar.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” His voice is lower than usual, rough around the edges.
Up close, he looks exhausted in a way he didn’t on the screen. Not wrecked. Just worn down.
He exhales slowly and slides his hands to my hips, guiding me gently toward the back room. We barely make it three steps out of sight before his jaw tightens and a quiet breath slips through his teeth.
My hands come up instinctively, slipping beneath his jacket, fingers splaying across his chest to steady him.
“Your shoulder,” I say before I can stop myself. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine,” he answers automatically.
He rolls it once like he’s proving the point, but the movement isn’t as smooth as he wants it to be. “Took a hard hit but it’s not serious.”
I fold my arms. “You say that like it means nothing.”
A half smile tugs at his mouth. “Means I’ve had worse.”
That doesn’t help.
I reach for him again, slower this time, my palm sliding up his chest, careful when I near his shoulder. His eyes close for half a second before he catches himself.
“Did you get it looked at?” I ask quietly.
“Yeah.” He nods once. “Cleared me to keep playing. Said they’ll keep an eye on it.”
He shifts before I can push further. “You almost done?”
“Yeah. Just a couple of things left to finish up and then I’m off.”