21. Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-One
Tate
Cold air burns my lungs the second I step onto the ice. My blades carve hard into the surface as Coach’s whistle shrieks across the arena, echoing off the empty bleachers. The sound vibrates in my ribs.
“Again!” he barks.
We reset at center.
My legs are already heavy, but I push off anyway. Hard strides. Head down. Stick tight. The puck snaps against my blade, and I cut left around Preston, shoulder dipping, then right, fake shot, drag, and release.
The puck smacks against the boards.
“Too slow!” Coach yells.
I don’t argue. I just reset, like this is all second nature to me.
Between drills, I skate to the bench and grab my water bottle. My phone sits face-up beside it. I don’t mean to look.
But I do.
118— steady.
Green.
A small exhale leaves me before I even realize I’m holding it.
I tuck the phone back down like it’s nothing, but Parker catches it.
“You’re worse than a married man,” he mutters, shoving my shoulder with his glove. “You check that thing more than game film.”
“Shut up,” I tell him, but there’s no bite.
Across the rink, Elara moves from one of the defensemen to another, dark red hair pulled tight in a low ponytail, clipboard tucked under her arm. She presses into someone’s shoulder joint with clinical precision, eyes focused, expression unreadable.
Parker’s gaze lingers a second too long.
I smirk.
“You need help stretching?” I ask casually.
He chokes on his water. “Mind your business.”
Interesting.
Coach blows the whistle again, and we’re back at it.
I take a hit along the boards that rattles my teeth. My shoulder slams into plexiglass, and the vibration hums down my spine. I bounce back up immediately.
You don’t stay down.
Not now.
Not when everything feels like it’s finally lining up.
Later that night, I’m in Celeste’s kitchen, flipping grilled cheese while Rowen sits at the counter, legs swinging, pencil between his fingers.
The place smells like butter and toasted bread. The heater clicks on and off. The hum of the fridge fills the quiet between us.
“Okay,” I say, glancing at his worksheet. “If you have eight and you eat three—”
“I wouldn’t eat three,” he interrupts.
“Why not?”
“Because then I’d only have five.”
Logical.
I snort. “Okay, well hypothetically, you eat three.”
He narrows his eyes at me like I’ve personally betrayed him.
Celeste stands at the sink, washing grapes. Her shoulders are tight. Too tight.
Rowen’s Dexcom alert chirps softly.
All three of us look down at the same time.
124 steady.
I check my phone without thinking, confirming the number.
“He’s good,” I say automatically.
Celeste goes still.
Just for half a second.
Then she nods.
“Yeah.”
It’s off. Something’s off. I don’t know what yet, but I’m gonna find out.
Rowen slides off the stool and hops down, grabbing his paper. “Dad—”
The word hangs there.
He freezes.
Celeste’s hand jerks, a grape slipping from her fingers into the sink.
“Sorry,” Rowen says quickly. “Tate.”
I blink.
“It’s okay, buddy.”
But Celeste’s face has gone pale.
Rowen looks between us like he’s trying to solve a puzzle neither of us gave him.
I ruffle his hair gently. “Math first. Identity crisis later.”
He laughs, even though I’m sure he has no idea what I’m talking about.
Celeste doesn’t make a sound. She is off, into a different world.
Rowen’s asleep an hour later, curled under his dinosaur blanket, soft breaths steady against the quiet hum of his monitor.
I close his door halfway and walk back into the living room.
Celeste is sitting on the couch, laptop open but untouched. The light from the screen casts a blue glow over her face.
“You’re somewhere else,” I say quietly.
She startles slightly.
“I’m just tired.”
It’s too quick, and she doesn’t meet my eyes.
I sit beside her, close enough that our knees touch. “Is everything okay?”
Silence stretches.
Her fingers twist together in her lap.
“Practice good?” she asks instead.
Deflection.
“Yeah,” I answer slowly. “You coming Wednesday?”
Her internship day.
She nods. “I’ll be there.”
She doesn’t look excited.
That’s new.
I study her profile, the curve of her jaw, the way her lashes shadow her cheeks. I want to push. Want to ask what I missed.
But I don’t.
If she needs space, I’ll give it.
“I’m here,” I tell her quietly.
Her throat moves when she swallows.
“I know.”
But she doesn’t lean into me.
Celeste
The training facility smells like antiseptic and rubber mats. But coming here once a week has become my safe haven, even if it means giving up on extra money.
Sharp. Clean. Professional.
Elara moves like she belongs here; efficient, focused, strong in a quiet way that doesn’t demand attention, but gets it anyway. She tapes a defenseman’s wrist while explaining recovery protocols without looking down.
I stand near the wall with my internship notebook pressed to my chest, watching Tate run drills through the glass.
He looks at home on the ice.
Confident. Grounded.
Temporary.
The word echoes in my skull like a warning siren.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I ignore it.
It vibrates again.
And again.
Excusing myself, I step into the hallway outside the locker rooms, where the air is warmer and smells faintly like detergent.
I pull my phone out.
Brett.
Four texts.
Brett: We need to meet.
To discuss custody arrangements formally.
I’ve spoken to someone about options.
We should handle this like adults.
My fingers go numb.
The lights overhead buzz faintly. Somewhere down the hall, lockers slam shut, and someone laughs too loudly.
Custody arrangements.
He’s still in college.
Still playing football.
Still posting highlight reels.
These we're all the reasons why he didn't want to be in Ro's life to start with, so why now? But the hard thought hits me, it's doesn't matter why, it matters that he can.
His family has money. Lawyers. Connections. All things I don't, all ways that Brett can just come back into Rowen's life as if he's never missed a moment.
My stomach drops.
“You okay?”
I jump.
Elara is standing at the doorway, arms crossed loosely, studying me.
“Yeah,” I lie.
She doesn’t move.
“You don’t get that look over nothing.”
Her voice isn’t soft. It’s steady.
I stare at the message again.
“What if,” I say slowly, “loving someone makes your kid less secure?”
She tilts her head slightly. “Explain.”
“What if someone else can offer more on paper? Better insurance. Better schedule. More… stability.”
I hate the word.
Elara’s expression hardens almost imperceptibly.
“Security doesn’t revolve around what’s on paper,” she says. “It’s about who shows up at three in the morning when things go bad.”
My throat tightens.
Tate stayed up last week when Rowen’s arrows trended down, even though he had conditioning at six A.M.
He didn’t complain.
He didn’t hesitate.
“He’s projected top five,” I whisper. “He’ll be gone soon.”
“And?” Elara asks.
“And maybe I shouldn’t build something that can be used against me.”
She studies me for a long moment.
Elara’s jaw flexes. “You don’t make decisions out of fear and call it protection.”
The words slice clean.
Through the glass, Tate glances up from the ice. His blonde hair is falling out of his helmet, sweat dripping down his face. He’s beautiful. Truly the most beautiful man I have ever met.
Our eyes meet.
He smiles.
Easy. Uncomplicated.
Like he doesn’t feel the ground shifting under him.
I force a smile back.
My phone vibrates again.
Brett:
Let’s meet Friday. I’ll send details.
The ice beneath Tate’s skates sprays up in sharp white arcs as he cuts across the zone.
Strong.
Capable.
Mine.
Temporary.
And for the first time, the fear feels louder than the love.