Chapter 12 Brody
twelve
brody
“You want ice for that?”
I look up from my bruised knuckles. The bartender is standing across from me, pointing at my right hand with a bar towel that’s seen better days.
Purple-and-yellow bruising is spreading across my knuckles like a storm system.
Swollen. Throbbing. The result of introducing my fist to a helmet during tonight’s game.
“No,” I say. “I’m good.”
He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push. Just goes back to polishing glasses.
I flex my hand. Pain shoots up my arm, sharp and immediate.
Good.
Better to feel this than the other thing.
I’m sitting in the hotel bar in Seattle—one of those chain places where every city is identical. Same dark-wood tables with brass fixtures. Same laminated, sticky drink menus and fake plants in the corners. The air smells like stale beer with a hint of someone’s leftover burger and fries.
I’m nursing a Coke because I’m not drinking. SportsCenter is playing on the mounted TV above the bar, volume low. They’re replaying our loss. Seattle 3, Blue Ox 1. I watch myself take a hit into the boards. Get up slowly. Skate away with my jaw clenched.
We got destroyed.
I played like a man possessed. Blocked six shots—felt every single one of them.
Pucks hitting shin pads and shoulders, and once, terrifyingly, my inner thigh, just above the knee.
Threw three hits that rattled teeth. Then spent five minutes in the penalty box for roughing after their center said—I don’t even remember what—and I just… snapped.
Coach Jacobsen wasn’t happy. I got an earful in the tunnel after the game about the difference between intensity and recklessness.
I didn’t care, but I said all the right things. Showered and got out of there.
Condensation pools around my fingertips as I rotate my glass. I don’t know why I’m here. Feels better than alone in my room.
“This seat taken?” The voice is familiar. Steady.
I look up. Conrad Kingston is standing there, wearing jeans and a Blue Ox hoodie. Hair still damp from the shower, droplets darkening the fabric on his shoulders.
Great. The team’s unofficial therapist is here to fix me.
“It’s all yours,” I say.
He sits on the stool next to mine. The leather creaks under his weight. He signals the bartender with two fingers, the universal sign for “one for me.”
We sit in silence while the bartender pours Conrad a Coke too.
He takes a drink. Sets it down carefully on his own coaster. The TV’s moved on to highlights from some other game. Someone scores a beautiful goal, the announcers losing their minds over it.
“You want to talk about it?” Conrad asks finally, his voice gruff over the music.
“About what?”
“Whatever’s got you playing like you’re trying to kill someone.” He pauses. Takes another drink. “Or yourself.”
“I’m fine.”
“You know, you’ve said that a lot lately. I’m starting to wonder if you know what it means.”
“I’m playing hard. That’s what you’re supposed to do.”
“There’s playing hard, and there’s playing angry.” Conrad turns on his stool to face me fully, one elbow on the bar. “You blocked six shots tonight. Six. And you fought a guy who outweighs you by forty pounds.”
“He was running his mouth.”
“About what?”
I don’t answer. Can’t answer. Because I don’t actually remember what he said. I just remember needing to hit something. Someone. Anything to release the pressure building in my chest over the last week.
Conrad’s quiet for a moment, studying me. Then, “It feel good? Throwing that punch?”
I look at him, surprised by the directness.
“Yeah,” I admit. “It did.”
“I get it.” He takes another drink. “Sometimes punching something is easier than dealing with whatever’s actually wrong.”
I look away. Wow, he’s lethal.
“Kane. What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Just focused on the game.”
He doesn’t believe me. I can see it in his face, in the way his eyebrows rise slightly and his mouth tightens. Yeah, I don’t believe me either.
Mostly because that kiss with Chloe won’t stop looping in my head. What. Was I. Thinking?
I wasn’t. And that’s the problem. I wasn’t thinking, just feeling.
And it felt good.
“This have anything to do with Chloe?” he asks.
My hand tightens on the glass, condensation making it slippery. “What makes you say that?”
“Because you’ve been staring at your phone all week, and you haven’t sent a single text.”
Nothing gets past Conrad Kingston.
“It’s complicated,” I say finally.
“Relationships usually are.”
“We’re not—” I stop. What are we? “It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
Because it started as a business arrangement. Because there’s a contract with an end date. Because that’s what is best for her. And probably me.
Because I’m terrified.
“We had a fight,” I say. It’s not exactly true, but it’s close enough. “Sort of. I don’t know.”
“Did you say something stupid?”
“I said nothing. That’s the problem.” I run my good hand through my hair, still slightly damp from my own shower. “I’ve been avoiding her. Ignoring her texts.” Being a coward.
“Why?”
The question is simple. The answer isn’t.
“Because I don’t know how to do this,” I admit, staring at my bruised knuckles instead of at him. “I’m not good at this.”
Conrad is quiet for a moment, the ice in his Coke shifting as the bubbles settle. “Hard to live up to your own press.”
I glance at him. “Something like that.”
Conrad turns to face me, leans forward. “I’m going to tell you something, and you’re going to listen. Okay?”
Whatever.
“Pushing someone away because you’re scared doesn’t protect you. It just makes you alone.” His voice is steady, sure, the voice of someone who’s been there. “And being alone because you’re terrified of being hurt? That’s not strength. That’s just fear wearing a different jersey.”
The words hit like an elbow to my face.
“She deserves better,” I say quietly, “than someone who’s a mess. Who comes with baggage.”
“Maybe. But that’s her choice to make, not yours.”
My jaw pulses, and I take another sip of my Coke.
Conrad sighs. It’s a big sigh, like I’m thick in the head.
Maybe I am. “Look, I can’t tell you what to do.
But I can tell you that running away because you’re scared is a coward’s move.
And you’re not a coward, Kane. You block shots with your face.
You fight guys twice your size. You’re just scared of something you can’t punch. ”
I almost smile. Almost.
“Make up with her,” Conrad says. “Before you lose something real.”
Ha. If he only knew. Except, “How?”
“Be real. Admit you’re wrong. Ask how you can fix it.” He shrugs, the gesture simple, like he’s explaining how to tie skates. “It’s not complicated. It’s just hard.”
I think about her texts. The ones I haven’t answered. The way she still reached out even when I was pulling away, asking if I was okay after the Seattle game.
Conrad stands, the stool scraping against the floor.
He claps me on the shoulder—carefully, avoiding my bruised areas.
“For what it’s worth?” He’s got this half smile.
“I think you two are good together. It’s been a long time since I saw a glimpse of the old Brody.
Whatever you did, whatever fight you had? Fix it.”
He leaves, weaving between the scattered tables toward the elevators.
And I’m left sitting there with a truth I can’t avoid anymore.
I might be in love with her. And I’m terrified of losing her.
The bartender comes back over, wiping down the section of bar Conrad vacated. “Another drink?”
“No. I’m good.” I stand, leaving a twenty on the bar. I head toward the elevators, doors sliding open with a mechanical hum. I step inside and press the button for the seventh floor. My reflection stares back at me from the mirrored walls—bruised, tired, looking every bit as wrecked as I feel.
I unlock my room with the key card—it takes two tries, the light blinking red before finally turning green. The door clicks open.
Beige walls, two queen beds with burgundy comforters that match every other hotel room I’ve stayed in this season. Curtains drawn against the Seattle skyline—just distant lights and darkness beyond the window. Standard hotel art on the walls, abstract prints that mean nothing.
Tyler’s bed is empty. He’s out with some of the other guys, probably at a bar that’s not attached to the hotel. His duffel bag is thrown on the luggage rack, clothes spilling out in organized chaos.
I should sleep. We have an early flight to Vancouver tomorrow. A five a.m. wake-up call. Another city. Another game. But I sit on my bed and stare at my phone.
Three unread texts from Chloe over the past week.
Monday:
Chloe
Hope the road trip is going well! Saw highlights from Denver - that assist was beautiful. Stay safe out there.
Wednesday:
Chloe
Watched the Seattle game. Are you okay? That looked rough.
Friday:
Chloe
Heading to Maple Lake this weekend for wedding prep. See you in a week? Let me know if you need anything.
I didn’t respond to any of them. Because I’m an idiot.
I groan, lie back on the bed and open Instagram instead. Her profile appears—obviously, because I follow a handful of people, but she’s the only one I care about.
The last post is from a week ago. The one in my jersey. Number 7. Her smile genuine and bright and everything I don’t deserve. The lighting in the photo is warm, making her freckles stand out.
The comments are mostly positive. Supportive. People who think we’re cute together.
But there’s one comment that makes my blood run cold.
Ashley Morrison.
Posted two days ago.
@AshleyMorrison: Watch out honey Candy Kane has a habit of disappearing when things get real. Ask me how I know.
#BeenThereDoneThat
#YoureTooGoodForHim
My jaw clenches so hard it hurts. I scroll through the replies. Most people are defending Chloe. Telling Ashley to move on. Calling her out for being bitter.
But there are enough supportive comments on Ashley’s post to make me sick.
@kira.K.33: For real girl, you tried to warn us
@AJOutdoors: He seems shady tbh