Chapter 30 The Ice Cracks Beau #2
My chest feels cracked open. Not exactly broken. But split, like there’s finally air getting into places that had gone stiff and dark.
I lean back in the chair, tilting my head up to stare at the ceiling. The soft whir of the fridge fills the silence. The furnace kicks on with a gentle hum.
“I think I need help,” I say eventually.
Cece’s pencil stills.
“I don’t want to keep going like this,” I add. “Pretending everything’s fine when I can barely get through practice without my lungs locking up.”
She nods, not pushing. Just waiting.
I rake a hand through my hair. “Do you like your therapist?”
Cece half-smiles. “Yeah. She doesn’t try to fix me. Just helps me untangle things. You know my brain looks like one of those crime investigation boards with all the red yarn.”
“That sounds useful,” I say, and it comes out more sarcastic than I mean. I wince. “Sorry. I just… this all feels like something I should’ve handled years ago.”
“Beau.” She levels me with a look. “Our family fucked us up good. And while I’ve had my share of trauma, you’ve always been the one with the big, bad family expectations weighing down on you. Not to mention the bullshit about guys not showing emotion. We’re all just trying to survive.”
I nod, but the shame still burns low in my throat. I’ve spent so long building walls around this. My anxiety, the panic, the feeling like I’m one snapped nerve away from falling apart, that I don’t even know how to live without the pressure. It’s not just a part of me. It is me. Or it has been.
But Cece’s right. I need to talk to Luna. Explain everything. I want her to know. I want her, but she deserves to know everything. Learn what she’s getting into if she even wants to give me a second chance.
“I’m gonna talk to her,” I say.
She smiles. “Good.”
There’s peace in that. A small flicker of control returns to me.
I stand, stretch, and glance around the kitchen. For once, it doesn’t feel like a museum of expectations. It just feels like a place. Somewhere I don’t have to wear the mask.
I walk toward the hallway, thinking maybe I’ll go for a run. Clear my head before figuring out when to call Luna. But my phone buzzes on the counter.
And then again.
And again.
Notifications flood in like a dam breaking:
JJ: Dude. You seeing this?
Dev: Man… I’m sorry.
I frown, jaw tightening as I snatch it up.
Open the app.
The first thing that hits me is her face, Luna’s, in a screen-capped video. Her lips are parted mid-sentence, eyebrows lifted. There’s a subtitle at the bottom in a bold white font:
“You take away the hockey and the family money and what’s left?”
It’s a clip. Choppy, zoomed in, distorted to make her tone sound meaner than it probably was. I know that look. She was talking to Maisie and Beth. Probably before anything even happened between us. Just venting.
But out of context? It sounds brutal. It sounds like betrayal.
The caption underneath reads:
“Influencer Luna Wilder trashes her hockey boyfriend for all the world to see. Guess the golden couple illusion wasn’t so authentic after all.”
The comments are already flying in.
@puckingqueen3251: Yikes. I knew she was fake.
@fangirl.liv4pucks: This is so disappointing. Wildaker were my fav.
@catqueenarella29: Beau deserves better.
My throat closes.
I don’t even know who filmed it. Or why someone would post it now, when things were finally feeling like maybe, just maybe, they were real.
I sit back down. Hard.
All the doubt rushes back. And now I want to know if she ever really meant what she said. All the time we spent together… was it just for the campaign? The followers? The image?
Bluebeard trots into the room like he owns the place, jumps onto the table, and headbutts my arm. I let him. Scratch behind his ears automatically.
“Traitor,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it.
I unlock my phone again. Open Luna’s profile.
There she is, crouched in the snow next to a kid in an oversized Lightning jersey, helping her adjust her helmet. She’s laughing, her gloves dusted with frost. The caption reads:
“Little skates. Big hearts.”
I scroll further.
A reel of her at the cat rescue, lining up bowls for a dozen fluffy kittens.
A slow-motion shot of her and Celeste spinning together in the living room.
A carousel from the day at the dance competition, Celeste mid-leap, Luna clapping from the wings.
My jaw clenches.
She’s still her. Even if the clip was real. Even if she said something shitty once.
She’s still the girl who brings eggs to her mom in bed and makes smiley faces on toast. The one who calls me on my shit and hoodwinked me into falling in love with cats.
It’s more media bullshit. Twisting things out of context.
Spinning a simple story out of one heavily edited clip to chase likes.
It feels like I’ve brought nothing but disappointment and chaos into her life.
Social media has its issues, but her space has always been a positive one.
But look what bringing a Whitaker into her circle has already done?
I’m no good for her, and I’m not sure I deserve the forgiveness Cece told me to ask for.
I stay in the kitchen long after Cece has gotten up and moved on.
The room has dimmed as the sun dips below the horizon.
Bluebeard’s tail flicks against the table, a slow, steady metronome of judgment.
He’s sitting like some ancient monk, paws tucked beneath him, amber eyes fixed on mine like he knows everything I’m thinking and is unimpressed.
“You too?” I murmur.
He blinks.
I scrub my hands down my face, dragging the tension out of my jaw, my neck, my shoulders. Anywhere it will come loose. But it doesn’t help. The panic isn’t slamming down on me like a massive wave now. It’s a low tide of dread, rising slowly in the background, waiting for the next crash.
I glance at my phone again.
No messages from Luna.
The room feels colder now, like someone opened a window in the dead of winter, but I know it’s just me.
Bluebeard finally moves. Pads across the table like it’s his runway, then hops into my lap without warning. His weight settles against my thighs, warm and steady.
I hesitate before reaching for him. Then I scratch the spot behind his ears, and he leans into it like he’s been waiting for me to come to my senses all day.”
“You’re gonna make me soft, dude,” I mutter.
He purrs.
I look back at Luna’s profile. The thumbnail of her helping that kid lace her skates plays on a loop. She’s laughing, but not for the camera. It’s the kind of laugh that sneaks up on you, the one that slips out when you’re not looking. The genuine kind.
My chest tightens.
I don’t deserve her. She volunteers her time to a bunch of rescue cats and cries at dance recitals and stands up to her own fear on a daily basis just to keep her family afloat?
What have I ever done to be worthy of her love?
Bluebeard shifts, nudging his head under my chin. No judgement there. I let him stay. A warm, comforting presence in the midst of my turmoil.