18. Colby
Chapter eighteen
Colby
It starts easy.
That’s the problem.
Everything is… good.
Not dramatic-good. Not fireworks-good. Just the kind of good that settles into your bones without asking permission.
Sloane texts me in the mornings now.
Not every morning. Not in a way that feels scheduled or forced.
But often enough that I notice when my phone lights up before I’m even fully awake.
Sloane: You up?
Sometimes it’s that.
Sometimes it’s a picture of her coffee with a caption like this is offensive.
Sometimes it’s nothing more than a single line sent mid-afternoon.
Sloane: Survived meetings. Barely.
And I’ll respond.
Not immediately. Not like I’m waiting with my phone in my hand.
But I respond.
Because I want to.
We’ve fallen into something quiet and steady over the past couple of weeks, the kind of thing you don’t announce out loud because you don’t want to scare it.
A couple dinners after games.
One late-night walk through downtown after she got off work and I couldn’t sleep.
A lot of talking in my car with the engine off because neither of us wanted to be the one to say okay, go home now. And sometimes… we don’t. Sometimes the night keeps going until it’s just us and the quiet afterward, leaving you wrecked in the best way and reluctant to face the morning.
Nothing official.
Nothing labeled.
But we don’t exactly hide it either.
We let the public think what it wants. Optics, she calls it. Easier than correcting strangers who spot us together, easier than explaining something we haven’t defined ourselves.
Every so often someone asks for a selfie. Someone snaps a picture. No harm meant. Just moments that live online longer than they should.
And still, something real enough that my teammates have noticed.
“Captain’s smiling again,” Dex announced two days ago during warmups.
“I always smile,” I’d said.
“Yeah,” Mason replied. “But now it looks voluntary.”
I ignored them.
Mostly.
Still, the team’s been lighter lately. Winning helps. Chemistry clicking helps. Everything feels… right.
Which is why practice today feels normal when it starts.
Too normal.
The rink is already awake with early-morning energy, music low, skates cutting, sticks knocking against the boards. Coach Hale stands near center ice with his whistle, his coffee in one hand, dangerously close to being dropped or knocked over.
“Alright,” he calls. “Let’s move. Passing drill first. Clean and fast.”
We line up without needing to be told twice.
That’s the thing about this group. Once we’re locked in, it’s instinct.
Pucks slide across the ice in clean sequences.
Tape to tape.
No wasted movement.
Dex chirps anyway.
“Hey, Mills, if you slow down any more, we’re gonna need a calendar reminder.”
Gregory doesn’t look at him. “Precision takes time.”
Dex scoffs. “Buddy, that sounded like a fortune cookie written by a librarian.”
Mason snorts.
I shake my head, skating past them. “Focus.”
“Yes, Dad,” Dex says immediately.
Coach points his pen at him. “One more comment and you’re running suicides.”
Dex seals his lips and salutes.
We move into defensive drills: zone coverage, quick recoveries, pressure reads. I bark instructions automatically.
“Switch.”
“Up.”
“Again.”
The muscle memory takes over.
For an hour, I’m just a hockey player again.
Not a man with his phone lighting up late at night.
Not someone replaying smiles in his head.
Just the captain doing his job.
When practice finally ends, we’re soaked and breathing hard. The guys drift toward the locker room in clusters, laughter echoing down the hallway.
Dex skates beside me. “So,” he says casually. “Dinner plans tonight or are you pretending to be mysterious again?”
“I’m not pretending,” I say.
“That’s worse,” he replies. “Because it’s natural.”
I shove him lightly with my shoulder.
He grins. “I’m happy for you, man.”
I don’t answer.
Not because I’m not.
Because saying it out loud feels like tempting fate.
***
The locker room is in action and the music is loud.
Mason drops onto the bench with a grunt.
Gregory’s already halfway changed, methodical as always.
Gabriel sits at his stall scrolling his phone, towel draped over his shoulders, expression relaxed.
Dex launches himself onto the bench opposite me. “Gentlemen,” he announces, “I have breaking news.”
Coach’s voice echoes from the doorway. “If it involves social media, I don’t want to hear it.”
“Too late,” Dex says. “It already exists.”
Coach disappears again with a muttered curse.
Gabriel chuckles softly, still looking at his screen. “Actually,” he says, amused, “this is… something.”
I don’t look up.
Yet.
“Listen to this,” Gabriel says, tone light, like he’s about to read a funny headline. “Apparently Hearts on Ice is still trending.”
Dex pumps a fist. “Legacy, baby.”
Gabriel continues, casual. “Someone posted a clip from the dating game and…”
My hand stills on my tape.
He doesn’t notice.
“And the comments are kind of intense,” Gabriel says. “People are dissecting everything.”
“That’s the internet,” Mason says. “They’d dissect a toaster if it went viral.”
Gabriel scrolls. “This one’s wild.” He clears his throat and reads aloud.
“Anyone else think she looked like she knew exactly what she was doing? Like she came in with a plan? Wouldn’t be shocked if this was all for publicity.”
The room quiets.
Not silent.
But… thinner.
Dex lets out a short laugh. “Okay, that’s fucked up.”
Gabriel keeps reading without realizing it’s landing.
“Feels calculated. Bet she’s using him to boost her career. She knew exactly what she was doing.”
Something cold slides into my body.
Gabriel’s head snaps up. “Hey, no,” he says immediately, voice firm in a way that cuts through the room. “That can’t be right. That doesn’t sound like her.”
Before Gabriel can say more, Eli’s voice cuts in from across the room. “That’s bullshit,” he says flatly. “That’s not her.”
Dex nods immediately. “Yeah, man. She’s into you. We can all tell.”
The room goes still when they look at me.
I’m locked in place like my body forgot how to move. Every instinct is flaring at once, like I should punch the wall, skate it off or do something that proves I’m still in control.
I'm still holding my tape.
But I can feel it now , that slow, sick drop in my stomach, like missing a step in the dark.
Gabriel’s gaze turns to me, concern etched deep. “Colby,” he says quietly, “I shouldn’t have read that out loud. That’s on me.” He shifts closer, subtle but solid, like he’s putting himself between me and the noise. “You're not on your own here."
“It’s fine,” I say.
My voice sounds normal.
That scares me.
Dex’s smile fades, the joking edge gone. “Internet’s loud,” he says carefully. “Doesn’t mean it’s right.”
Mason shifts on the bench. “Most of it’s noise,” he adds. “People say shit because they’ve got nothing better to do.”
Gregory nods once. “Speculation isn’t evidence.”
Gabriel exhales slowly, eyes still on his phone before he locks it and sets it facedown. “Could be nothing,” he says. Then, quieter, more honest, “But if it isn’t, we don’t rush anything. We keep our heads on straight.”
This is brutal.
Because it means these thoughts exist out there, floating and multiplying, whether we acknowledge them or not.
Dex leans forward. “Say the word, Cap.”
I glance at him.
“Say the word and we shut it down,” he says. “Publicly. Privately. However you want.”
Mason adds, “We’re not dragging her. But we don’t let people drag you.”
Gabriel nods. “We’ve got your back.”
Gregory’s voice is quiet but firm. “Always.”
The loyalty hits harder than the comments.
Because these guys don’t offer things lightly.
And because part of me wants to take them up on it.
To defend.
To correct.
To explain.
But another part, the part that’s been burned before, whispers that defending something fragile too loudly can shatter it.
“I don’t want a pile-on,” I say finally.
Dex exhales hard. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
They exchange looks.
Mason nods once. “Alright.”
“But we’re here,” Gabriel says. “Anytime.”
I nod.
My heart is pounding.
My insides feel… hollow.
Because I know how this works.
I’ve lived long enough in the public eye to recognize the line forming.
One side is private.
One side is spectacle.
And standing on it is dangerous.
***
That night, Sloane texts me.
Sloane: Long day. Are you alive?
I stare at the message longer than usual.
I type.
Delete.
Type again.
Me: Yeah. Busy. Practice ran long.
Three minutes pass.
She replies.
Sloane: Want to grab dinner tomorrow?
My thumb hovers.
Nothing about her message is wrong.
Nothing about her has changed.
Except the way the world might see her.
And the way that could bleed into me.
Me: Let me see how tomorrow looks.
The words feel distant even as I send them.
She responds with a simple heart.
It shouldn’t hurt.
It does.
***
Over the next few days, I don’t stop talking to her.
I just… stop starting.
If she texts, I reply.
But slower.
Shorter.
I don’t suggest plans.
I don’t send the random thought I would’ve before.
I tell myself I’m protecting the space.
That I’m giving things room.
But really, I’m stepping back inch by inch, hoping the distance will tell me something.
If she notices.
If she asks.
If she pulls closer.
Or lets me go quiet.
Because I don’t know how to ask the question forming in my head.
Not without making it real.
Not without risking that maybe the internet isn’t entirely wrong.
That maybe I’m just another moment to her.
Another headline-adjacent complication.
I don’t think she’d hurt me on purpose.
That’s what scares me.
Because the worst damage is never intentional.
It’s collateral.
***
The next morning at practice, everything looks the same.
Same drills.
Same chirping.
Same music.
But something in me has shifted.
Every move feels measured now. Every decision heavier than it should be.
I know one wrong step could change everything.
So I don’t take one.
I stay still.
Not because it feels right.
But because it feels safer.