7. Lucy #2
Not the part of the world that belonged to us.
But the machinery around it. Travel staff. Sponsor contacts. Executive logistics. The quiet, invisible work that made road games look effortless to everyone who never thought about how much coordination went into moving an NHL team from one city to another.
Keith pulled her aside in the hotel lobby.
Sarah called her twice.
A donor representative shook her hand like she already knew exactly who Lucy Thomas was and why she mattered.
And Lucy handled all of it with that same composed expression that made me want to shake her just to see if anything real would fall out.
She was good.
Annoyingly so.
I should have been proud of her.
Instead, every time I looked at her, my chest tightened with something that felt a lot like resentment.
Not because she'd changed.
Because she hadn't needed me to do it.
Game day didn't help.
From the first shift, I felt half a step behind.
Not slow. Not bad. Just... off.
A pass hopped over my stick in the neutral zone. A shooting lane I normally saw closed before I pulled the trigger.
Coach never said anything. Nobody did.
Objectively, I wasn't playing poorly.
Subjectively, I knew better.
Every mistake felt bigger. Every missed opportunity replayed longer. Every time I found myself sitting on the bench waiting for my next shift, my eyes drifted upward toward the executive suites before I caught myself.
What the hell are you doing? I yelled at myself. She’s probably not thinking about you at all.
When the final horn sounded and the scoreboard read 3–1, the loss settled over the room like wet concrete.
Nobody talked much walking back toward the locker room. Nobody needed to.
The season had already taught us how to lose. And still, it never got easier.
I peeled off my gloves harder than necessary and dropped into my stall.
The game replayed itself automatically. The missed read in the second. The chance I'd sent wide of the net. The forecheck I thought I could have finished harder.
None of those plays lost us the game.
Didn't matter. They all belonged to me now.
Coach moved through the room afterward, reminding us we'd flush it and move on. The words bounced harmlessly off my skull. Because all I could think about was how distracted I'd been since Lucy stepped onto that damn plane.
Like somehow I'd let eight years disappear the second she sat within my line of sight. Like one accidental touch had been enough to remind my body of everything my head had spent years trying to forget.
It was pathetic. And I hated myself for it.
"Buzz."
I looked up.
One of the communications staff stood near the locker room entrance. "Stella's waiting."
Of course she was. Postgame media.
Smile.
Answer questions.
Pretend everything made sense.
I grabbed my jacket and headed toward the interview room, hoping talking about hockey would be easier than thinking about anything else.
I was wrong.
Stella Watson waited beneath the interview lights with a microphone in one hand and that calm reporter expression that made people forget she was actively taking them apart for public consumption.
She looked polished in a way that never felt fake. Dark hair smooth over one shoulder. Northbend Sports credential clipped neatly to her blazer. Eyes sharp enough to catch every twitch, every hesitation, every answer that meant something different than the words being said.
Great. Exactly what I need.
“Ty,” she greeted.
That alone nearly knocked me off balance. Most reporters called me Buzz. Most people did. Coaches. Teammates. Fans. My own mother most of the time.
Ty sounded different in Stella’s voice. Professional, sure. But still too close to the name Lucy had ruined for everyone else.
“Stella,” I responded, forcing my expression into something that hopefully looked normal and not like I was one emotionally inconvenient syllable away from walking into traffic.
“Tough loss tonight.”
“Yeah.” I shifted my weight, still feeling the game in my legs. Sweat had dried cold beneath my dress shirt. My hair was probably doing something tragic. “Not the result we wanted.”
Her mouth twitched slightly. “That is usually how losses work.”
I huffed a laugh despite myself. “You always this gentle after a man gets publicly embarrassed?”
“I save my compassion for overtime losses.”
“Good to know.”
The camera light blinked red. Stella adjusted her stance, and the easy warmth disappeared into something cleaner. Professional. Focused. The kind of shift that reminded me she was very good at her job.
“Buzz Burns with us after the Frosthawks fall three to one to the New York Otters.” She glanced back to me. “Buzz, the Otters controlled a lot of the neutral zone tonight. From your perspective, what made it difficult to generate sustained pressure?”
“They were tight through the middle,” I said, settling into the answer automatically.
“They didn’t give us much space to build speed, and we didn’t adjust fast enough.
When a team plays that connected, you have to simplify earlier.
Get pucks deep. Win battles below the goal line.
We tried to force plays through traffic, and they made us pay for it. ”
Stella nodded once. “You had a chance late in the second. Looked like the puck rolled on you a little.”
My jaw tightened before I could stop it. There it was. “Yeah,” I said. “It did.”
“You looked frustrated coming back to the bench.”
“I was.”
She let the silence sit for half a beat. “Because of the missed chance?”
Because of the missed chance.
Because of the pass I should have handled clean.
Because of the shift before it.
Because of the whole damn day.
Because Lucy Thomas had gotten on a plane that morning with a book in her hand and a wall around her chest, and I had spent every hour since pretending my body did not remember exactly how she used to feel beneath my hands.
I gave Stella a smile instead. “Because I like scoring goals.”
Her brows lifted. “Groundbreaking insight.”
“I’m giving you gold here.”
“You’re giving me something.”
“Use it wisely.”
She shook her head, but she was smiling now, just a little.
The interview light softened the edges of the hallway behind her, turning the concrete corridor and sponsor backdrop into something almost cinematic.
Beyond the cameras, equipment cases rolled toward the loading area.
Voices echoed in uneven bursts. The whole arena still hummed with postgame motion, but all I could feel was how tired I was.
Stella glanced down at her notes, then back up at me. “Coach talked about accountability after the game. Where do you think that starts?”
“With us.” The answer came faster this time. Easier, because it was true. “Nobody in that room is looking around for someone else to blame. We know what we put on the ice. We know what wasn’t good enough.”
“Including you?”
I looked at her. “Especially me.”
Her expression shifted slightly. Just enough to tell me she heard more than I meant to say. “You were not on the ice for all three goals against,” she reminded.
“No.”
“And yet?”
“And yet I had chances to change the game.” I swallowed once, gaze flicking briefly toward the concrete floor before I brought it back up. “That’s the job.”
“Last one,” she said. “Chicago is next. What do you take from this one?”
“Flush it.” I gave the answer every player gave because sometimes clichés existed for a reason. “Watch the tape. Fix what needs fixing. Get back to work.”
“And maybe sleep?”
That pulled a real laugh out of me. “Let’s not get unrealistic.”
“Fair enough.” Stella turned back toward the camera. “Buzz Burns after the Frosthawks’ three-one loss in New York. Thanks, Buzz.”
The red light clicked off. Immediately, the hallway came back louder.
Stella lowered the microphone. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think that one was on you.”
I should have said thank you. Should have nodded like a normal person.
Instead, I dragged a hand through my damp hair and looked toward the end of the hall where players and staff were already disappearing toward the bus. “Yeah,” I said. “Well. Good thing that’s not how it feels.”
She studied me for another second. Reporter eyes. Too smart. Too observant. “You always carry losses like that?”
“Only when I’m awake.”
“That must be exhausting.”
“You moonlighting as a therapist now?”
“No.” Her smile was small. “Just asking.”
I forced a grin because that was easier than answering honestly. “Careful, Watson. People will start thinking you care.”
“I care about good quotes.”
“Cold.”
“Accurate.”
I tapped two fingers against the edge of her microphone in farewell, then turned before she could ask anything else I did not want to answer.
The rest of the night blurred from there.
By the time we arrived back at the hotel, my body wanted a shower, food, and twelve uninterrupted hours of unconsciousness.
I should have gone straight to my room.
I was tired.
I was still pissed about the game.
I was more pissed that I could still feel the ghost of Lucy’s hip against the back of my hand from earlier that day.
I wanted sleep.
I wanted distance.