“Being single doesn’t mean you’re alone.” The words felt heavy, like I was stepping carefully on ground I knew was fragile.
She barked a laugh, but it was sharp, jagged, edged with something dark. “You think I cared about being single? Fuck men—no offense.”
“None taken,” I said with a wry smile. “We suck.”
She barely seemed to hear me, her gaze distant, focused on something far beyond the room. “You don’t understand what it’s like,” she continued, “not having anyone. Not a single person who loves you, cares for you. I’ve got a job I love, and a few friends who’ve been there for me, but family…” She exhaled, like the word itself was foreign. “I don’t even know what that is anymore. Travis and his family—his parents and siblings—they were supposed to be mine. They were going to be my people.”
Her words felt like a quiet punch to my gut. I wanted to reach out, to hold her, but something in her demeanor told me that wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted me to listen. To understand.
“Your parents?—”
“Are dead,” she interrupted softly. “Since I was sixteen. My grandmother too. No siblings. Two uncles I haven’t seen since my parents’ funeral.” She shrugged, but the motion felt like it carried the weight of a thousand unspoken truths. "I'm just… used to it."
The ache in my chest deepened, and I fought the urge to pull her close. She needed something different. Something I couldn’t give, but I could at least offer her this—understanding.
Frankie deserved so much more than this, than the empty space she carried with her. And I hated that I couldn’t fix it for her, that there was nothing I could do to take away her pain. But I knew she didn’t want me to fix it. No, she wanted to stand on her own two feet, face the future with her own strength.
I spoke softly. “It’s okay to break down a little, Frankie.” The words were simple, but I hoped they would stick, even if only for a moment.
She didn’t answer, but I saw the tiniest shift in her eyes—a small crack in the armor she’d built. It was enough for me to believe she might be listening. That was all I could give her right now. That and the quiet assurance that I wouldn’t turn away. Not this time.
She shook her head, tears dancing in her eyes. “Not for me. I am a hockey coach, Teddy. I have to lead in a male dominated sport. There isn’t room for pain in my career.”
There was nothing I could say to that, so I kissed the back of her shoulder. When I moved in to do it again, she turned, catching my lips with hers.
“Don’t tell me it’ll all be okay, Valentine,” she said, pushing me back onto the bed and reaching across me for a condom. “Don’t you fucking say one word about it. I don’t want to think. Make me stop.”
With that command, I took the condom from her and opened it with my teeth. Once I’d fully covered myself, I lifted her by the hips, bringing her right down on top of me.
This was how we understood each other.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FRANKIE
I wasn’t freaking out. I swear. Damn him. Teddy had vanished by the time I woke this morning, but he’d forewarned me. There was a meeting of what he termed the “dance crew,” now inclusive of most of the team. Game by game, I’d watched Teddy and Ryder wear down their teammates, enticing more to join in their antics. Griff dismissed it as unimportant, a distraction.
But I disagreed.
Dancing on the ice, posting videos on social media, this was how the guys connected with their newfound fans. Fans they hadn’t had just a few months ago. Some players would move on to the NHL, with jerseys bearing their names, but for many, this was their peak. The summit of their hockey careers. It was still a damn tall mountain to climb to play professional hockey, but some didn’t see it that way. They dreamed of packed arenas, of their names engraved on the Stanley Cup.
If they couldn’t have that, at least they had this.
I slowed to a jog, cooling down from my run. Today, I pushed harder, went farther, and it felt invigorating. My body hummed with a delicious ache in places I'd forgotten could feel so alive.
As I neared the steps leading to my overgrown garden, I halted. There, on the bench outside my door, sat the last person I wanted to encounter.
I crossed my arms over my sweaty tank top and approached him cautiously. “What are you doing here, Travis?”
He didn’t stand, but his dark eyes, rimmed in deep circles, lifted to mine. “You’re fucking that asshole.”
My steps faltered but only for a heartbeat. I unlocked the door and shoved it open, throwing my keys onto the table inside. They missed, clattering to the floor with a loud, jarring noise, but I didn’t bother picking them up. "I need coffee for this conversation." Normally, I avoided caffeine before I ran, but afterward? I needed it like air.
I moved on autopilot, leaving the door wide open behind me, kicking off my shoes as I made my way toward the kitchen. I’d set the drip maker to finish brewing by the time I returned, and the dark liquid stared back at me from the pot—my salvation. I pulled down two chipped mugs, my eyes lingering on each one. The blue Coast Guard mug, once belonging to my father, still sat in the cupboard, but today wouldn’t be the day I touched it. Instead, I grabbed a dull yellow mug, the kind that didn’t stir up any emotions, and poured my coffee, black.
Travis stood in the doorway, his stance heavy with the weight of whatever was on his mind. Without asking, I poured him a cup too, adding a generous splash of milk and two spoonfuls of sugar. It was an old habit, one I hadn’t quite shaken.
He took the mug with a silent nod, the edge of bitterness gone from his eyes, replaced by something deeper—tiredness, maybe, or regret.
