The apartment feels too small when we’re like this. I sink deeper into the couch, elbows on my knees, staring at the muted TV. The light flickers against the wall, catching the edge of my bag where it landed. My pulse is still climbing, my head too loud.
Sage clatters a lid onto a pot, the sound sharp enough to make me flinch. Then nothing. Just the low hum of the fridge and the faint hiss of the stove.
I try to focus on anything else — game plans, drills, tomorrow’s matchup — but it’s useless. Every thought circles back to her. The argument replays on a loop, twisting into something heavier. She thinks she’s a burden. I think I’m losing control. Maybe we’re both right.
My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen, expecting Claire or a media alert. Instead, it’s a notification from one of the sports accounts I never should’ve followed.
A video thumbnail flashes — Grayson Locke at a press conference, smirking behind the mic.
I tap it before I can stop myself.
“Seems like some guys can’t handle adversity,”Grayson says, smug.“Guess we’ll see Saturday who’s really built for it.”The reporters laugh, and he leans back like he’s already scored the winning goal.
The clip loops. Over and over. Each repetition hits harder.
Sage steps into the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. “Everything okay?”
I don’t answer right away. My thumb hovers over the screen, the video frozen on Grayson’s smirk. “Yeah.” My voice comes out low. “Just noise.”
She studies me for a second, then folds the towel over the back of a chair. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” I force a breath, setting the phone facedown. “I’m fine.”
The lie tastes bitter. I’m anything but fine.
She nods slowly, her expression softening just a little. “Then I’m going to bed.”
I nod back, but don’t move. I wait until her footsteps fade down the hall before I pick the phone up again. The screen lights the room, cold and blue.
Can’t handle adversity.The words dig deep, scraping against every raw edge I’ve been trying to hide.
I grip the phone tighter until my knuckles ache. There’s an ache in my chest too — familiar, unwelcome. The kind that always comes before I do something reckless.
Saturday’s coming fast. So is Grayson. And for the first time all season, I’m not sure which one I’m more ready to face.
Chapter 11
Spark and Static
Sage
Saturday nightsat Élan are always loud, but tonight, it’s something else — a low, crackling energy that thrums under every conversation. The game plays on all the bar TVs, every screen flickering between the blue and silver of the Surge and the black and gold of the Stars. Leo versus Grayson. Captain versus Captain. The rivalry everyone loves to dissect.
The kitchen feels too hot. My neck is damp from steam, my apron sticks to my shirt as I call for more plates from the dish pit. Every few minutes, I drift toward the narrow view of the bar through the service window, catching flashes of the broadcast — the rush of the crowd, the sharp glide of skates on ice.
Leo’s number flashes across the screen:#17 Voss.The sight punches something low in my stomach.
Maya notices, of course. She always does. “You’ve been awfully invested in Surge hockey lately,” she says with a smirk as she lines up cocktails on a tray. “Got money riding on the game or something?”
“Just… keeping an eye on it,” I say too quickly.
She grins. “Sure. You just happen to check the score every five minutes.”
“I like the commentary,” I deadpan, turning back to the grill. “Really insightful stuff.”
Maya laughs and disappears into the dining room, leaving me behind the hiss of sizzling pans. But her words stick. Maybe I’m too invested. Maybe watching him has become its own kind of punishment — seeing every hit, every glare, every ounce of pressure he’s under while I’m stuck back here, pretending I don’t care.
When I sneak another glance at the screen, the camera cuts to Grayson — smirking during warmup like he’s already written the outcome. The commentators love it.“Locke versus Voss — there’s no love lost between these two.”
