“Yeah.” I keep my voice low. “They have to.”
When she leaves, I catch myself muttering under my breath — not recipes this time, but fragments of advice I’ve given players a hundred times.Hydrate during the third period. Watch for muscle fatigue. Don’t clench your jaw — it throws off your focus.
It’s ridiculous, but I can’t stop. As if whispering the words might somehow reach him through the tension of the broadcast, through the ice, through all that pressure crushing him.
The final buzzer sounds. The roar fades into chatter. Someone near the back shouts, “Stars win!” and the room reacts — cheers from one table, groans from another. I press a palm to my chest, like I can hold the ache there where no one can see it.
I peek toward the bar one last time. The screen shows the handshake line — Grayson’s smug grin, Leo’s tight jaw, that cold fury simmering just below the surface. The commentators are already spinning their story:“Another rough night for Voss. You have to wonder if the off-ice distractions are catching up to him.”
Off-ice distractions.
That’s me, isn’t it?
I look down at my hands — sauce-stained, trembling slightly — and swallow hard. Somewhere out there, Leo’s skating off the ice with the weight of the world on his shoulders, and all I can do is stand here, cooking food he’ll never eat, whispering advice he’ll never hear.
Maya passes by again, collecting plates. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say automatically, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Just tired.”
She nods and moves on, and I finally let out a shaky breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The game’s over, but the tension hasn’t faded.
If anything, it’s louder now — thrumming beneath my skin, waiting for somewhere to go.
Closing takes longer than usual. The kitchen is half-cleaned, half-forgotten, a mess of plates and empty saucepans scattered across the counters. My hands move on autopilot — wiping, stacking, rinsing — but my mind stays stuck in the final seconds of the game.
Grayson’s grin replaying. Leo’s glare. The echo of the commentators dissecting his every move like they own him.
When I finally hang up my apron, the restaurant is quiet. Most of the staff has cleared out, except for Marco counting the register and Maya humming off-key as she wipes down the bar. I call a soft goodnight, but my voice sounds small in the empty space.
Outside, the night air is cold and damp, the kind that crawls under my coat. The streets are wet from a light rain, the reflections of traffic lights shimmering on the pavement. I shove my hands into my pockets and start walking, head down, feet carrying me through muscle memory more than thought.
The restaurant noise fades, replaced by the faint thrum of the city. My thoughts keep circling — to Leo, to the game, to that look on his face when things start to unravel. I hate that I can read him so easily. I hate that I care enough to notice.
By the time I reach my building, the knot in my chest has only tightened. I tell myself I’m being ridiculous — he’s fine, he’s always fine. He’s built to weather this kind of pressure. But the words don’t stick.
In the elevator, the low whir of the machinery fills the silence. My reflection in the metal doors looks tired — eyes smudged with fatigue, hair flattened by steam and sweat. I force a breath, trying to shake the ache out of my body. Just go inside. Shower. Sleep. Don’t think about him.
But when I step into the apartment, the first thing I notice is the quiet. No background hum, no sound of dishes or music. Just stillness. Heavy and expectant.
I drop my keys onto the counter and glance toward the couch. Empty.
He isn’t home yet. Of course he isn’t. The team probably stayed late — postgame interviews, press obligations, the kind of PR damage control Claire’s so good at. Still, the sight of that empty couch stings in a way I can’t explain.
I move into the kitchen, flicking on the light. The half-prepped meals from earlier sit neatly stacked in the fridge. I grab a container of pasta and start to reheat it, though I’m not hungry. The steady drone of the microwave fills the space, and for some reason, it makes me want to cry.
Because the truth is, I don’t even like hockey. I don’t understand half the rules. But tonight, I watched every second of that game like it mattered. Because he matters.
And now I’m standing here, staring at the microwave clock counting down seconds that drag like hours, wondering when I started letting his world take over mine.
The knock startles me.
Three sharp raps against the door — loud enough to make my pulse jump, loud enough to cut through the drone of the microwave. I freeze, fingers still clutching the counter. No one ever knocks this late.
Another knock follows, heavier this time. “Sage?”
His voice.
I don’t think — I just move. My feet carry me to the door, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might shake loose from my chest. I fumble with the lock and pull it open.
