I stand there in the wreckage — clothes scattered, sauce still drying on the counter, the air heavy with everything we just ruined. I finish the rest of the water in one swallow and drop the bottle in the sink. The silence swallows me whole.
The apartment feels too quiet after she’s gone.
I stand there for what feels like forever, staring at the door she locked behind her. My pulse is still racing, the heat of her touch still under my skin, but all that’s left now is the hollow ache where adrenaline used to be.
I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. No — that’s the problem. I wasn’t thinking at all. I just needed something to make it stop. The noise. The pressure. The feeling that everyone’s waiting for me to fail.
And she’s the only person who doesn’t look at me like a headline.
I scrub a hand over my face and lean back against the counter. My body feels heavy, like all the energy burned out at once. The water bottle from earlier rolls slightly, hits the edge, and falls into the sink with a soft clatter. The sound feels too loud in the silence.
Across the room, one of my socks is still tangled in her apron on the floor. I pick it up, then drop it again — like even touching it’s too much. My hands won’t stop shaking.
My phone buzzes against the counter, screen lighting up the dim kitchen. For a second, I think about ignoring it. I can’t take more bad news tonight.
But the name on the screen makes me pause.
Trevor Stein:Media’s eating it up. Keep your head straight, man.
A hollow laugh escapes before I can stop it. Of course. Of course it’s Trevor. He’s probably loving this — the chaos, the storylines, the slow unravel of Leo Voss. I can practically hear his smug tone in the words.
“Keep my head straight,” I mutter, shoving the phone facedown on the counter. “Yeah, sure.”
I drag in a breath, but it doesn’t stick. Everything feels too tight — my skin, my chest, this entire damn apartment. I want to move, to hit something, to skate until my legs give out. Instead, I press my palms to the counter and stare at the floor.
There’s a faint thump from down the hall — Sage moving in her room. The sound is small, barely there, but it hits harder than anything else tonight. She’s in there because of me. Because I couldn’t keep it together.
I glance toward the door, wanting to fix it, to say something — but the words aren’t there. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
My phone buzzes again, lighting up with another notification. Headlines, probably. Or texts from teammates pretending they care. I don’t check.
I just stand there in the dark kitchen, jaw tight, staring at the closed hallway door.
The one she locked.
And for the first time all season, I don’t know how to get back up.
Chapter 13
Thin Ice
Sage
The soundof the blender hits first — loud, relentless, and too normal. I lie there for a second, staring at the ceiling, willing it to stop. But it keeps going, the hum vibrating through the floorboards like an accusation. It shouldn’t sound this ordinary. Not after last night.
My stomach knots as flashes from the night before flicker uninvited — the heat of his skin, the rough edge of his voice, the way his eyes went blank right after. I roll onto my side, burying my face in the pillow, but that only makes it worse. His scent is still there — clean soap and sweat and something darker underneath. I can’t breathe around it.
By the time I drag myself out of bed and into the kitchen, the blender’s been replaced by silence. The kind that isn’t peaceful. The kind that hums with everything unsaid.
Leo’s at the counter, already showered, already dressed, like nothing happened. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up, the faint bruises on his forearms visible when he reaches for a glass. Thecounters are spotless — the towels gone, dishes washed, every trace of last night erased.
He doesn’t look at me. “Morning.” The word lands clipped, too clean, like a line drawn in permanent ink.
I grip the edge of the fridge door for a second longer than I should before answering. “Morning.” My voice sounds steady enough, but my pulse says otherwise.
I pull out fruit and yogurt, setting them on the counter with more precision than necessary. Knife in hand, I start slicing strawberries like they’ve personally offended me. The rhythm helps — slice, twist, breathe. Anything to stop replaying the way his hands felt on my skin or how quickly the warmth between us froze over.
He’s scrolling on his phone now, thumb moving fast, expression unreadable. Probably checking stats, or maybe headlines. The same headlines that tore him apart yesterday. I want to ask, but the question lodges somewhere behind my ribs.
