Leo takes a step closer. His voice drops, low and rough. “No. What he wants is you.”
The words freeze the air between us.
I blink, throat dry. “What?”
He meets my gaze, unflinching. “And you didn’t deny it.”
It hits harder than anything Grayson said. The sound of the garage door grinding shut fills the silence that follows, sealing us both inside with everything neither of us can take back.
Chapter 20
Against the Boards
Leo
The garage fightis still in my fists.
Every stride burns. Every pass clangs off my stick like it’s allergic to control. I can hear the scrape of my blades louder than the puck, louder than the shouts from the guys running the drill. My body’s here on the ice, but my head’s still in that damn garage, knuckles split and voice hoarse from yelling at Grayson. The echo of Sage’s voice—sharp, desperate—won’t stop replaying.
“Voss, wake up!”
Coach’s bark slices through my fog. I fumble a puck, curse under my breath, and shove off again, trying to reset. The whistle blasts, shrill and final.
“Everybody water up,” Coach calls, then hooks a finger at me. “You. Stay.”
The rest of the team peels away, skates scratching ice. I feel their eyes flick my way—some pity, some curiosity, a few smirks that saydamn, he’s in trouble.I drag a glove down my face and skate to the boards.
Coach doesn’t yell right away. He just stares, chewing on a piece of gum like it personally offended him. “You skating angry today?”
I bite down on my mouthguard. “Just off, I guess.”
“Off?” His tone sharpens. “You’re dragging the whole line with you. You think you can muscle through it, but you’re not fooling anyone. Timing’s off. Edgework sloppy. You’re a second late on every read.”
Each word lands like a hit. I want to argue. Tell him I’m fine. Tell him to back off. But he’s right, and we both know it.
“I don’t know what’s eating at you,” he continues, softer now, “but you better figure it out before tomorrow night. Because right now, you’re skating like a guy who’s lost.”
He skates off before I can answer, leaving me standing alone on the blue line, chest heaving.
Lost. Yeah. That’s one way to put it.
I skate a few lazy laps, trying to shake it off, but everything feels heavier than it should—the ice, my gear, the noise in my head. I glance toward the bench where the guys are laughing, tossing jokes back and forth like nothing in the world’s wrong. I used to be that easy. Used to be able to switch it off the second I stepped onto the rink.
Now it’s like the ice knows what I did.
When practice ends, I’m the last one to hit the tunnel. My gloves are soaked, my shoulders aching. I yank off my helmet, and sweat drips down my temples. A few of the guys glance at me, quiet now. They know something’s off but won’t say it—not yet. Not until someone else does first.
In the back of my mind, I can still feel Grayson’s collar in my fist. The sound of Sage’s breath hitching. The look on her face before I walked out.
I jam my stick into my bag and slam the zipper closed.
Lost, Coach said.
No. Worse than that.
I’m unraveling.
The locker room smells like damp gear and disinfectant. Normally, it’s white noise—guys talking over the sound of the showers, the clatter of sticks, the thud of tape rolls hitting the floor. But today, the noise cuts out all at once.
