I focus on the chopping board, forcing the knife through a pile of herbs. Basil and parsley, bright and green, scenting the air. It should be grounding. It isn’t.
“Hey, Sage,” Mia calls from the prep line, grinning. “You see the gossip sites today? Your boy’s trending again.”
I freeze mid-chop. The knife stills against the board. “What?”
She waves her phone like it’s a baton. “Apparently there was some kind of fight. Locker room meltdown or something?Puck Whisperer’s calling it ‘The Surge Scandal.’ They’ve even got grainy footage. It’s all over TikTok.”
My stomach drops. The edges of the world go a little blurry. “He didn’t—” My voice catches. “It’s not what it looks like.”
Mia’s grin falters. “You know him?”
I shake my head too fast. “No. Just—everyone in this city talks about hockey like it’s religion. Hard not to overhear.” I force a small laugh that doesn’t sound right. “Guess drama gets clicks.”
“Yeah,” she says, turning back to her station, unconvinced. “Still sucks. Hope the guy’s okay.”
When she’s gone, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My hands are shaking, so I press them flat to the counter until they steady.
If this blows up any worse, someone’s going to connect dots. The garage. The yelling. The timing. And if they do, Leo won’t be the only one they drag through the mud.
I glance toward my phone tucked under the counter. Three unread messages light up the screen from the restaurant group chat, one from my mom, none from him.
The silence from Leo stretches longer than it should. I tell myself he’s busy, that he’ll text later.
But deep down, I know what this feels like.
The start of someone slipping away.
The lull between lunch and dinner rush is supposed to be a relief, but I can’t shake the tension riding in my shoulders. Every clang of a pan makes me flinch. Every laugh from the line cooks feels too loud, too sharp, like the world’s carrying on without me.
I slip outside into the alley behind the restaurant, where the air smells like fryer oil and rain. The sky’s the color of wet concrete. I lean against the brick wall, wiping my hands on my apron, and finally pull out my phone.
No texts. No missed calls. Just that same empty screen staring back at me.
I type before I can overthink it:We need to talk tonight.My thumb hovers, then hits send. The message delivers instantly. And then nothing. Just that little timestamp marking how long I’ve been waiting.
The silence buzzes in my ear. It’s louder than the delivery trucks rumbling past or the faint hum of the kitchen vents. Louder than the sound of my own breath.
I tell myself he’s on the ice. That maybe Coach is keeping them late. That maybe he’ll call after. But excuses feel thin when I know him. Leo doesn’t ignore people by accident.
The screen dims. I shove the phone back in my pocket and push off the wall, trying to shake the ache building in my chest. But it lingers, heavy and sharp, the way cold sticks to your bones in winter.
When I step back inside, the restaurant feels smaller, hotter. Mia glances at me from the sink. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just needed air.”
She studies me for a second, then nods. “You should get out of here early. You’ve been off all day.”
“I’m fine.” The word tastes like ash.
But as I scrub my station and toss my apron into the bin, my mind keeps circling back to that message on my phone. The one I already know won’t get a reply.
I used to think silence meant safety—no fighting, no noise, no chaos.
Now I’m realizing silence can hurt worse than anything you can say out loud.
The apartment is dark when I unlock the door. My first thought is that maybe he’s asleep, crashed early after practice. But then I see his gear bag by the door, a heap of black and red that looks more like an apology than anything else. A note sits on top, folded once, his handwriting short and sharp across the paper.
Late skate. Don’t wait up.
