That’s it. No heart. No explanation. Just another wall I didn’t see being built until it was already standing between us.
I stand there for a long time, holding the note like it might change if I stare hard enough. My throat burns. The apartment is too quiet—so quiet I can hear the faint hum of the fridge, the tick of the clock, the blood rushing in my ears.
I wander into the kitchen because I don’t know what else to do. The counter gleams under the dim light, clean now, wiped of everything that happened there last night. No trace of us. No proof it ever meant something.
I sink onto one of the stools, pulling my knees up, pressing my forehead to them. The cold surface of the counter brushesmy arm, and I swear I can still feel him there. The weight of his hands. The sound of his breath.
It hurts how easy it is to remember.
Outside, the muffled echo of sports radio drifts through the open window next door. I almost tune it out—until I hear his name.Grayson Locke.My stomach clenches.
“…no confirmation yet, but rumors suggest the altercation may have stemmed from personal issues off the ice. Sources mention a woman—someone close to Voss?—”
My breath catches.
Then, clear as day, I hear my own name. Spoken in Grayson’s smooth, smug voice. Drawn out like a taunt.
I freeze.
For a second, the room tilts. The radio fades under the sound of my pulse thundering in my ears.
He said my name.
And that’s when it hits me—this isn’t just Leo’s mess anymore.
It’s mine too.
Chapter 22
Line Change
Leo
The rink humswith the sound of blades on ice, sharp and relentless. Every stride burns like punishment, but I keep pushing. Faster. Harder. The boards blur past, the cold air bites my lungs, and still it isn’t enough to drown out the noise in my head.
Grayson’s voice—smug, echoing through that radio clip I shouldn’t have listened to. Sage’s silence from last night, heavy and unforgiving. The media spinning their own story about me, the team, the fight. It’s all a loop I can’t escape.
I take a corner too tight, the edge of my skate catching in the groove. I barely keep my balance. A few guys on the bench whistle, laughing under their breath.
“Easy there, Voss,” one of them calls. “You break a stick again, you paying for it this time?”
Another voice chimes in. “Maybe he’s just practicing his right hook.”
The laughter hits like a slap. I keep my head down, pretending I didn’t hear, but the blood in my ears roars louder than the scrape of the ice.
“Voss!” Coach’s whistle cuts through the noise. “Line change!”
I coast toward the bench, chest heaving, vision blurring at the edges. My gloves are slick with sweat. I drop onto the seat, jaw locked, eyes forward. The boards rattle from another hit down the ice, but I barely see it.
“Relax, man,” Nolan says beside me, nudging my shoulder with his stick. “You’re wound tighter than a skate lace.”
“I’m fine,” I mutter.
“Sure,” he says, but his tone says he doesn’t buy it. “Just don’t explode mid-game. I like my face the way it is.”
I almost smile, but it dies before it starts.
The next drill starts, and I’m back on the ice before Coach even calls for me. My legs move on instinct, muscle memory taking over where my brain’s checked out. Each stride feels like an argument I can’t win.
