And then she’s gone, walking down the hall, leaving me with the echo of words I didn’t know I needed to hear.
I should feel better.
But I don’t.
By the time I get home, the sky’s gone dark and the street outside hums with low traffic and drizzle. My body’s a wreck—legs heavy, shoulders burning—but my head won’t quiet down. I kick off my shoes by the door and drop my gear bag beside the couch, the sound echoing through the stillness.
Sage is there, sitting on the counter stool like she’s been waiting. Her arms are crossed, but her eyes aren’t angry—they’re uncertain. The way someone looks when they’ve rehearsed every version of a conversation and none of them felt right.
“Hey,” I say, my voice rough from hours of silence. The kitchen light throws soft shadows across her face, and the faint scent of rain drifts in from the open window.
She nods once. “You skipped dinner.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
She exhales slowly, like she’s been holding her breath all day. “We need to talk, Leo.”
The words hit harder than any check. I set my gloves on the counter, the leather creasing under my palms. “About what?” I ask, even though I already know.
She looks down at her hands, thumb tracing a line along her wrist. “About… all of this. The fight. The headlines. The way people are talking.” Her voice trembles just enough to sting. “I’m scared of what they’ll think—of what this makes me. I don’t want to be the reason you fall apart.”
Her words slice through the quiet, and for a second I can’t breathe. “You’re not the reason,” I say. “You never were.”
“Then what is?” she whispers. “Because you’re breaking, Leo. And I can’t tell if you want me close or gone.”
I drag a hand over my face, the ache behind my eyes spreading. “I’m just tired,” I say finally. “Tired of everything feeling like a fight. On the ice, off it. With everyone. With myself.”
Sage steps closer, her voice barely above a whisper. “Then stop fighting me.”
That lands like a hit to the chest. Because she’s right—and I don’t know how.
The silence between us stretches, heavy with everything we can’t fix in one conversation. She doesn’t move, but her eyes soften. There’s hurt there, sure, but something else too—hope, fragile and flickering.
I reach for her, but she steps back before I can touch her.
“Get some rest,” she says quietly. “You’ve got practice tomorrow.”
Her voice is steady, but her hands are shaking as she walks away.
The door to the bedroom closes behind her with a soft click.
And I’m left standing in the kitchen, staring at the spot she was just in, wondering if this is what it feels like when something real starts to crack.
The apartment feels colder once she’s gone. The hum of the fridge fills the silence, too loud in the quiet she left behind. I move to the counter, palms pressing into the cool surface. The same place where we collided days ago—where things felt simple for half a second before they fell apart.
Now, even the air feels fragile.
I catch my reflection in the glass of the window. My eyes look like a stranger’s—tired, hollow, bruised in places no one can see. I should go after her. Say something. Fix it. But I don’t even know where to start.
I grab a glass of water, take one sip, then set it down. My stomach twists too hard to drink. The weight in my chest presses heavier with every breath.
Out of habit, I reach for my phone, thumbing it awake. Notifications flood the screen—mentions, headlines, a dozen messages from teammates and PR. And right there, buried in the noise, is a new clip.
Grayson Locke. The bastard’s face fills the thumbnail, smirking like he owns the world.
I shouldn’t press play.
But I do.
