“But it’s not random,” I whisper. “They used your name.”
He exhales, long and low, then reaches over to brush his hand along my arm. “It’s just noise,” he says, echoing my own words from earlier. But his voice isn’t steady. Not this time.
The phone screen goes dark again, and the room feels smaller, heavier. Outside, the city hums like nothing’s changed—but I can feel it. Something’s shifted.
This isn’t just about gossip anymore.
It’s a warning.
Chapter 32
Edge of the Ice
Leo
Sleep doesn’t stick.A cold draft slips through the cracked window, raising goosebumps along my arms and setting my pulse racing before I can shove the sheet aside. Every time I close my eyes, that message burns through the dark again—You can’t protect her forever.Five words. Anonymous number. No context. Just enough poison to keep me wide awake.
The glow of dawn cuts through the blinds, sharp and colorless. I’ve been lying here for an hour, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the city below. Beside me, Sage’s breathing stays slow, even. I should wake her.
When she finally stirs, it’s with that quiet grace she always has in the mornings. She stretches, soft sound escaping her throat, and pads toward the kitchen, still half-asleep. The smell of coffee follows her, rich and grounding, and for a second I almost forget about the phone burning a hole in my nightstand drawer.
I pull on a T-shirt and follow her out, trying to look normal. She’s already at the counter, hair pulled back, wearing one of myhoodies that nearly swallows her. She moves like she’s chasing stillness—methodical, calm, the exact opposite of what’s eating me alive.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks without turning around.
“Yeah,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “Just wired. Thinking about practice, maybe.”
She hums softly, unconvinced. I sit across from her, watching her pour two mugs of coffee. The simple, domestic rhythm of it almost untangles me—until she finally looks up, eyes sharp in a way that tells me she’s been thinking, too.
“You didn’t tell me you’re still thinking about that message.” The words land like a body check to the ribs. My grip tightens around the mug. “What?” I manage, but it comes out rough, unsteady.
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Last night—you brushed it off like it was nothing. But I know you, Leo. You haven’t stopped thinking about it.”
My heartbeat stutters, then kicks into overdrive. I try to laugh it off, to shake my head like it’s nothing. “It wasn’t a threat, Sage. Probably some troll with too much time and a fake number.”
She just stares. Quiet. Still. And it’s worse than if she were yelling. “You don’t protect me by hiding things,” she says finally, voice low but sure.
Something in me flinches at that. Because she’s right. I’ve been here before—carrying the weight alone, convinced it’s the only way to keep everyone else safe. And look how that’s worked out.
I reach across the table, meaning to touch her wrist, to say something—anything—that might soften the tension strung tight between us. But when my fingers brush her skin, everything shifts.
The air feels charged, fragile, alive. She doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
Her eyes lift to mine, steady and searching. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The air feels too thick to breathe, and every sound—the faint hum of the refrigerator, the clink of ceramic when she sets her mug down—feels amplified.
“You really think keeping things from me keeps me safe?” she asks softly.
I swallow hard. “I think it keeps you from being dragged deeper into my mess.”
She shakes her head slowly, a strand of hair slipping free from her bun. “That’s not protection, Leo. That’s isolation.” Her tone isn’t sharp—it’s worse. It’s tired. Honest. “You build walls and then wonder why no one can reach you.”
Her words hit harder than I expect. Maybe because she’s not wrong. My whole career’s been about control—on the ice, in the locker room, in my own damn life. But control doesn’t look like strength right now. It looks like fear.
I push away from the table, pacing, because sitting still feels impossible. “You don’t understand. This isn’t just noise anymore. Someone knows where we live, what we’re doing. I can handle it if it’s about me—but if they come after you?—”
She stands too, stepping into my path before I can get another word out. Her hand presses against my chest, grounding and unyielding. “Then we deal with it together,” she says. “That’s what this is supposed to mean, right? Partnership?”
