He pushes too far forward, too hungry for glory. I step into the lane, intercepting clean. The puck kisses my stick, slides right into open ice. My winger, Carter, is already reading me. I feed it across the slot.
He doesn’t miss.
The puck hits the back of the net with a sound that splits the world open. The horn blares. The crowd detonates. Every light flashes at once, white and gold and blinding.
I don’t remember dropping to my knees, but I’m there, breathless, the noise crashing over me like a wave. The team swarms me—gloves, helmets, shouts, laughter. I can’t even hear myself think. For the first time all season, the noise feels like freedom, not pressure.
I look up through the chaos and find her. Sage—hands over her mouth, tears bright in her eyes, smiling so wide it knocks the breath right out of me. The kind of smile that sayswe made it.
Coach yells something about playoffs, about redemption, but all I can think is that this—this moment—is the one that rewrites everything.
And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see movement near the boards. Grayson shoves a cameraman. Hard. The guy stumbles, almost hits the ice. Grayson’s face twists, red and ugly, words spilling out too fast, too loud. He curses at the officials, at the reporters. Cameras swing his way.
The meltdown’s caught live—his golden-boy image cracking wide open under the lights.
The roar of the crowd shifts, sharp and merciless. I skate toward the bench, chest heaving, heart still hammering. The scoreboard reads 3–2.
We’re going to the playoffs.
But something tells me this victory is just the beginning of the fallout.
Chapter 35
Cracked Halo
Sage
The horn fades,but the roar doesn’t. It breaks, twists—turns into something else entirely. The cheers dissolve into a wave of gasps as movement erupts near the boards. Cameras flash like lightning, the chaos unfolding so fast it takes my brain a second to catch up.
Grayson Locke isn’t celebrating. He’s losing it.
His stick slams against the glass with a crack that cuts through the arena noise. A cameraman stumbles backward as Grayson yells—something I can’t make out over the shrieks and whistles—but the anger in his body says enough. Security surges toward him, coaches shouting, officials motioning for him to calm down. But he doesn’t. He’s shouting at the refs now, helmet off, face red, jaw tight, hands flying as he jabs his stick toward them like a weapon.
My stomach flips. The golden boy of the league—the one who never cracks, never curses on camera—is unraveling in front of everyone.
The crowd turns restless, that strange hush that comes when people realize they’re watching something real, not staged. The air tastes like static. Someone beside me mutters, “Oh my God,” and I can’t tell if it’s awe or horror.
Flashes pop from every direction, catching the sweat on Grayson’s neck, the fury twisting his features. Somewhere, I know, that footage is already being clipped, posted, shared, replayed in slow motion.Locke Meltdown.Locker Room Leaker Loses It.The Fall of Grayson Locke.
My pulse hammers in my throat as I look back to the ice—and find Leo.
He’s not shouting. Not celebrating. Just standing near center ice, helmet tucked under his arm, watching the chaos unravel with a calm that feels almost defiant. The difference between them hits hard. One of them is breaking. The other is finally whole.
Someone taps my shoulder—it’s one of the Surge PR assistants, eyes wide, phone buzzing nonstop in her hand. “It’s already trending,” she breathes. “Every outlet’s got it. His sponsors are pulling statements.”
I glance back just in time to see Grayson shove another official before security corners him. The crowd’s noise fractures—half outrage, half disbelief. I press a hand to my chest, trying to steady my breathing. What should’ve been a victory celebration feels electric, dangerous.
Then, across the chaos, Leo looks up. Straight toward the tunnel.
For a heartbeat, the noise falls away. The chants, the flashing lights, the chaos—they all blur. It’s just him and me. His eyes meet mine—no triumph, no arrogance. Just quiet relief. A weight lifted, maybe not gone, but lighter.
He gives a single nod. Small. Grounded. Real.
And suddenly, I’m not thinking about Grayson or headlines or cameras.
I’m thinking about how it feels to watch someone you love finally step out from under a shadow—and into his own light.
The thought hits with a quiet certainty that steals my breath. It isn’t a rush or a revelation—it’s recognition. I’ve loved him for a while now, quietly, stubbornly, even when it was easier to be afraid. I loved him when he was fighting the world, and I love him now, standing calm in its aftermath. It’s not fireworks. It’s gravity. And for the first time, I stop resisting the pull.
