And I meant it.
The late afternoon sun spilled across the porch in golden streaks, wrapping around me like a warm hug, but stepping out today felt heavier—like I was crossing an invisible line into a new version of myself. I glanced back at the sleek lines of his home—clean, modern, strangely comforting—and something fluttered in my chest. A quiet question.
Do I really belong here?
“This is my life now,” I whispered under my breath, locking the door behind me with more resolve than I actually felt. The click echoed louder than expected, final and reassuring all at once.
The drive to the address Paige had sent was a blur of caffeine, nervous lip-biting, and indie pop blasting through the speakers to drown out any creeping doubt. My phone buzzed twice with Mikel’s name flashing across the screen like an unwelcome ghost. I stared at it long enough to feel the anger simmering, then silenced it without a second thought. No. Today wasn’t about him. Today was about me.
The GPS led me through neighborhoods that felt like movie sets—gates, hedges trimmed with military precision, driveways that probably had names. And then: the estate. It looked like something out of a bridal magazine or a Hallmark Christmas movie. White columns, ivy crawling tastefully up the sides, hydrangeas that probably cost more than my entire rent back in the day. I swallowed hard and parked, hands clenched on the steering wheel for a beat too long.
You’ve got this, Mina.
I stepped out of the car, smoothed down my sweater, and squared my shoulders like I was marching into an audition—or war. Maybe both. My boots clicked softly against the cobblestone, the house looming larger with every step, but I didn’t stop. Not anymore.
And just before I rang the bell, I smiled to myself, soft but certain. “Don’t worry, Reaper. I got this.”
Chapter 22
Nikolai
The flight dragged on like punishment. Cramped seat, stale air, and a rookie—Ashford—talking my ear off about everything from his shot percentage to the breakfast burrito he planned to devour after the trip. I grunted in response, not because I cared, but because I didn’t want to be a total asshole. Not yet, anyway.
On my other side, some guy had music blasting through cheap earbuds like he wanted the entire plane to suffer with him. The bass buzzed through the armrest and into my bones. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and tried to focus on anything else—my breathing, the steady hum of the engines, the shape of Mina’s smile.
The landing was jarring. Wheels hit tarmac with a bounce that shot pain up my spine. I stood too fast, impatient to be off the plane, and remembered too late that the next step was worse—a bus ride. Tight aisles, gear bags stacked like Tetris, teammates slouched half-conscious in their seats.
I dropped into a window seat, pressed my forehead to the cool glass, and watched the blur of the city roll past when my phone buzzed. Mina.
She’d sent a picture of a cake. It looked… rough. Like it had fought a battle and barely survived. Lopsided, dark on the edges, smeared frosting trying its best to look like it belonged there. But the text below made my chest tighten in a way I wasn’t ready for.
I snorted, a rare crack of amusement slipping past the fatigue. My fingers hovered over the screen before I responded.
The thought of her waiting for me—flour-streaked and proud, in one of my hoodies—made the hell of travel just a little more bearable.
I paused, thumb hovering over the screen before I typed again. Instead, I scrolled up, letting our messages fill the silence. Her name at the top of the thread felt like an anchor, and every line below it reminded me why I’d let myself get tethered in the first place.
There were jokes—some bad, some worse. Sass. Memes about dogs in sweaters. But buried between the sarcasm were moments that hit like body checks. Late-night honesty. That one conversation about boundaries that started with a meme and somehow ended with her admitting things most people wouldn’t say out loud. She had this way of disarming me without even trying.
I didn’t expect to miss her this much. The ache came out of nowhere—quiet but sharp. I missed the way her voice shifted when she was about to tease me, how she filled the space around her like it belonged to her. She had become part of my rhythm, and now I was skating without her in the stands, and it felt… off.
For a few seconds, the cramped bus, Ashford’s endless chirping, the soreness in my shoulders—they all faded. There was just her, waiting somewhere back home with burnt cake and a heart I hadn’t realized I wanted to protect so badly.
I tucked my phone away. The bus hit a pothole hard enough to rattle teeth, but I barely noticed. All I could think about was getting back to her—because somehow, in all this noise and travel and chaos, she had become the only quiet I craved.
The bus rumbled to a stop in front of the hotel, brakes hissing as if exhaling relief after hours on the road. We filed out, hauling our gear and bags in practiced silence, each of us moving on autopilot. The hotel lobby was a blur of polished floors, neutral tones, and the faint smell of stale coffee. I barely noticed. My focus was already shifting to what lay ahead—the game. I tossed my bag onto the bed in my room without bothering to unpack. We weren’t here to rest.
A couple hours later, we were back on the bus and headed toward the arena. The mood had shifted. Less chatter. More game faces. Tension coiled tight in the air, familiar and oddly comforting. This was the part I lived for—the ritual, the preparation, the way adrenaline started to creep in as soon as the rink came into view. Inside the locker room, I laced up my skates and taped my stick, the rhythm of it grounding me. Coaches barked reminders, lines were set, and then we hit the tunnel for warmups.
The arena lights were harsh and bright, casting long shadows across the pristine sheet of ice. I stepped out and let the cold hit my lungs like a wake-up call. Every stride in warmups loosened the stiffness in my legs, every shot calmed the static in my head.
We would head back to the hotel for a few hours of rest… and then, tonight… we'd play.
The visiting arena always hit differently—everything felt tighter, colder, less like home. The locker room was dim, the benches scratched and worn, the walls bare save for some fading paint and a crooked clock that ticked far too loud. The scent was all rubber, sweat, and stale Gatorade—nothing like our setup back in Detroit. I settled into my corner, dragging on my pads with mechanical focus. The routine helped. What didn’t help was the way my brain kept drifting back to Mina—her laugh, that smug little smirk when she knows she’s right, the way she’d looked in my hoodie.
Asher’s voice cut through the fog. “You’re doing that smile thing again, Reaper. Let me guess—Miss Cake Disaster sent another pic?”
I didn’t answer right away, just gave him a look and kept taping my stick. My mouth betrayed me, though—just a twitch at the corner, but it was enough.
