He stepped between me and the phone, his body language deceptively calm, but his eyes were steel. “Answer it,” he said quietly. Too quietly. “Tell him it was your mistake.”
I didn’t speak.
“Say the wrong thing,” he continued, voice dipping darker, “and you’ll regret it.”
Time slowed. The alarm kept screaming. The phone kept ringing. My pulse beat so loud it drowned out everything else.
Chapter 24
Nikolai
The locker room pulsed with noise—booming laughter, the slap of towels, the buzz of post-game adrenaline hanging thick in the air. Victory had a scent. Sweat and pride. Guys hollered over each other, voices tangled in celebration like the chaos of the third period.
“Who’s up for some drinks?” Asher’s voice cut through the din like a shot of tequila—loud, bright, impossible to ignore. “New bar downtown. Let’s go ruin it.”
Weston propped himself against his locker, that ever-present smirk tugging at his mouth. “What do you say, Volkov? You coming, or has domestic bliss got your leash too tight tonight?”
I didn’t look up right away. My phone sat face down in my duffel, but I could feel it burning through the fabric. I ran a towel over the back of my neck, let it hang there. “I’m out,” I said simply. “I want to sleep.”
The ribbing was immediate.
“Jesus,” Weston muttered. “You’ve been dating for what—ten minutes? Already talking like a married man.”
Asher chimed in, grinning like he’d just scored a hat trick. “Watch out, boys. Reaper’s off the market and into monogamy. Next week he’ll be hosting game night with scented candles.”
The room exploded with laughter. I managed a dry smile and rolled my eyes, but the weight in my chest didn’t budge. They could joke all they wanted. They didn’t get it. They hadn’t seen her curled into my hoodie or humming in my kitchen like she belonged there.
“Enjoy yourselves,” I said, pulling my sweatshirt on. “Don’t do anything that lands us on TMZ.”
Weston gave a two-fingered salute. “Try not to cry into your pillow while we’re gone.”
I let them have their fun, waited until the room emptied out and the noise bled into silence. Then I sat down slowly, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor. That restless itch beneath my skin hadn’t gone away since the second I stepped off the ice.
Something was off. I just didn’t know what yet.
And I hated that the only place I wanted to be tonight—wasn’t here. It was wherever she was.
I slipped out the back of the locker room, the noise of post-game celebration fading behind me like static in the distance. Laughter echoed down the hall, but I didn’t look back. I wasn’t in the mood to pretend tonight. Not when all I wanted was quiet—and maybe to hear her voice again.
The cold air outside was sharp and clean, cutting through the leftover adrenaline humming under my skin. I walked toward the waiting bus, keeping my head down, nodding briefly to the driver before climbing the steps and taking a seat near the back. Window seat. Always.
I leaned my head against the glass, watching the parking lot blur with condensation. One by one, the guys filed in, loud and alive, still buzzing from the win. But I wasn’t with them. Not really. My phone sat in my hand like a weight, screen dark, no new messages. I checked it anyway. Twice.
We pulled up to the hotel and everyone piled out like a pack of overgrown kids. I moved fast, cutting through the lobby without bothering to make eye contact with anyone. Too bright, too loud, too fake. I just wanted stillness.
When I got to my room, I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The click of the lock behind me echoed louder than it should have in the silence. I stood there for a moment, taking in the sterile emptiness—the cheap hotel art, the untouched bed, the faint hum of the mini fridge. No warmth. No her.
I tossed my bag on the floor and rubbed a hand over my face. My chest felt tight, like I’d been holding my breath since I left Detroit.
The hotel room was cold in that impersonal kind of way—gray walls, dim lighting, and the faint hum of air conditioning that couldn’t quite make up for the fact that it didn’t feel like home. I dropped my gear by the door, let my shoes thud somewhere near the dresser, and stood in the silence, just breathing.
Everything felt too still.
I moved to the bathroom and stripped down without thinking, letting the game slide off me with each discarded piece of gear. The shower was hot, steam billowing up to fog the mirror as I stood under the spray. Water poured down my face, my back, easing the tightness in my shoulders. But it didn’t touch what had been sitting in my chest all day. Not fatigue. Not soreness. Just absence.
I leaned my forehead against the cool tile, closing my eyes. I could see her as clear as day—her smile, her laugh, the way she tried to play it cool but glowed when she was happy. She should’ve been here. Should’ve been texting me play-by-plays, teasing me about brutal checks, making me forget how empty these rooms always felt after the noise of the arena faded.
When I finally stepped out, I swiped at the mirror, wiping the condensation away just enough to glimpse my reflection. I looked the same. But I didn’t feel it.
