“Nah, Captain.That’s what theywantyou to think.Being good at hockey’s got nothing to do with playing celebrity.Hockey’s hockey.The rest is noise.”
He picks up his water bottle.“You decide what your life looks like off the ice.You wanna be a brand instead of a human, that’s on you.But don’t confuse it with the game.”
The room hums around us.I laugh once, forced, pretending it rolls off.
But something in his tone sticks.
Before I can answer, Colby, who is currently dating one of Brielle’s influencer friends, grins and says, “Whatever, man.I worked my ass off to get here.The money, the fame, the girls, that’s my reward.”
Across the benches, Jensen snorts.“My reward’s lacing up every night.Playing the game I love for fans who spend their hard-earned cash just to watch us skate.”
Their voices blur.The clangs, the laughter, all background noise while something inside me stirs.
Because Idolove her.
I remember the first time she kissed me after a win, she pulled me in close like she didn't care that I was sweaty, her whisper against my throat,“I’m so proud of you.”
I’d believed it.
I still want to.
The guilt crawls up before I can stop it.Who am I to doubt her?She’s always believed in me, always known how to handle the spotlight when I didn’t.
I tell myself Reeves is just old-school.Times change.This is the cost of success.
Still, the thought sticks.
Flashes of winter ice, my brother yelling,“Heads up!”as we tore across the frozen pond, breath sharp, hearts light.
When was the last time I felt that free?
That alive?
Someone yells for a spot.I drop the towel, move to help, and the moment is gone.
But it lingers in the corners.
Sweat dries.The clang fades.
And the question stays, quiet and relentless.
When did the love of the game start feeling like a performance?
And if I stop pretending, what’s left of me?
Chapter 5 - Nate
6 Months Ago
The suit is worth more than my first car, some designer I had to wear tonight that I cannot even pronounce, but the damn collar still itches.
The tie’s crooked.Or maybe it’s straight, and I just can’t stand it strangling me.
The city glows beneath me, glass and winter and anticipation.Fireworks already blooming faintly against the skyline, too early, too loud.People here like to celebrate before anything’s actually worth celebrating.
I have a glass of scotch in my hand, even though all I want is a cold beer.Brielle has been trying to'refine my tastes';apparently, my palette will adapt.Right now, it's screaming at me that wood and tobacco aren't meant to be in anything I drink.
She’s in the bathroom.I can hear the low hum of her blow-dryer over the muted broadcast of the pre-party countdown on the TV.
