But something in my chest doesn’t lock back into place the way it’s supposed to.
I know what it feels like to hold someone while they break and not want anything from them except for them to breathe. I lived that when I was far too young to have played that role. Might make me a bitch but her leaning into me while Matteo tracked her down, instead of insisting I’m a secret, she defended me? That was the moment I knew I was fucking cooked. She wanted me to stay, and when I woke, worried she’d left again, because that’s what I know, and she was there, a part of the damage my mother did, healed, and one day I hope to thank Sofie for that, but not yet. Not until I know her wanting me is about me and not fear, because when that fear is gone, she could walk, and I would have to let her, because my word is good. Until then, I hope to heal whatever broke when her mother left her and her father? I will reserve judgment for now, but sick or not, he will know what it looks like when his daughter is a priority.
Inside the locker room, surrounded by deep red brick walls, I drop my bag, shrug off my coat, and start my routine. Tape. Pads. Gloves lined up the same way they always are. Control what you can. The rest sorts itself out, or it doesn’t, and you deal.
Faulker drops down on the bench next to me and starts his routine. He suspects. He always does. But Faulker doesn’t blow spots. He just files things away for later with smug satisfaction.
Marshall grins like a kid who knows the punchline and is waiting for permission to laugh.
I exhale and decide I’m done with it.
“Okay,” I say, loud enough to cut through the room. “Motherfuckers.”
Heads turn.
“I have a female friend. Not that it’s any of your business. And no, we’re not fucking.”
The room freezes for half a second.
“In case you didn’t notice,” I continue, tugging my jersey over my head, “I still have a shit attitude and don’t like people very much; that has not changed. So, get off my jock.”
Someone whistles. Someone else laughs.
I hone straight in on Leo Stone. He’s already smiling, which is a mistake.
“And you,” I point at him. “Count your blessings, I prefer her company over a cellmate’s, because Fifty Shades is not a good date night movie. I should end you for suggesting it.”
The locker room explodes.
“I’ll die on that cross, Killer, ten out of ten recommend as a movie to watch with your girl.” He says, “Just maybe not on a first date, and definitely not before you’ve sealed the deal.”
Noted.
Dash is bent over laughing. “Did you watch it?”
I shake my head, “She turned on the Detroit game, unprompted, and watched it with me.”
That just makes them louder.
Faulker smirks. “You let her talk, or did you tell her to shut up like you do us?”
I don’t even hesitate. “We talked the whole fucking game. Because she’s got it like that. You fucks don’t.”
That earns a chorus of oooohs, someone banging a stick on the floor, Marshall shaking his head like he just won a bet.
I pull my helmet on, jaw tight, heart steady. I grab my phone one last time and check her location. She’s still there.
“You have her location?” Deacon asks from over my shoulder, startling me.
“Damn right I do.” I sure as hell don’t tell him how I got it.
He nods approvingly, “Okay.”
The rink feels the way it always does at that hour, cold and hollow. No crowd, no music. Just blades and breath and the low thud of pucks against boards. This is the part of the day I like.
I move through drills on muscle memory alone. Edges sharp, turns clean, everything where it should be. The ice doesn’t ask questions. It doesn’t judge or change based on where you were last night or who you let close. It only gives you back what you put into it.
My left shoulder flares when I drive hard into the corner. A dull, familiar burn. Nothing dramatic or unusual, just there.
