The Penalty Box.I roll my eyes at the name; of course that’s what it’s called. This town has a singular heartbeat—it’s hockey. The noise slams into my skull, a heavy thumping pressure behind my eyes—an assault that feels predatory. The air is thickwith the metallic taste of spilled beer, and every laugh rings like an unspoken threat. Neon lights bleed across sticky tables, glimmering in the puddles on the floor, mocking me.
A bucket of bottle caps skitters across the concrete behind the bar, the clatter slicing through me like a knife. I keep moving. Determined.
He doesn’t get to have this. I will stand in the very place that once made my hands shake, and I will stand here by choice. One drink isn’t the goal; reclaiming my space is.
But already, I can feel myself failing. My skin is too tight, my shoulders creeping up to my ears.I should have stayed in my dorm. I should have—
No. Stop.
I force my shoulders down, a painful unclench. I drag a breath into my lungs, despite the thick, greasy air that chokes me.You’re not a victim. You’re not hiding. This isn’t a “next time.” This is reclamation. He doesn’t get bars. He doesn’t get noise. He gets nothing from me anymore.
My anger is a hot coal, dangerously alive and ready to ignite. It burns differently than the fire from the arena—sharper, more deliberate. It’s the only thing keeping the panic at bay.
“See? It’s not so bad!” Clara yells over the music, her hand warm and steady on my back as she guides me toward a long booth in the corner.
I fight the urge to flinch away. I force myself to stand, to accept the friendly touch. It’s agony, a static burn under my skin. I despise the reaction; I loathehimfor it. I shoot Clara a look. “Define ‘bad.’”
“Oh, stop,” Zoë chimes in, slinging an arm over my shoulder with careless affection that turns my muscles to stone. “You need to be reintroduced to society. Consider us your parole officers.”
“Pretty sure parole comes with less noise and fewer fire hazards,” I mutter.
Zoë snorts. “You wound me, Addison.”
I endure it, a statue of tension, until she lets go and moves ahead to claim the table. Casual touches. Crowded space. The suffocating sensation of being surrounded, with no clear exit.
My eyes scan the room—a frantic inventory. Two doors. One behind the bar is blocked by busy staff. The one we came through is blocked by a fresh wave of people. Hockey decals cover the windows, sealing us in.
I count the distance to the nearest gap between tables, clocking the guy with the flying elbows who would make that path hell. I plot a second route. A third. The knowledge soothes something raw inside my ribs, even as my skin itches with the need for an exit that doesn’t exist.
This is what “fun” looks like—a loud, sticky fire hazard that steals my breath.
We slide into the booth, and I press myself into the corner, sandwiched between Genny and the wall. Maya slides in on Genny’s other side, giving me a small, tense nod. She looks as thrilled to be here as I am. It’s the safest place—the only defensible position.
Genny appears unbothered, a small, knowing smirk on her face as she scrolls her phone, perfectly at ease in the chaos. Her thumb pauses on a video she’s trimming—Adrian at practice, frozen on the set of his jaw. Of course she’s working even now. Control looks different on her; it looks like focus, not barricades.
I wish I could borrow her calm for five minutes—enough to breathe.
The guys are here, a sprawling mass of Titans taking up most of the table. Adrian’s face lights up the second he sees Clara. He pulls her down onto his lap, his arm locking around her waist, and she melts into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. A few players hoot and whistle, and she laughs, alive and unashamed.
Every sound feels like an arrow aimed at me, even when it isn’t.
My gaze drifts down the table, past Gio, who’s locked in an argument with Zoë over who’s paying, past Dante Voss and Cole, both watching the room with the unnerving stillness of predators ready to pounce.
And then I see him.
My breath catches. The noise of the bar, the shouts, the laughter—they thin out, creating a tunnel.
Declan Reid sits at the far end of the booth, right on the aisle. His back is to the wall, a half-empty beer in front of him. His hoodie is up, shadowing a face I recognize too well from the arena tunnel. He’s built like a wall, his imposing calm setting him apart from the chaos around him. Calm shouldn’t feel like gravity, but it does.
Worse—my body recognizes the quiet before my mind does. An instinctive acknowledgment of someone who transforms noise into threat, solidity into survival.
He’s part of the group, yet apart from it. An island in a sea of chaos.
His hands rest on either side of the bottle, fingers loose, knuckles unmarked tonight. He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t fill the space with words; he fills it by refusing to move.
The opposite of panic. The opposite of me.
He is the other still point in the room, the only one who appears to be enduring, not enjoying.
