I picture the glass cracking near her section. Picture her staying put. Her chin tipped up, barely—like a dare. The stillness she wore like armor. A calm I recognized.
My fist flexes against the tile, knuckles whitening. The heat doesn’t burn it out; it refines it instead. I know her name. I’ve known it for years. But tonight it feels different—like hearing it in a new language. As if someone redefined it without my permission.
I’m the first one out. Showered, dressed in jeans and a black hoodie, the fabric a soft, anonymous shroud. The hallway outside the locker room is emptying, the roar replaced by the distant, lonely hum of the ice machines. All I want is the silence of my truck. The cold, dark quiet is my only sanctuary.
“A word, Reid.”
I stop. My hand tightens on the gear bag strap, nylon biting into my palm.
Coach Addison stands by the exit, arms crossed, his expression a carved mask of authority—but there’s something softer beneath it tonight. He’s been waiting for me.
Men only wait in empty hallways when they’re about to close a door on you. Or when they’re standing guard over something that matters.
“Coach,” I say, turning, body stiff, already braced for impact I can’t see.
“Good game,” he says. It’s not praise; it’s an assessment.
“We won.”
“You were solid.” He steps closer, invading my space. The hallway shrinks, air thickening—but not in the way it does with my father. “Focused. I like that.”
“It’s my job.”
“It is,” he agrees quietly. He studies me for a beat, his gaze too sharp, too knowing. “But that’s not why I stopped you.”
The muscles between my shoulders lock. “Sir?”
“I saw you in warm-ups,” he says. My pulse spikes.The stumble.He saw it. “And in the tunnel after.” His voice lowers, shifting tone. He doesn't sound like a coach anymore. He sounds like a father patrolling a fence line. “Talia was there.”
Her name lands like a puck to the chest.
He doesn’t say it like a warning. He says it like she’s the most important sentence in his life.
“She transferred back here for a reason,” he says, eyes locked on mine, the worry lines around them deepening. “But she won’t tell me what it is. She thinks she’s hiding how hard this is. She’s not.”
He glances toward the arena, jaw tightening, helpless rage flickering behind the discipline.
“I saw her looking at you,” he says, softer now. “And I saw you stop. I wanted to make sure there wasn’t a problem. For either of you.”
My throat goes tight. “No problem,” I say. The lie comes too smooth. “She just surprised me.”
He studies my face like he’s trying to read the parts I don’t say out loud. Then, instead of pressing, he nods once.
“I trust you,” he says simply. No heat. No edge. Just fact. “You’re steady back there. If you ever feel like something’s off with her, you come to me. If you ever see her cracking and I miss it... get my attention. She’s fragile right now. I can't lose her.”
The words hit harder than any threat could.
He trusts me. With his net. With his team. With the girl who stood in the tunnel and saw straight through me.
He trusts me.
He shouldn’t.
I shoulder through the exit. Night air knifes into my lungs. The parking lot is a frozen wasteland, the cold so sharp it feels like it could cut from the inside. My breath fogs, ghosting in front of my face. Sodium lights buzz, throwing hard halos onto wet asphalt. Every sound is magnified out here—the distant scrape of a Zamboni, laughter bleeding from a far door, the high tick of cooling engines.
I unlock the truck; the thunk of the latch echoes painfully in the oppressive quiet.
I throw my bag in the back and slide into the driver’s seat. The cab is dark. Silent. My sanctuary. I lean my head back against the cold headrest and close my eyes.
