She swallows hard and stands, her legs unsteady.
“Right.”
The stool screeches again as she pushes it back; he flinches. Then she walks out before he can see how much she’s shaking.
Blinking back tears, she speed-walks through the empty dressing room, passing the stalls one by one until she stops short at the one on the end. His.
His scent—soap and sweat and something warm and woodsy beneath it. His gear hangs with the same neat, controlled precision he applies to his emotions. She sees his goalie helmet tucked on top and a spare hoodie hanging, sleeves folded over themselves like a pair of waiting arms. And there—leaning in the corner—is one of his sticks. Not one of the ones she touched before. A new pristine one, with fresh white tape unmarked by pucks he’s stopped.
Her breath shudders out of her.
She should leave. She should let it go. Walk out with whatever dignity she has left.
But the thought of doing that—of letting him think she didn’t care enough to stay, didn’t care enough to fight—scrapes down her spine, raw and intolerable.
He hurt her, yes.
But she hurt him too.
And running now would just make the wound she created gape so wide it would never be mended.
The goalie stick is cold in her grip, heavier than she remembered, and the weight steadies her in a way her breathing doesn’t. She stares down at it, pulse racing, an internal war waging behind her ribs—walk away, don’t make it worse, you’ve done enough damage—but the other voice, the louder one, the reckless dumb one, saysabsolutely not.
She spots a Sharpie on the counter, snatches it up, and pops the cap off with a sharp click that feels like a decision locking into place.
Fine. If the superstitious giant wants distance, he can have it. But he isn’t getting the final say.
She lowers the tip of the marker to the pale blade and writes in slow, careful strokes that bleed into the tape.
Because if he finds this—and he will—it won’t let him pretend she didn’t care. It won’t let him pretend she didn’t try.
Her hand stills on the last line.
He doesn’t get the last word.
CHAPTER 23
GARRETT
Garrett watches her go, listening to the sound of her footsteps fading. Every step feels like a bruise he can’t stop pressing.
He exhales, slow and rough, trying to steady the hammering in his chest. His pulse won’t listen.
Despite the ice bath, he’s boiling with hot, choking fury.
He’s furious that she showed up here. Furious she looked like that—hair falling loose, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with that reckless fire that always makes him forget himself. Furious because she stood there and said things that hit too close to the truth.
But mostly, he’s furious with himself.
Because the second she walked in, every ounce of discipline he’s built—every wall, every hard-won shred of focus—cracked like an egg. He’d been fine. He’d been good. Focused. Detached. The version of himself the league might finally take seriously. Then Naomi Piccolo had to storm in with her wild hair and sass mouth, and now his veins are full of reckless fire again.
“Idiot,” he mutters, dragging a wet hand down his face.
The water’s freezing, but not enough to abate the heat roaringthrough him. He stands abruptly, the tub clattering with chunks of ice, and the air is shockingly warm against his numbed skin, almost burning by contrast. His legs tremble, muscles tight and wooden from the shock, but he welcomes it. It feels deserved.
The lingering chill gnaws at him, and he breathes through it. He tells himself it fits. Cold body, cold heart. Easier that way.
He snatches a towel from the rack, raking it roughly over his arms, across his chest, down his back.
