Second period starts. Coach puts me back in.
“Kane,” he says. “Get your head in the game or get off my ice.”
I skate out. Take my position.
But my head isn’t in the game.
It’s thinking about Chloe. About armor coming off. About dragons and vulnerability and the fact that she posted that this morning—the day our contract ends.
Sometimes the armor has to come off.
Is she thinking about me too?
Stop protecting her from yourself.
The puck drops.
Chicago charges down the ice. Their left wing breaks free, heading straight for our goal.
I’m supposed to block him. It’s my job. My position.
Instead, I see Chloe’s face. The way she looked at me before everything fell apart.
I love you. Not Candy Kane. You—Brody.
The crowd noise fades. The ice disappears. There’s just that moment. That truth.
She loves me. The real me. The messy, imperfect, terrified-of-failing me.
And I pushed her away because I thought I was protecting her.
But I was really just protecting myself.
The Chicago player blows past me.
Shoots.
Scores.
The crowd groans.
Coach is yelling something.
But I’m not listening. I’m done pretending.
I’m done doing the right thing.
Intermission can’t come fast enough.
I skate off the ice, helmet in hand, heading straight for the tunnel with the other guys.
Derek catches up with me. “Kane, where are you going? We’ve got?—”
“I need five minutes.”
“We’re down by one?—”
“I know.” I keep walking. “Five minutes. I promise.”
