"Stay," I said.
He did.
I turned off the lamp. The room went dark except for the parking lot light through the curtains and the glow of my phone on the nightstand.
The queen-sized hotel bed was narrow for two full-sized athletes. We lay on our sides, Kieran's arm around me, and my back pressed against his chest. His breathing slowed against my shoulder blade.
He kissed the back of my neck just below the hairline. "Heathcliff," he said into my skin. Barely audible.
Nobody called me that. I'd shortened it before anyone could use it against me: kids at school, coaches, teammates, reporters, everyone. The full name remained on paperwork, in the mouths of announcers, and in my mother's voice.
He knew the story of where it came from—Mom readingWuthering Heightsin a sterile breakroom. A name that she believed would mean I could never disappear.
He said the whole thing. Into the dark. Into the skin at the back of my neck.
I closed my eyes. The series would continue whether or not we were ready.
I was ready to let it come.
Chapter twenty-two
Kieran
The ice was wrong.
Not visibly or in any way the broadcast cameras or the Zamboni crew would register. I'd been skating on this surface since October, and my edges knew it the way a swimmer knows water by resistance.
The humidity had shifted overnight. Late May in Chicago, the lakefront pushing moisture through every gap in the building's climate control, and the ice had softened by a fraction of a degree. Enough to change how a blade gripped on a sharp turn. Enough to matter.
I crouched at center ice during warm-ups and pressed my glove flat against the surface. Wet. Not crisp. The cold came up through the leather and into my palm, and I held it there, testing.
Soft ice favored heavy players. Grinders. Bodies willing to dig in and absorb punishment. It punished speed and rewarded stubbornness.
It favored Heath.
Fans were filing into the arena. Nineteen thousand seats, maybe a third occupied, but the sound was already different from every other game this season. Game 7 acoustics. The crowd wasn't cheering yet; they were assembling, and the collective weight of their anticipation pressed down through the rafters.
Heath was at the far end, firing pucks at the empty net. His wrists snapped clean, but he had his shoulders set too high. Tight. Carrying the intensity of the game before it started.
The horn sounded. Warm-ups ended.
In the locker room, the noise compressed. Fewer words carried more weight. The air tasted the way it always did before elimination games: menthol, adhesive, and something metallic underneath.
Markel stepped inside. Hands in his jacket pockets.
Every head turned.
"Play what's in front of you."
Four words. He let them settle into the concrete. His gaze moved across the room, player by player. When it reached me, it held for half a second. Not evaluation or warning.
Permission.
He turned and left.
Across the room, Heath pulled his jersey straight and rolled his neck. Number 48. He caught my eye, brief and unguarded.
I'm here.
