He left last night,Max says quietly.Victoria was in an apartment fire.
My stomach drops.What?
She’s okay,he adds quickly.Some smoke inhalation and a wrecked apartment, but the fire spread fast on her floor.Mason got the call last night and bolted.
Jesus.I run a hand over my hair, helmet resting on my knee.Is she in the hospital?
No.From what Coach told me, the paramedics checked her over but didn’t admit her or anything.She’s fine, but the place is destroyed.Mason’s helping her get settled elsewhere.
I exhale, chest tight.Mason is the Golden Boy of the team.He could do no wrong, but the poor guy had never had great luck with relationships.Yet something’s clearly different with Victoria.Sounds like that man would run through a brick wall for her.
Coach says he’ll be here later,Max says.Don’t know if that’s true or if it’s Coach being optimistic, but…try not to worry.
Yeah.I nod.Thanks.
You need me for anything?
Nah, I’m good.
Max pushes off the glass and rejoins drills, leaving me sitting there, thinking about my friend and his girlfriend and how quickly life can flip on you.
Celebrity girlfriend too.The media will spin that fire six different ways before noon.I hope Mason is okay and that Victoria can bounce back.
And then—because my brain hates me—I think about Eddie.And how she hasn’t texted me back.I haven’t even received a stupid emoji.
Over the last four days, I sent her four messages.One for each day.All reasonable.All normal correspondence.All friendly and PG rated.None of my messages crossed thewe’re currently just friendsline.
Nothing.I got nothing.Not even an acknowledgment of her receiving the text.No dancing dots telling me she was potentially writing something back.Thinking of me, at least.
Day five was today, and if I send another one…God, that feels like a lot.Is it too much?Am I being too eager?I’ve never been in this situation before and don’t know what to do.
Jesus, Crane,I groan to myself.I’m overthinking everything when it comes to Eddie.
I’m not even a big texter, normally.But with her…every time my phone buzzes, my stomach does that ridiculous, teenage-boy swoop.And every time itisn’ther, I feel stupid.
Maybe I’d misread her.Maybe she’d been polite at the rink because Joey idolized me, but she thought I was just a dumb jock with a great smile.Maybe she thought giving me her number was a moment-of-pressure thing and not me showing a real interest.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been in anything serious.Longer since I’ve liked someone enough to feel this dumb.This hopeful and yet devastated at the same time.I rub my chest, annoyed at myself.
Get a grip, man.She owes you nothing.
Crane!
Coach Taylor’s voice tears through my thoughts like a slapshot.
I snap my head up.Yeah?
Get your ass in the crease and warm up.We’re starting drills in five.
Right.I need to get focused and in my zone.Closing my eyes, I take a moment and focus on my breathing.In a matter of seconds, my mind clears and all the tension that was slowly building melts away.With one last exhale, I open my eyes and nod, ready.
Let’s do this.I shove my helmet on, secure my gloves, and stand.The moment my skates hit the ice, everything in me aligns.
This place—this painted sheet of frozen order—makes sense in a way the rest of life rarely does.Here, nothing is confusing.Here, I don’t have to interpret mixed signals or overthink text messages or wonder what I mean to someone.
On the ice, it’s simple.
Win or lose.Save or let it in.Fight or flee.
