The second she’s gone, the energy between us shifts and settles into something quieter.
Kia traces the rim of her mug with her fingertip. Even though I don’t ask, she says, “Everything just got… complicated. It was one thing after another, and before I knew it, I was drowning. So, I left.”
There’s no self-pity in her tone.
Just exhaustion.
It’s a feeling I know all too well.
I want to ask more, but she’s staring down at her tea like she realizes she might have said too much. So, I don’t push. Some stories need space before they’re ready to be told.
“I get it,” I say. “Sometimes leaving is the only way to take back control again.”
Her eyes flick up, surprise flashing in them before she nods. “Yeah. Something like that.”
For a while, we sit in silence, the hum of the espresso machine filling the space where conversation should be.
After finishing our tea and scones, we gather up our things and step outside. The sharp bite of the wind steals the last traces of warmth from my skin as we make our way toward the arena. The closer we get, the louder everything becomes. The traffic, conversations, and rush of the city coming to life around us.
By the time the glass doors slide open, the comfort of the bakery feels miles away. The warmth disappears entirely the moment we step inside the rink. The cold hits my lungs like a warning. The scrape of blades and the crash of players feel too much like the world I’m standing in. One wrong step, one slip, and everything could come tumbling down.
Steel slices across the ice in long, clean strokes as the players move in fluid lines, sticks clacking against pucks, skates carving into the smooth surface.
The head coach barks instructions. Every mistake is called out, every lazy stride corrected.
We settle in the first-row seats against the glass, and the impact vibrates through me every time a player collides with the boards. Sweat glistens on their faces as they push harder, drills increasing in speed and brutality under Coach Cole’s watchful eye.
The energy on the ice is a mix of focus and tension. It’s the kind of intensity that makes it impossible to look away.
A few minutes later, Laiken steps out of the goal, skating toward the bench for water. He strips off his gloves, fingers flexing as steam rises faintly from his gear in the chill of the rink. When he pulls off his helmet, damp hair falls in messy waves across his forehead, sticking slightly from sweat.
He tips the bottle back, throat working as he guzzles it down. Water spills over the chiseled line of his jaw before he wipes it away with the back of his hand. The movement is rough, like he couldn’t care less who’s watching.
Beside me, Kia stills as her fingers tighten around her cup. “Who’s that?”
“Laiken Lennox,” I tell her. “Our resident gruff goalie. Perpetually scowly, in case you haven’t noticed. Also, a fan favorite for obvious reasons.”
Her gaze doesn’t budge as she studies him under the arena lights. “Huh.”
I can’t help but grin. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but that sounds suspiciously like appreciation.”
Color creeps into her cheeks. It’s a faint flush she tries to hide, though she doesn’t bother denying the comment.
As soon as I turn my attention back to the ice, my gaze catches on Oliver. He’s in constant motion, power and precision all rolled into one as he weaves with ease through the drill. Every stride is purposeful, every shot sharp and clean. Even in a sea of elite players, he stands out, commanding the ice as if he was born to own it.
My heart gives a traitorous twist. It doesn’t matter how much I remind myself of the risks or the potential fallout. One glance at him—at Ollie, not the Big O everyone else sees—and I know I’m already in deeper than I ever wanted to be.
The way he’s drawn me in so effortlessly is dangerous.
I keep telling myself I can stay objective.
Detached.
Yet every time I’m near him, it gets harder to believe my own lies.
A small voice inside me wonders if falling for him isn’t the failure I’ve been terrified of…
But maybe the start of something I never imagined could be mine.
