The game was on. Wolves versus the Ironvale Reapers, and the broadcast opened with the usual hype package: shots of the crowd, the players warming up, the energy crackling through the arena. Then the camera cut to the bench, and there he was.
Grant.
Standing behind the bench in his usual black suit, arms crossed, face unreadable. I sat down on the couch and stared at the screen, hating how badly I wanted that presence aimed at me again. That focus. That weight of being seen by someone who actually gave a shit instead of just seeing dollar signs and highlight reels.
The puck dropped, and I watched the team play without me.
Rook won the opening faceoff and fed it back to Volkov, who moved it up ice with that calm precision he always had. Mercer battled in the corner, came out with the puck, and sent a pass to... Benny. Benny, playing my spot on the top line. He took the shot—wide, but close—and I felt my jaw clench so hard it ached.
They were compensating. Adjusting. Moving on.
The camera cut back to the bench during a whistle, and I found myself fixating on Grant again. He was talking to one of the assistants, gesturing toward the ice, probably correcting some gap in coverage or timing issue I would've noticed if I'd been there. His face didn't give anything away. No frustration. No panic. Just that maddening calm that made you want to either trust him completely or punch him in the face.
I didn't know which one I wanted more.
The play resumed, and the commentary started up—smooth, professional voices filling the cabin with observations I didn't want to hear. “...Wolves adjusting well to the absence of Jace Hartley, who's been sidelined with an undisclosed injury. No word yet on a timeline for his return, but Coach Sutherland has been tight-lipped about the details, which has raised some questions around the benching decision...”
I grabbed the remote and turned the volume down. Then I kept watching anyway, because I didn't know what else to do with the need clawing at my chest. The need to be there. To be useful. To be wanted for something more than what I could do with a stick and a puck.
The Wolves scored midway through the first period—Finn, of all people, burying a rebound off a scramble in front of the net—and the arena erupted. The camera showed the bench celebrating, guys tapping helmets and fist-bumping, and Grant just nodded once like he'd expected it. Like it was all part of the plan.
I wondered if he missed me at all.
I wondered if he thought about me the way I thought about him—constant, invasive, impossible to ignore.
I wondered if he regretted any of it.
The period ended, and I muted the TV entirely. I couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't watch the team move on without me. Couldn't watch Grant be fine while I was sitting here alone, broken, and so fucking angry I didn't know what to do with it.
I limped over to the small table in the corner where I'd left the resistance bands and rehab instructions Tess had sent me before I'd left Toronto. I stared at them like they were a test I was destined to fail. Then I picked up the bands and started the exercises anyway, because sitting still was worse.
The first few reps were fine. Then the shoulder started to burn, and the leg pulled tight, and I felt the anger rising again—hot and acidic and aimed at my own fucking body.
I threw the bands across the room and stood there breathing hard, fists clenched, hating everything.
I thought about the lie I'd built. Hiding the old hamstring tear. Hiding the panic attacks. Hiding the pills. Hiding the relationship with Grant. It was all one tangled mess now, threads I couldn't separate, and every time I pulled on one, the whole thing threatened to unravel.
Night felland the cabin got darker, quieter, colder despite the fire crackling in the stone hearth. I turned the TV back on for the postgame analysis, more out of habit than interest, and listened to commentators dissect the Wolves' performance without really hearing them. The team had won. Good for them. I should've felt relief. Instead, I just felt empty.
Then the knock came.
My body reacted before my brain could catch up—adrenaline spiking, heart pounding, breath catching in my throat. I stood up too fast and my shoulder protested, but I ignored it and limped toward the door, telling myself it was Owen. It had to be Owen, because no one else knew where I was. Maybe Leah, but she wouldn't drive up here without calling first.
I reached for the door handle and hesitated, hand hovering. Then I opened it.
Grant.
Standing there on the porch like he'd materialized out of my thoughts, coat dusted with snow, hair windblown, eyes too steady to be casual. He looked exhausted. Looked like he'd been driving for hours. Looked like he'd come here because he had to, not because he wanted to.
For a second, neither of us said anything. We just stood there, staring at each other across the threshold, and I felt everything I'd been trying to bury for the past week slam into me all at once. Anger. Hurt. Longing. Fear. The urge to slam the door in his face. The urge to pull him inside and never let him leave.
“What are you doing here?”
“Owen told me where to find you.” Grant's voice was rough, like he'd been talking too much or not enough. “I needed to see you.”
I stepped back, creating space, because if he got too close I'd break. “You shouldn't be here.”
“Probably not.” He didn't move. Didn't step inside uninvited. “But the team's on a week break. I need to take you back to Toronto.”
