He disappeared through the doors, and I was alone on the ice with a bucket of pucks and a pulse that wouldn't slow down. I stayed out there for another twenty minutes, firing shots at the empty net until my arms burned and my legs ached and I wastoo tired to think about anything except the simple mechanics of hockey.
When I finally headed to the locker room, the showers were silent. Coach was gone. I sat in my stall and unlaced my skates slowly, methodically, and tried to make sense of the night.
None of it made sense. All of it felt inevitable.
I was in so much trouble.
And the worst part was, I didn't want to stop.
CHAPTER 11
AFTER HOURS
GRANT
The gym was supposed to be empty at quarter past eleven on a Tuesday night, and I had made absolutely certain that it would be. I punched in the security code, flipped on the lights, and stood there in the doorway for a moment, listening to the fluorescent hum overhead and the distant sound of the HVAC system cycling through the building. No voices. No footsteps. No one else had any reason to be here, which was exactly the point.
I pushed through the double doors with my hoodie up and my earbuds in, though I wasn't actually playing any music. It was just the appearance of being occupied, unavailable.
The gym stretched out before me in neat, organized rows. Treadmills lined up against the far wall. Cable machines. Free weights arranged by size on the racks. Everything had its place. Everything was manageable, controlled, exactly where it was supposed to be.
Unlike my head, which had been a mess for the better part of three weeks.
I dropped my bag against the wall and stripped off my hoodie, leaving me in an old practice shirt and a pair of shorts that had seen better days. My reflection stared back at me from the mirrored wall, and I looked exactly like what I was—a man who hadn't been sleeping enough and was hoping physical exhaustion would solve what discipline couldn't.
The mats were laid out in the back corner from afternoon practice, and I noticed immediately that someone hadn't rolled them properly. The corners weren't flush, and there was a ripple running through the middle section. A tripping hazard. I'd have to mention it to equipment staff tomorrow, add it to the list of things that needed attention.
I started with stretching because routine was everything. I folded forward for my hamstrings, letting my hands dangle toward the floor, and held the position for a slow count of thirty. The pull ran up the back of my legs and into my lower back, which was tight from spending all day on my feet behind the bench. I'd been holding tension there, probably for longer than I wanted to admit.
Hip flexors next. I dropped into a deep lunge and sank into it, feeling the stretch all the way through. The body kept score of everything you tried to ignore. Every frustration. Every moment of restraint. Every time you told yourself you were fine when you absolutely were not.
I moved through shoulder rotations and arm circles, keeping everything controlled and methodical. I knew how this worked. If I could just sweat enough, tire myself out enough, I might finally get some sleep.
I dropped to the floor for push-ups and started counting. My form was still good after all these years. By twenty, my shoulders were warm. By forty, they were burning. By sixty, I was breathing hard and still had too much of the wrong kind ofenergy left over, the kind that wouldn't quit no matter how much I tried to work it out of my system.
I moved to sit-ups, forcing myself to focus on the movement rather than the memory. Core tight. Breathing controlled. Hands behind my head. Up and down.
After two hundred, I pushed up and moved to burpees. Down to the floor, chest to the ground, explosive jump up. Again. My lungs started to burn. My quads cramped. Sweat soaked through my practice shirt until it was clinging to my chest, so I yanked it off and tossed it toward my bag. The cool air of the gym hit my bare skin and I kept going.
Jump squats now. Down low, explode up, land soft.
That was when I heard the door.
I froze mid-squat and felt my heart rate spike for reasons that had nothing to do with the exercise.
I knew who it was before I turned around. I'd been paying too much attention to the sound of his walk for weeks now, cataloging it against my will.
Jace stood just inside the doorway with his gym bag slung over one shoulder, wearing grey sweats and a fitted black tank top that showed off the shape of his arms. His hair was damp, like he'd already showered once tonight. His expression was carefully neutral, like he was surprised to see me here.
He wasn't surprised. He'd known I'd be here.
We looked at each other across the empty gym. Neither of us spoke.
He dropped his bag by the wall and moved to the treadmills without a word, stepping onto the one three down from mine while I got on mine and started it up. The belt began its steady roll beneath my feet. I eased into a jog, finding my rhythm, keeping my eyes on my own reflection in the mirrored wall ahead.
I lasted maybe forty seconds before I let my gaze drift left.
His reflection stared back at me. He'd pulled off the tank top at some point in the seconds I'd been looking away and was running shirtless now.
