We didn’t talk about feelings. We just hit until the thoughts stopped screaming.
The locker room reeked of sweat and iron.
Skates hit rubber. Pads dropped like dead weight.
No music. No banter. Just a few grunts and the low hiss of someone icing a shoulder that probably needed stitches.
I sat on the bench, jersey peeled halfway down, a line of blood running from my mouth to my chin. I didn’t notice when it split. Didn’t care.
I grabbed my phone.
No messages.
No calls.
Nothing from her.
I didn’t react.
Didn’t smash it. Didn’t throw it.
Just stared at the empty screen like it had betrayed me.
Then something smacked against my head.
“The fuck?”
A protein bar bounced off my shoulder and hit the floor.
Greyson Williams, all pretty-boy smirk and no fucking boundaries, strolled by shirtless with his hoodie slung over one shoulder like we hadn’t just bled out on the ice.
“You gonna keep pretending you’re not obsessed?” he said casually, grabbing a towel off the bench. “Or should we just go ahead and buy the ring for you?”
My jaw ticked.
I didn’t answer.
Because if I opened my mouth, I’d say something that would start a war in this goddamn locker room.
And as much as I wanted to bleed—I didn’t want his blood tonight.
So I stared at the protein bar on the floor like it had insulted me personally.
Williams just laughed. “That’s what I thought.”
“Already did.” I didn’t look up when I said it.
Silence.
The kind that never happens in this locker room.
Even the ice bags stopped shifting. The rustle of tape. Breathing.
Frozen.
Sam blinked at me, halfway through chugging a bottle of water. “Deadass?”
Rhys turned slowly from his spot by the lockers, arms crossed. “You’re insane.”
