Because she was right.
She didn’t want the public version of me—the one plastered across headlines and fined for unsportsmanlike conduct.
She wanted the cracks. The dark corners.
The version of me I didn’t let out unless someone begged for bruises.
Still… I looked at her and—hell.
I gave her something.
“I remember my first fight on the ice.” The words came rough, like they scraped their way out of me. “I was a rookie. Nobody gave a shit about my name.” I glanced at her. “One of their defensemen blindsided one of our guys. Cheap hit. Dirty.”
My hands curled around the glass like I was gripping a stick again.
“So I dropped gloves. Didn’t even think—just went straight for him. Boom. Fist to jaw. He dropped. I didn’t stop. I wanted him to feel it. I needed it. That moment?” I smirked faintly. “That was the first time I felt like I mattered. Not ‘cause of a goal. Not ‘cause of a stat. But because someone knew I wasn’t afraid to hit back.”
She leaned in slightly—just enough to feel it. The difference between listening and really hearing.
“And afterward?” she asked.
I barked a dry laugh, sharp and bitter.
“Coach ripped me out. Said fighting didn’t win games.” I shrugged. “He didn’t get it. Wasn’t about winning. It was about not being invisible.”
Her expression shifted—subtle, but real. Something behind her eyes cracked open. I didn’t ask. I just watched it happen.
“You’re not the only one who’s had to fight,” she said, voice softer now. Like a confession slipping out between ribs.
I didn’t interrupt.
“My first love wasn’t my fiancé.” Her voice wasn’t bitter. It was hollow. “It was the idea of freedom.”
That stopped me cold.
She let out a humorless laugh, more breath than sound. “I used to think love meant safety. Security. A place to land.” Her hands clenched on the edge of the bar. “But now I know… security’s just another word for a cage with gold bars.”
I didn’t speak.
Couldn’t.
Because that? That hit like a fucking freight train.
I’d spent my whole life fighting to never feel caged again. And here she was—saying the quiet part out loud.
Not whining. Not begging.
Just bleeding.
And I realized I’d kill for her and not blink.
Not because she was mine.
But because I knew exactly what it felt like to scream inside your own skin, and have no one hear it
She pushed herself up from the seat like she was trying to shake off the weight of a world that had always held her down—every forced gesture, every practiced smile. She moved stiffly, like she’d rehearsed it a thousand times.
“I should go,” she said, steady but with a tremor of doubt that I could taste.
