“You’re avoidant when it comes to conflict. Not even conflict, really. Any conversation that’s hard. Any conversation where someone might be disappointed or angry or hurt. I think that’s why you ran away after you kissed Oliver. You knew that it would lead to you two having a talk about your relationship—about what you are to each other now, about the past, about the future—and that would be hard, so you fled. You do the same thing with your family. You push conversations to the side because they’re tough, create elaborate ways to avoid them, hoping that they’ll go away. But it doesn’t work, though. If you want something in your life to change, you have to speak up. People can’t read your mind, no matter how much you wish they could.”
I grip the steering wheel like it might save me from the harsh truth, but of course it doesn’t. The leather is warming under my palms, and Maya is right.
“I know,” I murmur, the words barely audible over the heater’s fan. “And that was the part I had to play in mine and Oliver’s relationship ending. I never set boundaries. I never said ‘that hurts me’ or ‘I need this from you.’ I don’t remember ever telling him the way he treated me was wrong. For all I know, he thought I appreciated him being tough on me. Thought that’s what I wanted from him—that stone wall, that impenetrable strength.”
Her expression turns to one of sympathy, the kind that makes my eyes sting. “Do you really want to keep living that way?” She asks softly.
I stare out at the falling snow collecting on the hood of mycar, each flake unique and perfect and melting the moment it lands on the warm metal. No. I definitely don’t.
It’s scary to think about those hard conversations—with Oliver about us, about what went wrong and what could go right; with my family about my choices, about my right to make them—but maybe real peace is on the other side of them. Maybe there’s a version of me waiting there who doesn’t tie herself in knots to avoid disappointing anyone. And I can’t wait until I feel brave enough to go. I just need to take the leap and hope I don’t fall flat on my face.
Chapter Twenty
Oliver
“It’s okay, man. It happens.” I clap Atlas, one of our defensemen, on the back. The kid’s face is still crimson, jaw working like he's chewing on words he can't spit out.
“I should’ve stopped him.” His voice cracks on the last word, hands balled into fists at his sides. The center from the opposing team slipped past the blue line on his watch—barely a real mistake, more like a split-second hesitation that most people wouldn’t even notice.
I get it, though. When the game matters as much to you as breathing, when every shift feels like life or death, you can’t afford even the smallest slip. The weight of perfection sits on your shoulders like concrete blocks, and one crack feels like the whole thing collapsing.
“One game won't ruin your life.” The words taste bitter coming out. Hypocrite. I let hundreds of games ruin mine, let them become my entire identity until there was nothing left of me outside the rink.
Atlas doesn't seem to hear me anyway. His eyes are already distant, replaying that moment over and over, torturing himself with what he should have done differently. I recognize that look—wore it myself for years.
What else can I say? Hey kid, don't end up like me—broken down at thirty-five, realizing you worshipped at the altar of a sport that chewed you up and spit you out? Don't sacrifice your body, your relationships, your sanity for sixty minutes on ice that won't matter in five years?
“Have fun.” The words escape before I can stop them. Atlas is already heading back toward the bench, but he pauses, glances back with confusion written across his face.
“Have fun?” Jeff's eyebrow arches so high it nearly disappears into his hairline. He’s been watching from a few feet away, clipboard tucked under his arm.
I shrug, trying to play it off even though my chest feels tight. “It's better than me expecting them to be perfect out there.”
The way Jeff looks at me—part surprise, part something else I can't quite read—makes my skin prickle. Like I’ve just stripped naked in front of him, revealed all the broken pieces I’ve been trying to keep hidden. The game pulls our attention back before he can say anything, the puck dropping for another face-off.
My gaze drifts across the ice to where Devin kneels beside the bench, carefully taping up our goalie’s ankle. She must feel me watching because she glances up, and when our eyes meet, that familiar electricity shoots through me. Her lips curve into a smile that’s just for me, private and warm, and I can’t help but mirror it.
The energy between us amplifies, buzzing under my skin like I’ve touched a live wire. It reminds me of those early days when she was an intern for my team, both of us dancing around this magnetic pull neither of us could acknowledge. We’d catch each other staring during practice, find excuses to lingerafter everyone else had left. The tension built for weeks until that day in the empty locker room.
She was wrapping my wrist, her fingers gentle but professional, and I just... couldn’t take it anymore. I kissed her. What followed was the hottest fifteen minutes of my life—her back against the lockers, my hands tangled in her hair, both of us desperate and hungry until she pulled away, breathless. “I can’t risk my internship,” she’d said, her lips swollen, cheeks flushed. “We have to wait.”
Talk about agonizing. Those next few months were torture. I didn’t even look at other women—couldn’t. Devin occupied every corner of my mind. Walking into the rink knowing she’d be there, having to keep my distance, maintain that professional boundary when all I wanted was to press her against those lockers again...
But when we finally could be together? When she wasn’t an intern anymore and we could walk into restaurants holding hands, kiss on street corners without looking over our shoulders?
Pure heaven.
That’s where I’m at now. Another waiting period. Things with Devin aren’t where I want them to be—not even close—but they’re progressing. Moving forward, even if it feels like inches instead of miles. Slowly is better than nothing at all, and there’s definitely a payoff around the corner. I just need to cool my heels, let her take the lead, not push too hard.
Unless she's waiting for me to make the next move?
Shit.
Should I ask her to dinner? Make it clear it’s just friendly, no pressure? Of course I want more than friendly, but maybe if I?—
The whistle cuts through my thoughts like a knife. Sharp, urgent. My eyes snap back to the ice, trying to focus through the haze of my wandering mind. The whole game has been happening without me even seeing it, and now there’s a playerdown. On his back, clutching his knee, a sound coming out of him that makes my stomach drop.
Richie. One of our forwards.
