The words land hard. My knee aches out of habit—old pain, phantom pain. I can still hear the pop and feel the way the ice tilted that night.
Kolmont must be desperate.
I force my focus back to the ice. The players keep moving. I call out adjustments, my voice steady even when everything in me isn’t.
Through the glass, Thompson—the athletic director—stands with his arms crossed beside Tully. Neither’s said a word since practice started. They just watch, eyes tracking every move, waiting to see if I slip.
Tully leans in and says something I can’t hear. Thompson nods once, slow and deliberate. His eyes stay locked on me. Not approval. Not doubt. Just judgment.
The air feels tighter. I blow the whistle again, louder. The sound rips through the room, and the players pick up the pace. I pace the boards, calling out names until my throat burns.
But the noise doesn’t drown it out—the scrape of skates, Tully’s laugh, and the words still looping in my head.
Every second I hesitate, every crack they think they see, proves them right.Reckless. Hotheaded. The guy who blew his shot because he couldn’t wait to heal.
I tighten my grip on the stick. I can’t lose it. Not here. Not now.
Because if I do, it’s not just this job on the line.
It’s the proof they’ve been waiting for.
By the time I make it upstairs, the rink’s empty. It’s just me, the cold, and the sound of my pulse still pounding in my ears.
I drop into my office overlooking the rink. It’s small and bare—desk against the wall, a few dented filing cabinets, one flickering light. The Zamboni crawls slowly across it, floodlights cutting through the dark.
I brace a hand on the glass. It’s cold, steadying. For a minute, it’s just me and the quiet. No chatter, no players, no boosters watching. Just the sounds of the Zamboni and my own thoughts.
Then my phone buzzes on the desk. I don’t need to check it to know what it is—another headline, another jab about Kolmont “taking a risk” on me. The reporters have been circling since the gala, twisting whatever scraps they can find into a story.
But when I finally look, it’s not another article.
A notification lights up my phone from Instagram, which means only one thing. Tessa posted something.
My chest tightens before I even click on it.
One swipe and there she is. Sitting cross-legged on her bed, hair a mess, no makeup, that small half smile tugging at her mouth.
I scroll through the rest of her photos from the trip home. Some I didn’t even know she’d taken—one out the car window on the drive to Briar Creek, the cabin lit by the fire and the tree, her in that red dress before the gala, her curled up with the kids in front of the lights.
Just photo after photo of her week back home. The caption reads,“Twinkling lights and snowy nights.”
The only thing missing is us.
For a second, I almost breathe easier. Then it hits—the ticket I left, the silence after, the way she looked at me that last night, not knowing I was already planning to leave.
I pause on a selfie from the night she baked—flour on her cheeks, wearing a big grin—and my throat tightens. I want to text her. Tell her I miss her. Tell her I’m sorry. Ask if she’s okay.
But I don’t.
What would I even say?Hey, I’m fine. Just here pretending I don’t think about you every second of every hour of every day.
I set my phone down and lean back in my chair. The room feels smaller. The air is heavier. The kind of quiet that isn’t peace—it’s punishment.
I open my laptop and pull up game footage, forcing myself to focus on anything else. Maybe if I keep moving, if I stay busy, I can outrun it.
But the truth is, I can quiet the noise, bury the guilt, and watch tape until the sun comes up—she’s still the one thing I can’t stop seeing.
Chapter Nineteen
