“I’m not here to ask for forgiveness,” he continues. “Or a second chance. I just needed you to hear it from me. Fully. Without spin. Without pressure.”
The park feels very still. Like it’s holding its breath. I realise something then, sitting beside him with my coffee cooling in my hands. I’m not crumbling. I’m not shrinking. I’m not begging for clarity or reassurance. I’m listening.
“I don’t regret loving you,” I tell him. “And I don’t think you’re a bad person. But what happened, it broke something. Not just between us. In me.”
He nods, eyes shining but steady. “I understand.”
“I need time,” I say. “Not to punish you. Not to test you. Just… time.”
“I’ll give you all of it,” he says. “Even if it means never getting more than this.”
That sincerity lands harder than any declaration ever could.
I stand first. He doesn’t try to stop me. Doesn’t reach for my hand. That matters too. As I walk away, my chest feels heavy but not shattered. Bruised, maybe. Tender. But intact. And I understand something clearly, I’m not broken. I’m just not ready.
And that’s allowed.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CALLUM
The rink hums like a living thing the moment I step onto the ice.
Playoff night always carries weight, but tonight it feels different; sharper, cleaner. Like everything extraneous has finally burned away, leaving only what matters. The air is cold and metallic in my lungs, my skates carving familiar lines as I circle with the boys during warm-up. Sticks tap the ice. Gloves thud against shoulders. There’s noise everywhere, but inside me, something is still.
That’s new.
I’m not scanning the crowd for Rose. I’m not checking my phone between drills. I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone. I know where she is; somewhere in the city, living her life, deciding things on her own timeline, and the fact that she isn’t here doesn’t feel like a wound tonight. It feels like respect.
Coach’s voice cuts through the din, sharp and steady. “Heads on. This is our house.”
We nod. We know the stakes. One win puts us within reach of the conference finals. One loss drags the series back into uncertainty. I’ve lived for moments like this my entire career. Tonight, I meet it without the usual churn of ego and fear clawing at my ribs.
The puck drops, and the world narrows.
There’s nothing but the ice, the angles, the rhythm of breath and movement. I don’t rush. I don’t try to force plays. I trust the system, trust my linemates. When the opening comes, it’s clean and earned. A quick pass from Lukas, a soft touch to control, a snap shot that finds the net before the goalie even sets. The roar is thunderous.
I skate past the bench, my heart pounding and adrenaline singing through me, but there’s no wild fist pump, no look toward the cameras. Just a nod. A tap of gloves. And back to centre ice.
This is what it feels like to play without needing to be seen.
The game grinds on, physical and fast. They pressure us hard in the second period, bodies crashing along the boards, tempers flaring. I take a hit that rattles my teeth and push right back up, jaw set. We kill a penalty. Then another. Our goalie stands on his head, and every blocked shot feels like a collective promise: we’re in this together.
Late in the third, with the score tied again, I’m on the ice for a defensive draw. Sweat stings my eyes. My legs burn. This is the moment where I used to chase glory, try to be the hero.
Instead, I drop my weight, lock my stick in, and win the faceoff clean, sharp and controlled, snapping the puck straight back to our defenseman, exactly where he’s meant to be. No scramble. No second guess. I explode off the dot the second it leaves my blade, legs burning as I cut through open ice, trusting the timing we’ve drilled into muscle memory for weeks. The crowd rises, that collective inhale hanging in the air as the play unfolds just like the whiteboard promised it would. Ryan slides it up the boards, Lukas pulls Jake with him, and suddenly the lane opens in front of me like a held breath finally released. The puck comes back to my stick at full speed. I don’t slow it down. I don’t try to be clever. One touch and I send it across to the wing streaking in beside me. He doesn’t miss. The shot rips top shelf,bar-down, and the sound of it hitting twine feels as satisfying as if I’d scored it myself.
The final horn sounds a minute later, and the place erupts. Helmets fly and sticks clatter. We pile into each other near the crease, laughing, shouting, relief and joy tangled together. This one mattered. This one was earned.
As we skate off, I catch my breath and feel something unfamiliar settle in my chest. Pride. Not the brittle, performative kind. The kind that doesn’t need witnesses.
In the locker room, the energy is electric with music blasting so loud it rattles the metal lockers, bass thudding through the floor like a second heartbeat. Ryan’s already dancing half-naked in the corner, towel slung low, getting chirped mercilessly for his terrible rhythm. Lukas fires a roll of tape across the room and nails him square in the chest, grinning like a menace. “Save that shit for the after-party,” he calls out, and the room erupts in laughter.
Sweat, steam, and adrenaline hang thick in the air. Guys are replaying goals out loud, arguing over who actually made the play happen. Jake mimics his own shot in slow motion, with an exaggerated follow-through until the D-man who fed him the puck shoves him in the shoulder. “Don’t get used to it,” he says. “You’re still buying dinner.”
Coach steps in without raising his voice, and somehow the room quiets. He doesn’t wait for silence. He never does. “Enjoy it,” he says gruffly, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “You earned it.” A beat. “Then remember this feeling, because the second you get comfortable, it disappears. We stay hungry. We stay disciplined. One shift at a time. That’s how you win in April.”
A few guys nod. Someone mutters, “Let’s go,” under their breath. Coach’s gaze flicks to me for half a second, then he’s gone, leaving the door swinging behind him.
