I pull my hand back, breaking the moment like snapping a thread.
Jamie freezes.
His eyes lift to mine, something unreadable flickering across his face before he straightens and rises to his feet. He takes a step back immediately, distance returning like it was summoned on instinct.
“Sorry,” he says, too quickly. “Ididn’t—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt, even though my pulse is racing and my chest feels tight. “Really.”
We stand there for a beat, the kitchen suddenly too quiet, the broken glass still scattered on the floor.
“I should go,” I add. “Rehearsal.”
“Yeah,” he nods, running a hand through his hair. “Of course.”
I grab my bag, careful with my foot, and head for the door. My hand pauses on the knob. I don’t turn around, but I feel him behind me.
“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “I didn’t mean what I said earlier. Telling you to leave.”
My throat tightens.
“I know,” I say.
I leave before either of us can say anything more.
Rehearsal is a blur. I go through the motions. Notes, blocking, counts, but my mind keeps drifting back to the kitchen. To the way Jamie looked kneeling in front of me. I know he’s going through so much right now, and as much as I want to say he deserves it, I’m not that kind of person. I never wished him harm; I never even talked badly about him. It just… was what it was.
By the time I get home that evening, the house is quiet again and Jamie’s car is gone. He’s most likely at practice.
I shower, change, and crawl into bed, but sleep doesn’t come easily. When I close my eyes, I don’t see the dream anymore. I see him exactly as he was this morning. Raw, exhausted, and trying to hold himself together while everything he loves slips through his fingers.
And that’s somehow worse, because dreams are easy to dismiss.
Reality isn’t.
Chapter 15
Jamie
Ialmost fucked up this morning. I was so frustrated with the text I got from Callahan that I didn’t think. I yelled at her. I told her to go away, when we all know that’s the last thing I want. I just… I didn’t want her to see me that way. So vulnerable and fucked up. I’ve only ever been strong, even when dad died. I kept a brave face for my mom and pretended I was okay, even though deep down, I was dying inside. Bottling up my emotions is pretty typical for me. That’s why I enjoy the game so much. It gives me an outlet for all the pent-up rage and aggression.
The rink is loud this morning. Sounds of skates carving into ice and pucks slapping boards fills my ears, and I feel the most at home I’ve felt in weeks. Imay not be able to actually play, but just being here gives me a high. This is where I’m meant to be. Even if these guys are pissing me the hell off. They don’t know how to play as a team.
They’re sloppy, uncoordinated, and honestly, a bit pathetic. They don’t want it bad enough.
I grip the whistle so hard my knuckles ache.
“Line up,” I bark.
The sound cuts clean through the noise. Heads snap up and conversations die mid-sentence. Good.
They scramble into place, sticks tapping nervously as they fall into line. I pace in front of them, jaw tight, knee stiff. The ache is there, it’s always there, but it’s background noise compared to the fire in my chest.
“You look comfortable,” I say. “Anyone want to tell me why?”
You can hear a pin drop in the absolute silence. No one wants to answer me, or rather, no one’s brave enough.
I stop in front of one of the defensemen, David Andersson. The kid’s talented, but like many of the boys, he lazy. He’s the kind of guy who expects everything to be handed to him because his dad has money.
