Because I wanted to trust that vision. And that might destroy me.
Chapter 12
Calder
Steam curled along the bathroom mirror, thinning until it framed a stranger I half recognised. Shaved, hair damp, towel slung around my shoulders—looked decent for a man running from every bad decision he’d ever made.
I padded into the living room. The couch groaned when I sat. The place smelled faintly of detergent and dust, the kind of silence that made you notice how alone you were. My phone buzzed against the coffee table—three messages, all variations of the same thing.
From Sam:
Heading to The Pour House. Team’s pumped. You coming?
I stared at it. The screen lit my knuckles, scars ghosting in the glow.
I shouldn’t. It was their night. They’d fought claw-to-crossbar for that draw and clawed it into a win. They deserved to breathe without the coach hovering over their shoulders, policing the party.
I pictured how it’d go if I showed up—half of them watching what they said, the other half waiting for me to slip. My name still tasted like headlines, and I wasn’t stupid enough to hand the league another one.
The phone pulsed again.
Seriously, boss. They want you there. One beer. No speeches.
I exhaled through my teeth. The right call was boring. Stay put. Drink water. Watch game tape until the smell of the rink faded from me.
But I kept seeing her. Billie, helmet off after the final period, hair damp with sweat, chest heaving but eyes locked—so alive it hurt to look at. She’d made one bad play, owned it, and then ripped the game back with that last cross-ice feed. I’d been proud, though I tried not to show it.
My thumb hovered over the messages.
I could still hear her voice from earlier that week—steady, daring me not to treat her like porcelain. A sound that stuck under your ribs.
The bag with my jacket hung by the door. Black leather, old enough to pass for anonymous. I stared at it too long, hoping common sense would talk louder than curiosity.
It didn’t.
“Just one drink,” I muttered. The lie already shaped like truth.
The lock clicked behind me, and the hallway felt colder than it should have. Somewhere across town, music and laughter waited. And Billie Donovan would be in the middle of it.
The Pour Househit me like a body check—warm air, low light, the mixed stink of fryer oil and spilled beer. Laughter bounced off brick walls. Jerseys hung over chair backs, tied around waists. Someone had dragged two booths together and claimed them with backpacks and empty pint glasses.
A sharp whistle cut through the din.
“Coach is in the building!”
I didn’t need to look for the voice—Kira, loud enough to wake the dead. The girls howled, a few raising their glasses in mock salutes.
I lifted a hand in half-hearted acknowledgment and kept moving.
Eyes everywhere. Theirs, mine, the ones I didn’t mean to find but did, anyway.
Her.
Billie stood near the end of the bar, hoodie still on, sleeves shoved to her elbows. She leaned close to a teammate, holding a bottle by the neck, laughter breaking across her face like light off ice. Hair still damp from the rink, cheeks flushed, mouth unguarded.
For a second, I forgot I was supposed to breathe.
Fuck. She’s gorgeous.
