Tomorrow, he'd start fighting.
But tonight?—
His hand found the hair tie in his pocket, the one he'd rescued from the key hook this morning. He turned it over in his fingers, feeling the soft fabric, the elastic stretch that still held shape despite years of use.
Such a small thing.
Evidence of a life lived in motion, always moving, never staying long enough to accumulate permanence.
He'd give her permanence.
He'd give her roots so deep she'd never want to run again.
And if she still wanted to leave after that—if she truly, honestly, with full knowledge of what she was giving up, wanted to climb back in her camper and drive away—then he'd let her go.
But not before she understood what she was leaving behind.
Not before she knew, really knew, that someone was willing to fight for her to stay.
Tarmek set the hair tie on his nightstand and closed his eyes.
For the first time in days, sleep came easy.
He had a plan now.
He had hope.
And tomorrow, he'd start showing Edie Anderson exactly what she meant to him—not through words she wouldn't believe, but through actions she couldn't ignore.
The mural had shown him who she really was.
Now it was time to show her who they could be.
Together.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Tarmek's stick connected with Kowalski's helmet instead of the puck.
The crack echoed through the practice rink like a gunshot, and Kowalski went down hard, sliding across the ice while the rest of the team scattered. Whistles shrieked. Coach Morrison's voice boomed across the space, but Tarmek barely heard it—he was already skating towards his fallen teammate, horror and confusion warring in his chest.
He'd miscalculated.
He never miscalculated.
"I'm fine, I'm fine—" Kowalski was already pushing himself up, waving off the training staff rushing towards him. Blood trickled from a small cut above his eyebrow, and his grin looked slightly manic. "Good thing I'm pretty enough to spare a few brain cells, eh Cap?"
"Stonefist!" Morrison's bark cut through the ice. "Off the rink. Now."
Tarmek didn't argue.
He couldn't.
Because this was the third time this week he'd made a mistake that could have injured a teammate, and he had no explanation that didn't involve admitting things he wasn't ready to admit.
Focus. Breathe. Control.
The familiar mantra meant nothing. His mind was a static-filled void where hockey instincts should have been, every thought fragmenting into images of Edie—Edie painting, Edie laughing, Edie loading her belongings into that ridiculous camper while he stood there like a carved stone monument, saying nothing, doing nothing, letting her walk away.
