I lean back against the door for a moment, her words still sitting heavy and warm all at once. Letting things be what they are, and choosing what comes next.
My gaze drifts back toward the workbench. Toward the sketch. Toward the idea that’s been circling all night without quite landing. Diamonds. Pressure. Strength.
My feet move before I’ve fully decided to let them, carrying me across the shop to the safe tucked behind the counter. I crouch, spinning the dial by muscle memory, the faint click of it opening loud in the quiet.
Inside, nestled exactly where I left it, is the ring. I lift it carefully, the diamond catching the light even in the dim glow of the shop. For a second, I just look at it. At everything it used to mean. At everything it doesn’t anymore. And then it all becomes clear.
A small breath leaves me as I turn it slightly between my fingers, watching the light catch along its edges.
“I think,” I murmur to the empty shop, a quiet smile tugging at my lips, “I’ve finally found where you belong.”
CHAPTER 28
TY
The second I step onto the ice, I know Campbell lied. This is not a captain’s skate. He’s arranged a full-blown summer pickup game disguised as “getting some reps in.”
Guys are already circling through warmups when I hop over the boards at the Dominion Ice Center’s development rink, the sharp scrape of blades and pop-pop-pop of pucks against sticks echoing off the glass. Jerseys from half a dozen organizations move through the flow—Dominion practice gear mixed with AHL socks, old college hoodies, NHL shells, and whatever random equipment bag somebody dug out of storage at six in the morning. I even recognize a couple guys from the Renegades here, the AHL team that feeds into our system.
Apparently Campbell invited everyone.
I look around and find Owen and Liam stretching near center ice while two defensemen from the Renegades run a passing drill along the far boards. Near the blue line, a former Olympic player I grew up watching snaps a puck bar-down—casually—like this is no different than a Tuesday beer league skate.
Which, to be fair, for guys at this level? It probably isn’t. That’s the thing about hockey players in the offseason. Everybody knows somebody. A teammate’s cousin is in town training.Someone’s old junior linemate got traded nearby. A goalie coach brings two prospects. A retired guy shows up because he misses the room. By the time skates hit the ice, the level somehow always ends up absurd.
And terrifyingly fast.
The puck movement is already crisp. Heads up. Tape-to-tape. No one coasting. No one half-assing it despite the fact this is technically voluntary.
Summer pickup hockey at our level always turns into the same thing eventually. Usually one really good, meaty competition.
Owen glides past me, grinning beneath his visor. “You made it.”
Behind him, Campbell blows a whistle unnecessarily loud for a non-coached skate.
“McCade,” he yells, pointing to his jersey shell. “You taking white or dark?”
I look around at the thirty-ish guys scattered across the ice and laugh under my breath.
“You invited an entire league.”
Campbell shrugs like this is completely reasonable. “Figured more bodies would make it fun.”
Fun. Right. Nothing says fun like getting accidentally reverse-hit into the boards by a six-foot-three winger playing in the Swedish league because he’s “staying in shape.”
And that guy? He’s wearing a dark shell, so you can bet I’ll take the dark shell too and be on his team.
Not even two shifts later, the game has fully devolved into chaos, highlighted when Sawyer misses a pass on purpose. I know he does because he looks directly at me while the puck slides between his skates and straight into my lane.
“Ty!” Campbell yells. “Step up!”
I already am. I catch the puck cleanly near the blue line and pivot hard as one of the Elite guys charges toward me. The rink is loud in that chaotic offseason way—music thumpingoverhead, benches chirping nonstop, guys laughing between shifts like this isn’t somehow becoming aggressively competitive.
The guy coming at me reaches with his stick, but it’s too late. I pull the puck wide, cut across the line, and send it low toward the net through traffic. Not trying to score, but trying to create chaos––and it works instantly.
Bodies crash the crease. Somebody swears. Campbell hacks at the rebound like his life depends on it.
The puck pops loose again. Sawyer dives in from the side and snaps it past the goalie on the glove side. Both benches explode.
