“You doing okay?” she asked quietly.
“I'm tired,” I admitted, because lying to Talia had never worked anyway. “But I'm managing.”
“The drinking?—”
“I know. I'll be more careful.”
She sighed, and I could see her weighing whether to push harder or let it go for now. “Rook seems like he's good for you. Don't fuck it up by pushing him away.”
“I'm trying not to.”
“Try harder.” She headed for the door but stopped before leaving. “And Soren? You don't have to carry everything alone. I'm here. We're partners in this mess, remember?”
She left before I could respond, and I stood there in the quiet kitchen surrounded by dirty dishes and half-empty coffee mugs, feeling the weight settle back onto my chest now that I didn't have to perform being okay anymore.
By the time the house emptied out and went quiet, and I was already exhausted.
I sat on the couch with my phone in my hand, staring at the screen without actually seeing it. The club kept replaying in my head in fragments I couldn't quite piece together into a full picture. Dancing with Rook. His hands on my waist. Thejealousy in his eyes when other guys tried to talk to me. And then—fuck—the kiss. I'd kissed him.
The shame hit me in waves. Not because I'd kissed him, exactly, but because I'd been drunk enough to cross a line I'd been trying so hard not to cross.
Rook was helping me out of kindness and old friendship, and I'd gone and made it weird by letting my filters drop and my want show through.
I needed to apologize. But the thought of having that conversation made my chest tighten with anxiety.
I needed to get out of the house. Needed to move, to do anything other than sit here and let the heaviness pull me under. The Wolves had an exhibition game this afternoon, and I knew without checking that Rook would be there. I could go watch. Stay in the background, not make it weird, just see him play and remind myself of all the reasons I needed to keep my shit together.
The decision made itself before I'd fully thought it through, and I was already grabbing my jacket and heading for the door.
The arena was exactlywhat I'd expected from the largest venue in the city — all steel and glass and the particular hum of a building that had hosted decades of hockey and knew it. I bought a ticket from the box office and made my way inside, climbing the stairs to the upper sections where I could watch without being spotted.
The rink was beautiful in that way all rinks were beautiful to me, even after all these years. Clean white ice, bright overhead lights, the smell of cold air and rubber and that specific metallic tang that came from skate blades cutting fresh sheets. I found aseat near the back and settled in, watching the teams warm up on the ice below.
Rook was easy to spot even from this distance.
I'd forgotten how good he was. Or maybe I hadn't forgotten, exactly, but seeing it again after so long hit differently than I'd expected. He read plays before they developed, positioned himself where he needed to be before anyone else figured it out, and when he had the puck there was a certainty to his movements that made it look effortless even though I knew better.
This was what he'd become. Captain of a professional team, headed to the playoffs, living the exact life we'd both thought he'd have when we were kids who didn't know any fucking better.
The game started, and I watched him lead his team through sixty minutes of hockey that was technically just exhibition but felt competitive as hell anyway. The Wolves played tight, disciplined hockey, and Rook was at the center of all of it. Calling plays, directing traffic, making the kind of decisions that only came from years of reading the game at this level.
I'd been good at hockey once. Not as good as Rook, maybe, but good enough that it had felt real.
Then everything had fallen apart, and hockey had become one more thing I'd had to let go of when the custody battle started and my life narrowed down to survival and keeping my siblings safe. I'd told myself it was fine. That music had filled the hole hockey left behind. That I didn't miss it anymore.
But sitting here watching Rook play, I couldn't pretend that was true. I missed it. Missed the feel of the ice under my skates, the weight of the stick in my hands, the way my body had known exactly what to do before my brain caught up. Missed the violence and the grace and the pure physical joy of moving that fast with that much purpose.
Missed playing with Rook, if I was being honest with myself. Missed the way we'd moved together on the ice like we were reading each other's minds, the shorthand that had made us devastating as a pairing, the trust that had come from years of knowing exactly where the other one would be.
The game ended with the Wolves winning by two goals, and I watched the handshake line and the post-game rituals with a familiarity that made the ache in my chest spread wider. The crowd started filtering out, and I stayed in my seat because leaving meant making a decision about whether to try and find Rook or just disappear back to my life.
The arena emptied slowly, and I sat there in the quiet watching the ice get cleaned, the zamboni making its methodical loops while I tried to figure out what the hell I was doing here. Eventually, I made my way down to the lower sections, closer to the ice, and settled into a seat a few rows back from the boards.
The locker room door opened about twenty minutes later, and Rook walked out alone, gym bag slung over his shoulder and hair still damp from the shower. He was halfway across the arena floor when he spotted me, and I watched his stride falter for just a second before he changed direction and headed my way.
My heart was hammering hard enough that I could feel it in my throat, and I tried to school my expression into casual when I felt anything but.
“Hey,” he said when he got close enough, dropping his bag on the floor and sitting down in the seat next to mine. “Didn't know you were here.”
