Page 9

Chapter Nine

Blake

I ’m officially losing it.

It’s been two days. Forty-eight hours. Two entire rotations of the goddamn earth since I kissed Sophia Hart, and I still feel her.

That’s a problem.

I throw my pride and joy, the beautiful Range Rover Sport into drive, gripping the steering wheel like I'm about to cross-check it into the boards. The rumble of the engine hums beneath my palms, but my pulse is a fucking mess.

I haven’t slept in two nights, haven’t eaten anything that actually tastes like food, and whatever sanity I had left? I'm pretty sure that left my soul the minute Sophia's lips detached from mine.

It's all her fault.

The way she melted against me before she pulled away, pushing against my chest and leaving me hanging.

I scowl at my reflection in the rearview mirror. "Get your head out of your ass, Maddox. You've got a game tomorrow."

Eighteen thousand fans will pack The Nest tomorrow night, expecting their captain to deliver after our embarrassing loss on the road.

That last game... I'd been distracted. Off my rhythm. The whole team felt it. When your captain's head isn't in the game, it ripples through the lineup like a crack in the ice.

I can't afford to be like that again tomorrow.

The truck glides through town, tires crunching over snow-packed roads as Iron Ridge wakes up around me. It's early, the streetlamps still flickering, but that doesn't stop the kids from the youth program who are already out on the frozen pond near the stadium, bundled up in coats and hockey gear, knocking a puck around before school.

Jackson Maze fires off a slapshot, his stance solid despite the fact that his skates are at least a size too big. Mikey Harris, the smallest of the bunch, dives in front of it without hesitation, his mitts swallowing his hands, his stick a little too short, a little too worn.

But he doesn’t care.

None of them do.

Because out here, on this ice, they’re not just kids from broken homes or struggling families. They’re hockey players.

My foot eases off the gas. The scent of fresh cinnamon rolls drifts from Summit Café around the corner, and I call out to the boys.

"Morning, boys."

They all spin, grinning like I just walked on water.

"It's Captain Maddox!" One kid puffs out his chest, tapping his stick against the ice. "You see that shot?"

I lean my elbow against the window frame, deadpan. "Not bad. But I'd glove save that easy."

Shock. Pure shock and outrage.

"Lies!"

"No way!"

"Come out here and prove it!"

I smirk, and it's nice to have something other than the thought of her lips spinning through my mind.

These kids? They are the reason I fight for this program. The reason I don't let corporate execs and their sharp, figure hugging pencil skirts try and turn it into some PR stunt.

No matter how soul crushing their hazel eyes and mouth might be.

"Maybe next time, kids," I tell them, throwing the truck back into drive. "See you lot at training after school. Be good!"

As I pull away, my eyes lock on the Icehawk Stadium, towering against the morning sky. My home. My sanctuary.

Sophia Hart is messing with my head, and if I don’t shake her out of it before tomorrow’s game, I’m screwed.

"Time to get back to work," I mumble, pulling into my reserved parking space.

I kill the ignition, exhaling a slow breath through my nose. The cold bites immediately when I push open the door, but the sharpness of it barely registers. I’m too far in my own head.

I tug my bag over my shoulder and head inside, greeting a few of the facility staff as I move through the halls. Everything is routine. Familiar. Automatic. But I know - I fucking know - that the second I see her, all hell is going to break loose in my head again.

I need caffeine. And maybe a goddamn miracle to get through today.

The Player’s Lounge is empty when I push inside, the warm scent of coffee, eggs, and something maple-sweet hitting me immediately. The place is decked out like a five-star retreat because, well, it is . Especially before gameday.

A massive flat-screen is on and running SportsCenter already. Last nights scores roll across the bottom of the screen - Washington pulled another win, Rangers scraped through in OT, Boston blew a three-goal lead and choked.

Satisfied with those results, I head straight for the food, tossing my bag onto one of the chairs. The Icehawks might bleed grit on the ice, but we live like kings off it.

A dedicated chef’s counter is laid out with warm protein pancakes, eggs, and fresh collection of baked goods delivered directly from Summit Café. I grab a maple bacon breakfast sandwich - my favorite.

It's still steaming hot, stacked between a soft, golden bagel.

Next, a black coffee the size of my head. Fuel for the day.

Or, more importantly, fuel to stop me from punching a hole through a wall - because the last time I stood in this exact spot, I had her in my arms.

I freeze, my grip tightening around the coffee cup. Shit. I can't go anywhere without constant, haunting reminders of her.

It’s so stupid, but suddenly I can see it again. The way she fit against me, the silk of her stunning emerald dress brushing my hands, the tilt of her chin when she let me lead her across the floor.

That night was the beginning of this mess. The moment the irritation turned into something I don’t know how to fucking handle.

"Jesus, man. Who pissed in your protein shake?"

Connor. Of course they all arrive now.

I open one eye to see him strolling in, tossing his duffel onto the couch before grabbing a plate. Logan’s right behind him, swiping a banana off the counter and narrowing his eyes at me like he’s already onto something.

"You look like you got run over," he observes. A pause. A smirk. "Or—" he leans against the counter, grinning like the smug bastard he is.

I grunt, taking a savage bite of my sandwich. "Fuck off. Don't start."

Ryder walks in next, fork in hand, already halfway through a plate of eggs because the kid is a human garbage disposal. He chews, slow, brows raised.

"You kissed her, didn't you?"

I scowl. "No."

The kids at the rink outside the stadium flash before my eyes. "Lies!"

Logan snorts, peeling his banana. "Buddy. We can see it all over your face."

I glare, but it’s too late. They’ve scented blood in the water.

I don’t give them the satisfaction of playing their stupid game. Instead, I shove the last of my sandwich into my mouth and push off the counter, grabbing my duffel from the sofa like the conversation is over.

It isn’t.

Their laughter follows me out of the lounge, and by the time I hit the gym, I’m already one wrong comment away from snapping.

Luckily, the gym is empty, save for the steady thwack, thwack, thwack of my fists slamming into the heavy bag after I quickly get changed.

Once I start, I don’t stop. Can't stop.

My knuckles ache. Sweat drips down my back, soaking into the waistband of my shorts. The rhythmic thud of impact echoes around me, but it does nothing to drown out the chaos in my head.

Harder.

I hit again, ignoring the sharp sting in my knuckles.

Harder.

Harder.

"Alright, chill, Mike Tyson. That bag didn’t insult your mother."

I whip around, my chest heaving, sweat racing down my body. Connor stands a few feet away, arms folded, a knowing smirk creeping across his face.

"Go away." I reach for my water bottle, popping the cap and taking a long pull.

"Can’t," he drawls, stepping closer. "Too fascinating watching you absolutely obliterate that thing." He tilts his head, studying me like he’s putting pieces together. "So. Who’s got you this twisted up?"

I exhale sharply, rolling my shoulders. "It’s nothing."

Connor lets out a low whistle. "Oof. That was a hard deflection, man."

"Jesus, drop it."

He grins, leaning against the weight rack. "Nope."

I shoot him my best "I will end you" glare, which has all the intimidating power of an angry kitten right now.

Connor slaps his hands together. "Alright, let’s break it down. You're wound up tighter than my grandma at Thanksgiving dinner. You haven’t said more than two words to anyone since yesterday. You just attempted to murder a punching bag. That means one of three things: One, you lost a shit-ton of money betting on Boston last night—"

I shoot him a glare.

"Okay, scratch that one." He counts off on his fingers. "Two, you got some real bad news - like, life-ruining bad."

Silence.

His smirk widens. "Or three… this is about a woman."

My jaw ticks.

Connor snaps his fingers, grinning. "Ohhh shit, it is a woman."

I mutter a curse, tossing my water bottle onto the bench.

Connor just laughs. "Man, I love being right."

I scowl and wipe the sweat off my face with a fresh towel. "You gonna shut up anytime soon?"

Connor shakes his head, still smirking. "Nah, I think I’m gonna enjoy this for a minute."

I shoot him a look, but he just watches me, that smirk still there but something sharper behind it now.

Then, to my surprise, his tone shifts.

"Look," he shrugs, crossing his arms. "If it's messing with your head this bad, you’ve got two choices - deal with it, or walk the fuck away."

I blink. Connor Walsh, giving advice?

Seriously. Who spiked the local water supply with crazy juice? Because this town's gone full bat-shit insane lately.

He continues before I can respond. "But if you're hitting shit and snapping at people instead of sleeping, then you already know which one you don't wanna do."

I shake my head. "Since when do you hand out fortune-cookie wisdom?"

Connor just smirks. "Since I’ve been in your exact shoes before. Difference is, I let my shit fester and made a mess of it. If I could go back..." He exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders. "I’d do things differently."

My chest tightens, but I force the sensation down, swallowing hard.

Connor reaches for a roll of tape from the bench. "Anyway, what do I know? I’m just a goalie with too much time on my hands. But if you’re still this pissed off by the time practice is over, maybe it’s time to quit lying to yourself and do something about it."

I don’t answer.

Because I don’t have an answer.

Instead, I grab my towel and throw it over my shoulder. "We done with this therapy session? Coach Brody's waiting."

We head for the door, but as we roll out onto the ice fifteen minutes later, Connor's words still linger. Deal with it, or walk the fuck away.