Page 27 of Depths of Desire (The Saints of Westmont U #4)

TWENTY

LENNOX

I arrived at the rink two hours before anyone else.

The arena was deathly quiet, just the hum of the ice machines and the distant echo of my skates hitting the concrete.

I unlaced my street shoes with mechanical precision, pulled on my gear piece by piece, shin guards, socks, pants.

The familiar ritual that used to center me now felt hollow, like going through the motions of being human.

My phone buzzed against the bench. I glanced down and saw Oliver’s name in my contacts, thumb hovering over it for one stupid, desperate second. The urge to text him— miss you, sorry, please —burned in my chest like acid.

I shoved the phone into my bag and slammed the locker shut.

By the time the team filtered in, I was already on the ice, running drills alone. Easton raised an eyebrow when he saw me but didn’t say anything. Rhett shot me a look that was part concern, part what the hell , but kept lacing his skates. They’d learned to give me space this week. Smart guys.

Coach gathered us for his pre-game speech, something about the Arctic Titans being undefeated on the road, about their captain, Phoenix, being a skilled agitator, about playing our game and not theirs.

His words bounced off me like pucks off glass.

I was already somewhere else, somewhere deeper, where the only thing that mattered was forward motion and the satisfying crack of stick against puck.

The Titans came out swinging.

Phoenix led the charge, tall, confident, with the kind of easy charisma that made everything look effortless. He controlled the puck like it was attached to his stick by invisible wire, weaving through our defense with a smirk that never quite left his face.

I matched him stride for stride.

Every steal I made was surgical. Every pass I delivered was perfect. I stripped the puck from him on the next play and sent Elio up ice for a clean scoring chance.

I was a machine built for hockey, and machines didn’t have feelings.

The first period ended 1-1. I skated to the bench feeling like I was watching someone else play in my body.

The second period was when everything started unraveling.

Phoenix scored three minutes in, a gorgeous wrist shot that caught the top corner, all precision and power.

He celebrated with his arms raised, grin wide, basking in the roar of the handful of Detroit fans who’d made the trip.

Something about his confidence, the way he owned the moment without apology, sent a knife straight through my chest.

Oliver standing on the pool deck, silver medal around his neck, not smiling.

Oliver in my bed, sure hands mapping my skin like he’d been doing it his whole life.

Me walking out my door.

My next shift, I cross-checked Phoenix into the boards after a clean hit. Stupid and reckless.

“Two minutes, cross-checking,” the ref announced, and I skated to the penalty box, feeling like I was drowning.

I sat there, watching the Titans’ power play unit swarm our zone, and all I could see was Oliver’s face when I said I was out of the equation. The way his jaw had tightened. The way he’d reached for me as I walked away.

The puck hit the back of our net twenty seconds later.

3-1 Titans. My fault.

By the third period, we were down 3-2, and something inside me snapped.

Eight minutes left, and I stopped playing hockey and started playing like a man with nothing left to lose. I took hits to make passes. I threw my body into scrums I had no business being in. I played like the ice was on fire and the only way out was through the thick of it.

Four minutes left, I picked Phoenix’s pocket at center ice and carried the puck through all three zones. Two defensemen tried to sandwich me, but I spun between them, kept my feet, and buried a backhand past their goalie’s glove.

3-3.

I didn’t celebrate. I didn’t raise my stick or pump my fist or acknowledge the crowd. I just skated back to center, hollow-eyed and empty, while my teammates mobbed me from behind.

A minute left.

I won the face-off, cycled the puck to Rhett, took a hit that rang my bell, got back up, and parked myself in front of the net. Phoenix was on me immediately, slashing at my hands, talking trash I couldn’t hear over the roar in my ears.

The puck came to me off a weird bounce. I had half a second before Phoenix could tie me up. I didn’t shoot. I couldn’t see the net through the crown. Instead, I dropped it back to Easton, who was crashing the far post.

Tap-in. Game winner.

The team exploded, gloves flew, and helmets came off. Easton buried me in a bear hug that lifted me off my skates, screaming something about the most beautiful pass he’d ever received.

I felt nothing.

Even as they carried me toward the bench, even as the crowd chanted my name, even as Phoenix skated by and tapped my shin guards in grudging respect, I felt like I was watching it all happen to someone else.

We’d won. I’d played the best game of my life.

And Oliver still wasn’t here to see it.

The locker room was chaos, music blasting, guys shouting, equipment flying everywhere in celebration. I sat in my stall, still in full gear, staring down at my skates like they held the secrets of the universe.

Around me, the party raged on. Elio was doing some ridiculous dance. Patrick was filming everything for his Instagram story. Coach was making the rounds, slapping backs and talking about how this win put us in first place in the conference.

I unlaced my skates with mechanical precision, the same way I’d laced them two hours ago. Except now, everything felt different. Somehow heavier.

“Okay, what the hell was that out there?”

I looked up to find Rhett standing in front of me, still sweaty, helmet hair going in six directions. His expression was careful, like I was a wounded animal he wasn’t sure would bite.

“What do you mean?” I pulled off my right skate and set it on the bench. “We won.”

“You played like you were trying to get yourself killed.”

I forced a grin I’d perfected over years of deflecting when things got too real. “Just bringing the intensity, buddy.”

Rhett didn’t even crack a smile.

Easton appeared at my shoulder, followed by Elio. They formed a loose circle around my stall, cutting me off from the rest of the team’s celebration. I felt trapped and grateful at the same time.

“Dude, you’ve been a ghost for a week,” Easton said, his voice gentler than I’d ever heard it. “We’re worried about you.”

“I’m fine.” I started working on my left skate, focusing on the laces like they required a PhD to unfasten. “Just been busy. You know how it is.”

“This is about the swimmer, isn’t it?” Elio’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise around us like a blade.

My hands stilled on the laces.

The question hung in the air between us, and I felt something crack open in my chest. The careful wall I’d built over the past week started crumbling.

“We…” I swallowed hard, still staring at my skate. “We’re not together anymore.”

The words tasted like ash in my mouth.

Silence fell over our little circle. Even the celebration around us seemed to dim, though I knew that was just my perception narrowing to this moment, these three guys who’d somehow become more than teammates.

“Shit, man,” Rhett said softly.

“It’s fine. It was always going to end anyway. We made that clear from the beginning.”

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt,” Easton said.

I almost lost it then. Almost broke down right there in the locker room, surrounded by celebrating teammates and the smell of sweat and victory. Instead, I took a shaky breath and started peeling off my gear.

“Look, I appreciate this,” I said, gesturing vaguely at their concerned faces. “But I’m fine. Really. Just need some time to adjust.”

They exchanged glances, that wordless communication that came from years of playing together.

“Team dinner tomorrow,” Rhett said finally. “Marcello’s. Seven o’clock. You’re coming.” It wasn’t a question.

“I don’t know if I’m really up for…”

“You’re coming,” Elio interrupted, and there was steel in his voice. “We’re not asking.”

I looked at their faces, Rhett’s stubborn determination, Easton’s quiet concern, Elio’s protective fury on my behalf. These guys who’d somehow wormed their way past all my defenses without me even noticing.

“Fine,” I said. “But just dinner. I’m not staying out all night.”

“Deal,” Rhett said immediately.

They didn’t push for more details. Didn’t ask what happened or why or whether there was a chance we’d work it out. They just stood there, a wall of solidarity around me while I finished changing, and I’d never been more grateful for anything in my life.

By the time I’d packed up my gear and headed for the exit, the locker room was mostly empty. The guys had scattered to their various post-game rituals, some to bars, some to late dinners, some to crash at girlfriends’ places.

I walked out into the Chicago night alone. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and for one stupid, desperate second, my heart leaped.

Oliver.

But when I pulled it out, it was just a notification from my banking app. A reminder that my credit card payment was due.

I stared at the screen for a long moment, thumb hovering over Oliver’s contact.

I could text him. I tell him about the game, about how I’d played the best hockey of my life while feeling like I was dying inside.

I could ask him how his training was going, whether he was sleeping, whether he missed me even a fraction of how much I missed him.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I scrolled through my emails until I found the confirmation for the lodge reservation.

The cancellation policy was strict, but I didn’t care about the money anymore.

I was going anyway.

Not with Oliver. Not with the plan we’d made, the romantic getaway that was supposed to recapture the magic of our first night together.

I was going alone.

I’d drink all the all-inclusive booze they had. I’d eat whatever I wanted without counting calories or thinking about performance. I’d masturbate if I felt like it. I’d prove to myself that I could be just fine on my own, that I didn’t need anyone else to be complete.

That I could take that trip and make new memories, better memories, memories that belonged only to me.

“There,” I said aloud to the empty parking lot. “I can move on just fine.” But even as I said it, even as I walked to my room with a plan forming in my head, I knew I was lying.

I wasn’t moving on.

I was running away.

And maybe, for now, that was the best I could do.