Page 39

Sadie’s been quiet.

Not completely gone—just… less. Her texts are shorter. Her emojis are gone. She turned me down for stats help twice this week with polite excuses and a promise to “get back to it soon.” When I asked if everything was okay, she said she was “fine.”

Which is worse than “busy.” Worse than “tired.”

“Fine” means dead inside.

I stare at my phone like it might wake up and fix everything.

Three texts. No replies. The last one was dumb—a picture of Howl asleep with a tennis ball in his mouth. I’d even added a stupid caption. “Guarding his treasure. Miss you.”

Nothing.

She used to text back before I even locked my screen. She’d send emojis and over-punctuated sarcasm and unfiltered joy like it cost nothing. Now there’s just… silence.

I don’t know what I did. Or if I did something at all.

I pushed too hard. Too fast. She was clear in her boundaries. Just friends, nothing more, and at the first hesitation, the first hint she might change her mind, I snapped her up like I’d been searching for the moment.

I’d give her anything. My body. My silence. My distance.

Even if it breaks something open in my chest, something I won’t be able to re-close, I can let her go.

If walking away is what she needs to breathe easier, I’ll hold the door open and thank her for the window of time I had to love her. Even if it kills me slow. Because loving her—really loving her—means putting her first. Always. Even when it shatters me in the process.

I also haven’t seen her all practice.

Usually, she pokes her head out at some point. Watches our last drills from the edge of the hallway like she’s just passing by. Sometimes I catch her leaning against the doorframe, scribbling something on her clipboard while she waits for me to make eye contact.

Not today.

The rink feels colder without the warmth of her smile.

We’ve just wrapped up our third preseason win.

I should celebrate. I’m three for three shutouts—a statistical improbability—a social media post that went viral to Tristan’s delight, and came with a surge of support that still overwhelms me every time I check the comments.

But instead I’m pacing the bench with a half-empty water bottle, pretending I’m thirsty so I don’t do something dumb like check the rehab room. Again.

Tristan’s waiting by the tunnel, tapping on her phone with one heel hooked behind the other. She’s probably here for Vic, but she looks up as I pass.

“Hey,” she says. “You good?”

I nod. “Y-yeah.”

She eyes me. “You look moody.”

I don’t answer, just look her straight in the eyes. She chuckles and shakes her head.

“Did something happen with Sadie?”

I hesitate.

Tristan lowers her phone. “You two didn’t fight or anything, did you?”

“N-no.”

“Okay, so what’s going on? Because she’s been all off-balance lately. You’re not answering her stats questions, so she’s bugging me and I’m shit at math. She’s pretending like you don’t exist. And I know you do. So…”

She’s asking Tristan for help with school? I press a hand to my sternum to release the pressure there.

I exhale through my nose. “I d-don’t want to t-t-talk about her b-behind her b-back.”

Tristan raises both brows. “Respectful. Noble. And completely useless to me as her friend.”

I give her a tired look.

She sighs. “Spags didn’t give me details, but I saw him walking Christian out of the gala. And after everything I do know about that guy… I figured it wasn’t pretty.”

My jaw clenches, but I say nothing.

“You okay?”

“I’m n-not the o-o-one h-he hurt.”

Tristan’s quiet for a beat. “He was never physical, as far as I know. But he was… strategic. In how he made her feel small. Controlled. Like she owed him.”

Something tightens in my chest. “She doesn’t o-o-owe a-anyone anything.”

“I know that,” she says. “But I’m not sure Sadie does. And she’s kind of the one who matters.”

I say nothing.

Tristan watches me, tilting her head. “You really care about her.”

“A-and she’d rather I-I-I d-didn’t,”

“Well, duh, Ragnar.” The look Tristan gives me could shrivel my balls. “Because she’s fucking scared.”

“She doesn’t h-have to b-be scared o-o-of me.”

“No,” Tristan says softly. “But imagine you spent your whole life hiding and then one day someone looks directly at you. She just doesn’t know what to do with someone who actually sees her.

She’s spent so long convincing herself she’s not worth the effort.

I don’t think she knows how to let someone prove her wrong. ”

“She’s w-worth everything,” I say before I can stop myself.

Tristan smiles. “Good. Because I like her. And there are only so many women in the org. I’d prefer not to lose this one because of dumb boys. Fix it, Rags, or I’ll tell every news station in a fifty-mile radius that you’re dying for personal interviews.”

The locker room smells like sweat and tape and whatever cologne Spags insists on spraying in the air like it’s Febreeze. I peel off my chest protector and let it drop to the floor with a dull thud, my shirt clinging damp to my skin.

There’s that ache again in my knee—dull but persistent.

I wrenched it during a weird drill, but it’ll fix itself.

I ignore it. Stretch it out. Roll my shoulder.

It was a good skate. Not perfect, but solid.

I made saves that mattered. The kind that leave marks.

The kind you feel in your hips and wrists and lungs.

I’m halfway through unlacing my pads when my phone buzzes from inside my gear bag.

Angelo the Agent:

Check your email. Edge Line wants to talk.

I freeze, still hunched over one shin guard. My fingers spasm and I force myself to finish before sitting up to swipe open my inbox.

Sure enough, there it is. Fresh subject line.

Subject: Re: Brand Partnership Reconsideration

Mr. ólaffson,

We hope this message finds you well.

We’ve been following your preseason return with excitement and wanted to extend our congratulations on the strong start. Your resilience and commitment, both on and off the ice, have not gone unnoticed.

In particular, we’ve admired the traction your recent social media presence has gained. The authenticity and quiet confidence you bring to your content align with the evolving voice of the Edge Line brand.

In light of this, we regret the timing of our prior decision to pause the partnership and would be open to resuming discussions regarding future collaboration.

If you’re open to it, we’d love to reconnect and explore what a refreshed partnership might look like heading into the season.

Warm regards,

Carl Mendoza

Senior Partnerships Manager

Edge Line Performance

My agent adds a brief note at the top.

Let me know your questions. We’ll set up a video call soon.

I read it once. Twice.

Then again, before I drop the phone on the bench next to me and rub a hand down my face.

This is what I wanted. Right? This entire charade with Sadie was to figure out how to show more personality, how to connect, how to stop hiding behind my pads and quiet answers. All because Edge Line dumped me after my injury.

Because I lost my edge.

Because they thought I was broken goods.

I pull off my undershirt and let it fall to the floor. They dropped me the second I was inconvenient. The second I stopped being shiny and unbreakable. And now they want back in? Why?

Because I’ve won three preseason games?

Because I learned how to caption a photo?

Because of Sadie.

She’s the reason. The reason I posted the shot of my jersey and nearly passed out watching the likes go up. Why I shared Howl. The reason my hip still works. She’s the reason I’ve felt alive again.

Like someone people want to see.

The locker room is mostly empty now. Just me and the ghost of the decision I haven’t made yet.

Part of me wants to say no. Just to prove I can. Just to prove I don’t need them.

But another part—the one that spent three months icing his own hip and praying his career wasn’t over—remembers how tight my chest got when I got that first email. When I didn’t know if I’d ever stand between the pipes again. I used to think the money was the scariest part.

But it wasn’t.

It was the idea that I wouldn’t be good again. At the only thing people had ever wanted from me, hockey. That I wouldn’t belong. That I’d disappear, and no one would notice. That I’d take my family down with me.

I sit there for a long time, staring at nothing, until the chill sinks into my spine and I finally move.

I gather my gear. Strip down. Head for the showers.

The water hits hot, and it helps.

I try to picture what Sadie would say if I told her.

She’d wrinkle her nose, probably. Ask what I want to do—not what I think I should.

“What do you want, Ragnar?” Her head tipped to the side, waiting for my response.

She’d say it’s okay to take back something you lost. And it’s okay to walk away from it too.

She’d remind me it’s not about proving myself to them. It’s about what I want—what I need—to prove to me.

I breathe in the steam and let the noise fade, remembering another fogged bathroom and a weight in my arms. I crank the temperature to glacial.

And when I step out, shivering and heart steadier, I know what I need.

Even if I don’t know what I’m going to decide—I need to see her.

We're still friends. After everything between us, she might be my best friend. The Sadie I know would want to hear about this email. She’d want to… I hope she’d want to…

Right?

I find her in the rehab room, head bent over the cabinet of tape rolls, like she’s searching for a specific one that doesn’t exist.

“H-hey,” I say, leaning in the doorway. “Got a-a s-sec?”

She jumps slightly, then straightens, a roll of pre-wrap clutched in both hands like a lifeline.

“Oh. Hi.” Her smile is tight, too bright. A fake. “Everything okay?”

“My knee’s bugging me.” It’s not a lie. Seeing her was a hit to the solar plexus. I need a minute to gather my thoughts. Might as well take care of my joints while I’m at it.