Page 53

Chapter thirty-five

Her fire, her chaos, her quiet. Her everything.

Chase

T he second the door shuts behind her, I punch the wall.

There’s no thought or pause, just drywall and knuckles and a crack that splits wide open, same as me. The sound echoes through the condo like a gunshot, and my hand throbs, but I barely register it.

She’s gone.

Walked out wearing my hoodie, carrying every part of me I never meant to give away, and I let her.

I drag both hands through my hair, pacing fast, my breath coming in short bursts. I look down at my hand again as a sharp jolt of pain races up my arm, skin splitting across my knuckles, blood already blooming at the seam. I welcome it.

At least it makes sense.

I stare at the damage, at the angry red mark already forming on my hand, and all I can think is: that’s what I get. For falling so hard, I didn’t even realize when I hit the ground.

I walk into the living room and drop onto the edge of the couch, but I can’t stay still.

My whole body’s buzzing, tight and frantic.

Her world’s hottest girlfriend coffee mug is sitting on the side table, and a vase of carnations still sits nearby.

The air still smells like her shampoo—vanilla and coconut and something softer underneath that makes me want to bury my face in her neck and pretend none of this just happened.

But she’s gone, and I don’t know if she’s coming back.

I grab my phone with the hand that’s already throbbing.

Me: Please just tell me you got home safe.

Me: Or that you’re at Charlie and Jake’s. Or anywhere. Just let me know

I stare at the screen and watch for a response. No bubbles, no read receipt. Just the void.

Me: I don’t care where you are, just wanna know you’re safe

Still nothing.

I scroll back through our old messages—memes, videos, photos, little nothing things that suddenly feel like everything.

There’s one from two days ago—her middle finger sent as a reaction pic when she discovered I’d eaten the last croissant.

I’d give anything to go back to then. Or this morning, or any second before she looked at me like I was the mistake.

I try again.

Me: I meant every word, not gonna take any of it back.

Me: I don’t care how messy it gets, I want you. I’ll always want you.

I throw the phone down too hard, and it skitters across the kitchen counter and bounces off the edge. I catch it just before it hits the floor, and then I do what I can actually do—make a call to building security.

He picks up with the same cautious tone he probably used with her.

“I want the elevator footage,” I say, already bracing for the fight. “All of it. Now.”

“Mr. Walton, I’m afraid there’s a protocol—”

“I don’t give a fuck about protocol,” I snap. “You said it was triggered automatically. You said it hasn’t been shared yet. Then lock it down. Delete it. Or transfer it to me. Whatever the process is— make it happen. ”

“Sir, I understand, but it’s not just about your—”

“It’s not about me!” My voice cracks, and I drag in a breath, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“If it leaks, she loses everything, and I’m not gonna let that happen because of your protocol.

So if there’s someone else I need to talk to, give me a number.

But don’t make me sit here and wait while you decide how much of her life you’re about to ruin. ”

He starts rambling about legal procedures, about chain of custody, about timelines and requests, and formal documentation.

“I’ll come down there myself,” I say, teeth clenched. “And you don’t want me to show up in person.”

There’s a pause. “Let me escalate this to legal. We’ll be in touch shortly.”

I hang up and text her again.

Me: I’m trying to fix it, sweetheart. Just spoke to security, they’re gonna let me know.

Still nothing.

I type I love you.

Delete it.

Type it again.

Delete it again.

Not like this , I tell myself. Not when she’s fragile. If I tell her now, she’d probably think I was using it to get her back, and not because it’s the truest fucking thing I’ve ever felt.

And I want to say it right. To her face, with no hesitation or fear.

I want to watch the way those soulful brown eyes go wide, how they catch the light when she’s trying not to let me see that she feels it too.

She’ll probably say something sassy or rude or ridiculous, just to keep me on my toes, but I’ll see through it.

I’ll see it hit, land square in her chest, and stay there. A part of me I’ve never given to anyone else, but would give to her without question because I know she’ll keep it safe. Tuck it behind her ribs. Bury it deep in her bones.

That’s how I want to tell her.

I drop my head into my hands, elbows digging into my knees. My hand is bleeding steadily now, bright red along my split knuckles, and I don’t even care.

I miss her so fucking much and she’s only been gone fifteen minutes. There’s a weight in my chest I can’t move, and I want to crawl out of my own skin and scream. I want to hold her until she believes me, until she sees it—how much I fucking love her.

Ping.

I scramble for my phone.

Zoe: I’m home

Two words, no emoji. Barely any punctuation and definitely no xox . Just two words wrapped in the softness of her knowing I needed it.

It doesn’t fix anything, but it saves me.

I sit there, staring at it, heart pounding against the walls of my ribs like maybe it’ll finally break out and beat its way to her itself.

I type back slowly, honesty in every letter.

Me: No, you’re not. Your home is here with me

***

The locker room’s already buzzing when I walk in, but the second I cross the threshold, it shifts.

Not by much, just a little bit quieter and a little more cautious. But I feel the hush that settles—the one when someone’s carrying something volatile and everyone can sense it.

Jake notices me first, his gaze dropping to my hand, then snapping back to my face. He doesn’t say a word, just tilts his head, jerks his chin toward the wall of stalls. I follow him to the far corner like we’re about to talk trade lines. He grabs a roll of pre-wrap from a bench and holds it out.

“Non-dominant?” he asks, voice low and careful.

I nod once. “Didn’t touch the right.”

He blows out a breath. “Punch a wall or your own reflection?”

I crack my neck. “Drywall.”

Jake makes a low noise in his throat. “So just your ego then.”

All I can do is grunt in response.

He tapes my hand for me, the silence between us sharp and tight. He doesn’t push, doesn’t have to. I realize that Zoe would have spoken to Charlie, who must’ve filled him in already.

“Just keep it clean,” he mutters. “Coach asks, you aggravated it lifting weights and not because you’re a fucking idiot who went feral on interior architecture.”

I nod again, not trusting myself to speak.

Across the room, the guys are buzzing like normal. Logan’s tossing a puck into the air while Eli argues with Reid about stick curves. I should be part of it, I should say something. But I can’t, because my mouth feels wired shut.

“Yo,” one of the rookies says loud enough to carry. “Anyone seen Zoe today? She skip the Monday media gauntlet, or what?”

Another voice—Harris, probably—chimes in. “She wasn’t at morning skate either. Walton, you scare her off finally?”

That gets a few low laughs, and my whole body tenses.

Jake jumps in before I can even shift forward. “She’s got the flu,” he says smoothly. “Nasty one. Staying home.”

A couple of the guys nod, one or two wince. Reid makes a show of squirting hand sanitizer like he’s avoiding contagion.

Logan perks up, grinning like a dumbass. “Tell her we miss her. She’s the only reason I know what to say in interviews. And also, those muffin bribes last week? God-tier.”

I manage a nod, avoiding their eyes. “I’ll tell her.”

Coach Benson strides in with a clipboard and a look on his face that says he knows someone’s about to make his life harder. His eyes sweep the room slowly and inevitably land on me.

“You good to go, Walton?”

“Yeah.”

His eyes flick to the tape on my hand. “You sure?”

“Yup.”

He holds my stare for a second too long, but then he moves on. “Don’t make me regret it.”

***

The first period’s a blur, and my hands are twitchy. My legs are fine, but my focus is off. Every time I try to settle into a shift, my mind runs somewhere else—to her.

In my hoodie, on the couch, her mug on the table, her text on my screen. I’m home.

No, you’re not.

By second period, I’m wound so tight I’m basically vibrating. I take two penalties, one legit and one soft, and Ryan’s already shooting me looks from the bench.

Third shift in, someone elbows me on the way through a zone entry. Nothing serious, just enough to throw me off my line.

“Careful, Romeo,” the guy mutters under his breath. “Wouldn’t wanna mess up that pretty face. Heard your girl likes it.”

My entire body lights up. He doesn’t know what he just walked into.

“What did you just say?”

The guy blinks. “Chill, man. Just sayin’, you’ve got a type, right? High-maintenance, real polished. Probably fakes it.”

I drop gloves before I’ve even finished turning. My stick clatters against the boards, and then I’m on him, fists already flying. One to the jaw, two to the side of his helmet. He scrambles backward, grabs my jersey, but I don’t stop.

I see red.

Not metaphorically. Red. Red across my knuckles where the fresh skin splits open, red in the corners of my vision. Red flashing from the ref’s arm as the whistle screams loud and sharp.

“Jesus Christ, Walton!” someone yells.

Doesn’t matter.

We go down hard. I don’t feel the ice, just the impact of my fist connecting again and again until he finally shoves me off. The linesmen haul me back, both of them gripping me, one of them yelling something about misconduct, but I’m not hearing it.

I’m breathing too hard, chest heaving, blood pumping so fast I feel drunk on it.

“Five for fighting,” the ref snaps. “And you’re out.”