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Chapter forty-one

I’ll keep my face pretty just for you

Chase

I don’t sleep much the next night, but it’s different now. Not like before, when silence felt like punishment. It’s still quiet, but not empty or frozen anymore. I’m moving—slow, steady, and toward her.

The morning after the phone call with Jordan, I send coffee. Same order she always gets. I don’t write a note, just type her name in the delivery instructions and hope she opens the door.

An hour later, I send a text.

Me: Coffee’s outside. No pressure to reply. Just wanted you to have your favorite

She doesn’t reply, and I don’t expect her to. I just stand there in my kitchen for a few extra seconds, phone in hand, thinking maybe I’ll feel better for having said something. I don’t. But I’ll keep showing up anyway.

That afternoon, I send her a cinnamon roll from a bakery she made me detour to once after media day. The one she swore had the best glaze-to-bun ratio in Denver. I remember how smug she looked when I admitted she was right.

Still no reply. But the next morning, my phone buzzes.

Zoe: Cinnamon roll was dry. Tell them to up their game

I swear to God, I nearly drop my phone from grinning so hard.

Me: Rude. I’ll escalate to banana bread. Or get Lulu to bake something weird and gluten-free.

Zoe: If she sends me a lavender cookie again, I’ll report her to the FBI.

I smile again, and it feels weird because I don’t think I’ve smiled in days. Not like this. Not because of her. But I don’t say anything else, I let it sit.

The next morning, I hesitate before I send her bagels.

I know it’s ridiculous, but it feels like a risk—too much and not enough all at once.

But I remember how she once spent five minutes lecturing me on the structural integrity of bagel-to-filling ratio, and I think maybe she’ll remember that, too.

I remember she likes the kind with sesame seeds and a shit-ton of cream cheese, so I tell them to double it. I add her coffee, too.

Me: Bagels outside. Seriously considering coming over to steal them, though.

This time, she replies immediately.

Zoe: Already ate 'em. You snooze, you lose.

Me: Unbelievable. I’m never trusting you again.

Zoe: Joke’s on you, I was never trustworthy around a bagel.

It’s stupid. It’s everything.

And for the first time in what feels like weeks, I let out a real laugh—quiet and low, but full of something I hadn’t let myself feel until now.

Hope.

It’s like this for a few days. Tiny messages, small jokes, nothing heavy or sharp. No mention of what happened. No mention of us. Just soft touches and glimpses of who we were before everything cracked open.

I don’t ask to see her. I don’t tell her I miss her, but I fucking do. So much it hurts. It’s a gnawing kind of ache. Constant and sharp in the mornings, dull by nightfall.

But if all I’m allowed right now are two-line texts and silent deliveries to her front door, I’ll gladly take them. Because she’s still choosing to open the door. And maybe one day, she’ll let me be the one standing on the other side.

On Friday, I drop off nail polish at her door. Two bottles. One soft lilac and one seafoam green. No red.

She doesn’t message right away, and I try not to read into it. I clean my kitchen twice. I scroll sports highlights trying to distract myself.

And then right as I’m walking out of the bathroom that night, my phone lights up.

Zoe: They’re cute, especially the green. The lilac’s on probation.

By the end of the week, it’s not just coffee and jokes.

It’s her. Bit by bit, the parts of her I know so well are coming back in fragments and flickers.

Sharp and soft, ridiculous and radiant. She hasn’t asked to see me, and I haven’t pushed.

But I’m starving for more. I dream of her voice in the quiet, I feel her laugh in my chest like muscle memory.

So I send what I can, when I can. Most mornings, I text first. Sometimes she beats me to it. Sometimes she doesn’t reply at all. I let her set the pace, even when every part of me wants to sprint.

I don’t say I miss her, but I hope she finds it in the seafoam green, and the coffees and the cream cheese. And the silence, when that's what she needs.

Other than my focus on her, I focus on hockey. I go to morning skates, hunker down, and try not to cause any trouble on the ice during games. Most of the time, it works.

One afternoon, she sends me a photo of her hand, fingernails painted and one already chipped. I stare at it for so long the screen goes dark.

That night, I get another photo. It’s a blurry shot of her TV, with me skating across the screen, my number 68 sharp and clear. I'm not sure what game it’s from, but it’s me she’s watching.

***

I don’t plan to get the tattoo. I just wake up one morning, still full of words I haven’t said and things I can’t fix, and drive downtown without thinking.

The shop is mostly empty, which is perfect.

I show the guy a photo from my phone and tell him exactly where I want it. Left side, just under the ribs.

He raises a brow when I say white ink. “You sure? White ink isn’t very visible.”

I nod once. “It’s not supposed to be for everyone to see.”

It takes an hour, maybe more. Hurts like hell, but I sit through it with my jaw clenched and fists tight, because some things are supposed to hurt. And when it’s over, I press my palm to the bandage, heart pounding.

One carnation.

One promise I don’t know how to say except like this—etched into my skin, buried beneath the surface, where only she’ll ever find it.

The tattoo is still tender when I take the ice for warm-ups later that night. Every time my gear shifts, it stings.

The locker room is buzzing before the game. Coach lays into us during the strategy meeting. Logan’s chewing through his second protein bar, and Jake’s already muttering about how dirty these Chicago players can be.

But me? I’m just staring at my phone. Because she’s sent me a text. No emojis or fanfare, but it’s one that she sent me first, unprompted.

Zoe: Good luck tonight, Walton. Try not to lose any teeth.

Me: No promises, but I’ll keep my face pretty just for you.

She doesn’t respond, but that’s fine. I’ll take it.

Out on the ice, the cold hits first, sharp and clean when I step onto the rink. I exhale hard and roll my shoulders. The tattoo stings under my pads, tight and raw against the wrap I shouldn’t be wearing. Warm-ups didn’t help, either. Every time I twist, it bites.

Good. Let it hurt.

“Yo, Walton,” Logan calls as we circle past each other. “You skating weird, or did you finally admit your hips are geriatric?”

I smirk. “You wish you moved like me, Pookie.”

“Pretty sure you grimaced getting off the bench.”

“Pretty sure I’ll still outpace your ass in a sprint.”

He laughs, shoulder-checking me lightly. “Only thing sprinting is your delusion.”

Puck drop comes fast after that, and I lock in. I move like I’ve got tunnel vision, eyes on the puck and nothing else, pretending I don’t feel the sting under my jersey or that my whole fucking heart lives in someone else’s chest.

We’re at home, but the other team’s loud. Scrappy and chirpy. The kinda team that likes to hit first and ask questions later, but I manage to stay out of it for the most part.

First period, I keep it clean. No retaliation. No chirps back even when their center cheap-shots Reid at the crease.

But a brawl starts near the boards, all heat and fists and half-missed punches. One of their guys drops gloves with Logan, and it spills fast. Reid’s already yelling at someone from the crease, and half our bench is on their feet.

Then I see it—one of Chicago’s rookies is down and not moving. Took a hit weird or landed wrong, I don’t know. He’s flat on the ice, right in the middle of the chaos, and no one notices because they’re too busy swinging.

I don’t think, I just go. I skate over, cut in, and plant myself between the worst of it and the kid on the ground.

I get clipped on the side of the eye and wince as I throw one arm out toward the boards to hold space, using the other to shield his head.

I don’t say anything, just hold the damn line while the refs come flying in.

By the time the trainers reach him, the guy’s starting to come to. Still woozy, still out of it, but I back off once I know he’s okay.

Eli notices.

“You planning to marry that guy or what?”

There’s only one person in this world I wanna marry.

“Fuck off.”

“Nah, seriously. That was solid, man.”

“I wasn’t about to let some kid get trampled by skates.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Chase Walton?” he mutters, snapping his helmet into place as we line up again.

“Self-growth,” I say flatly.

“Gross.”

Zoe’s text flashes behind my eyes . “Try not to lose any teeth.”

I shift my grip on my stick and anchor down, drive the puck hard along the boards, and make clean passes. I block a shot with my thigh and feel it bruise instantly, but don’t wince. When their left wing tries to stick me in the heel, I don’t bite. Just push past him and keep skating.

Logan bumps me on the bench. “You sick?”

Lovesick.

“Maybe.”

We win 4–2. I make it through the handshake line with barely any blood on my jersey and my ribs screaming under the weight of every breath.

In the locker room, everyone’s buzzing, but I’m quiet. Still waiting. Maybe for her name on my screen, maybe for something I can’t name. Instead, I get reporters.

The usual suspects crowd in, lobbing questions about line changes and playoff positions and whether I’m finally maturing out of my fight phase .

I play nice and give them the soundbites, just like Zoe has trained us all to do. Everything is going fine until one of them pipes up, squinting.

“You seemed stiff out there tonight, Walton. Especially first period. From the fight—or something else?”

I blink and consider revealing the tattoo on national television for everyone to see. So they know how much I fucking love her.

But I don’t.

This isn’t for them.

It’s for her.