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Chapter twenty-eight

Alex

I wake up to the quietest kind of ache. Not physical. Not something I can stretch out or ice. Just absence.

Nina’s side of the bed is cold—the pillow slightly indented, the sheets faintly carrying her scent, like a ghost of yesterday clinging to the space where she was.

I sit up slowly, rubbing a hand down my face. My phone’s on the nightstand. I check it. No message.

Not even a dot.

I shouldn’t want one. We didn’t make promises. But damn, it would’ve been nice to know I’m not the only one stuck thinking about what happened yesterday. About what it meant.

I replay it all in my head—the way she clung to me, naked and trembling, her body squirming beneath mine as she gasped my name over and over like a prayer she couldn’t stop. The way her hands gripped me, the way her thighs locked around my waist. The heat of her skin, the sound of her moans, the way her eyes begged for more even when she was falling apart in my arms. I know what that felt like—desperate, consuming, and very real.

But maybe it wasn’t. Or maybe she’s still too scared to let it be.

I throw the covers off, yank on some shorts, and lace up my sneakers. If I sit here, I’ll lose my mind. So I do the only thing that works when my brain won’t shut up.

I train.

The gym is not crowded at this hour… just the steady clink of iron, the hum of machines, and a few familiar grunts echoing off the walls.

Parker’s already on the bench press, his massive frame making the bar look like a twig. James is beside him, spotting without really watching.

“Look who crawled out of bed before sunrise,” James calls when he sees me.

Parker grunts under the bar. “Careful, man. He’s got that no-sleep energy. Might actually outwork you today.”

I smirk, putting on my lifting gloves. “Didn’t realize I had fans.”

“You don’t,” James fires back. “But I do appreciate when you’re too tired to chirp back.”

Parker racks the bar and sits up, wiping sweat from his brow. “You good, Chadwick? It's always trouble when you don't sleep.”

I nod, moving toward the treadmill. “Just focused. And I did sleep.”

James whistles low. “Focused looks an awful lot like haunted, my guy.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, already punching in my incline.

They trade looks but let me be. The belt starts moving, and I settle into the rhythm.

Ten minutes turns into twenty. Twenty into thirty.

Sweat pours down my back. My breath hits a rhythm. My brain starts to quiet.

Control what you can. Let go of what you can’t.

Her voice in my head. Calm. Steady. Clear.

Weights. More reps than usual. Core drills. Balance work. I think about every save I’ve made since she started working with us. Every moment I didn’t panic. Every time I held the line.

I hit the cold plunge last. That shocking jolt of discipline that slaps the emotion right out of you. I sit there, arms braced on the rim, eyes closed.

I picture the Cup. The team. The final buzzer.

I picture her in the stands… and then I let it go.

Because I have to.

***

By the time I get to the meeting room at the arena, I’m calm on the outside. Inside is a different story.

Nina’s already there, in her usual spot by the projector, a whiteboard at her side and her trusty stack of index cards. She looks polished, professional, and untouchable.

Our eyes don’t meet.

She flips the marker cap off with one hand. “Today’s session is about adaptation under pressure. Because talent will get you in the door, but adaptability is what wins playoff series.”

James nudges Ethan. “She’s about to drop a mental grenade on us.”

Ethan leans in. “Glad I had breakfast but should’ve had another coffee.”

Nina smirks faintly but keeps her tone crisp. “Instead of visualization today, we’re doing a new group challenge. Think of it as mental improv.”

A groan goes up from the back.

She raises an eyebrow. “You’ll like this one. I promise.”

She starts pairing players randomly and passing out envelopes. “Inside are unpredictable scenarios. One of you will lead. One of you will respond. And you’ll only have fifteen seconds to react.”

Parker opens his and groans. “Ready Connor. Here it is. You’re the captain. Your goalie just threw his stick into the stands after a blown save. Media’s waiting.”

Connor replies. “Easy. I keep my voice calm, put a hand on the goalie’s shoulder, and say, ‘We’ve all cracked once. Now zip it up and get your head back in the cage.’ Then I walk straight into the media room and own it—say emotions were high, and we stand by our guy.”

Nina raises an eyebrow, impressed. “Nice. Strong leadership, and accountability without excuses. Next.”

Dillon reads for James to answer. “You’re being chirped so hard in the penalty box, you almost swing. Almost.”

He smirks and swivels his chair. “I’d grip the top of the boards, stare that guy down, and say, ‘Keep chirping. I’ve got a whole list of people who’ve regretted it.’ Then I’d flash the scoreboard and remind him who’s winning, assuming we are.”

Nina raises an eyebrow. “Confident and contained. Good.” She pauses. “But what if you’re losing?”

James doesn’t miss a beat. “Then I flash my rings and remind him I know how to win when it counts. Or I grin and say, ‘Scoreboard’s temporary. Your face after I drop you? That’ll be forever.’”

The room bursts out laughing.

Nina smirks, shaking her head. “Classic James. Next.”

Mikey grabs his envelope, tearing it open like it might bite him. "Okay, here goes. Ethan, you're a defenseman. You've just taken a dumb penalty with two minutes left in a tied playoff game. The coach is glaring. The team’s quiet."

He shrugs. "I own it. Skate back to the bench, take off my helmet, and say, ‘That one’s on me. You bail me out, and beers are on me for a month.’ Then I sit down and cheer louder than anyone else."

James cackles. “And then you Venmo us six dollars and pretend that covers it.”

Nina smiles. “Accountability with a sense of humor. Not bad, next.”

She keeps handing out envelopes, calm and in control. Until she gets to me.

She doesn’t say anything—just slides the envelope toward me. Her fingers brush mine.

Flash of heat. Skin to skin. Barely a second. But it lands like thunder.

Still, we don’t look at each other.

I hand it to Connor.

He reads it. “You’ve just let in a game-tying goal in the final minute of the third. Your team’s staring at you. Your coach is silent. You’ve got one minute to reset.”

My throat tightens.

It’s hypothetical.

But it’s not.

Because I’ve lived it. And now, I feel like I’m living it again, but off the ice.

I speak clearly. “I run my routine. Skate to the boards. Tap the post. I breathe. In for four, out for eight. I say what I always say.”

James, from across the room, calls out, “Which is?”

I glance at Nina. Just once.

“You’ve done harder things.”

Nina flinches. Barely. But I catch it.

She turns quickly back to the board. “Exactly. It’s not about perfection. It’s about refocusing. No one plays mistake-free. Champions recover faster.”

She wraps up the session with a brief rundown of our playoff prep. The energy in the room’s lifted and now the guys are joking around again.

But I sit there, silent.

Because her words steadied me… even when she wouldn’t look me in the eye.

Even if she’s gone next week… she changed me.

And I’m not going back.

***

We hit the ice not long after.

Full-ice scrimmage. The kind where no one’s taking it easy—not even close. There’s chirping, bodies colliding, sticks slashing a little too loud against the boards. It feels like a real game.

Coach whistles us into a faceoff drill, then backs up to watch. I drop into position, pads heavy but brain sharp.

Ethan skates by and taps my blocker. “Hope you brought your A-game, pretty boy.”

I grunt. “Hope you brought a helmet that can handle regret.”

The puck drops. I track it like it owes me money.

My reflexes are dialed. Every glove save slams shut like thunder. Every rebound I swat away with precision. I don’t hear the guys yelling. I just hear my breath. My skates. My rhythm.

At one point, James cuts through the crease and slings a shot top shelf. I snatch it clean and hold it.

He circles back, tapping his stick against my pads. “Your head still in the game, Loverboy?”

Parker elbows him as he skates by. “He’s dialed in. Leave him be.”

Coach blows the whistle. “Whatever Chadwick’s doing—bottle it.”

The guys laugh, but I don’t even smile.

Because I’m holding on by the edge of my blade.

Every shot I stop is one more second not spent wondering if she’s going. Every block is a wall between me and the question I can’t shake: Is she already slipping away?

We skate hard. Transition drills. Power play reps. The team’s in sync today, but no one pushes harder than I do. I take every crease battle like it’s Game 7. Every drill like it’s the final play.

The whistle blows to end practice. I finally drop to one knee, catching my breath, chest burning. Sweat soaks my jersey, but my mind is still racing.

In the locker room, it’s the usual chaos. Pads hitting the floor, towels snapping, protein shakes cracking open. I peel off my gear in silence.

Parker tosses a water bottle onto the bench beside me. “You’re grinding harder than usual.”

I shrug, icing my shoulder. “Just getting ready.”

James walks by, towel slung around his neck. “You’re skating like you’ve got something to prove. Everything cool?”

I keep my tone casual. “Just playoffs. You know how it is.”

Parker narrows his eyes. “Sure. But usually you look like you’re meditating between drills. Today you looked like you were chasing ghosts.”

I finally smirk. “Ghosts don’t score goals. I’m good.”

James leans against the stall next to mine. “You’re playing like your life depends on it. Whatever’s fueling that, keep it up.”

Parker nods. “Yeah, just don’t forget to breathe once in a while.”

I exhale slowly, grateful they’re letting it drop.

“Got it.”

They head toward the showers, cracking jokes about protein powder flavors and which of us should start a post-playoff podcast.

I sit there a little longer, the ice pack melting on my shoulder.

They know something’s off with me, but they don’t know what it is.

And for now, that’s how it needs to stay.

The room thins out. Music quiets. The air cools. I’m down to my shorts, when I see her.

Nina’s at the whiteboard near the entrance to the locker room, talking quietly with Derek. She’s in her black team jacket, nodding as he gestures toward the lineup sheet.

Her hair’s pulled back, and her face calm, but she taps the pen against her clipboard like her thoughts are louder than her expression lets on.

She’s still here. But for how long?

I wipe my hands on the towel, trying not to stare. But I can’t help it.

There’s a time I would’ve walked over. Pulled her aside. Asked.

Now I just watch.

Because part of me wonders if she’s already made her choice… and it’s not me.

She turns slightly, sensing the quiet. Her eyes skim the room, landing briefly on me. One second. Two.

Then she looks away.

I swallow hard.

She’s standing ten feet away, and I’ve never felt the distance more.