Page 31

Chapter thirty-one

Nina

I wake before my alarm, eyes wide in the dim light of morning, and I already know sleep won’t find me again. My sheets are tangled, one leg half out from under the covers, my pillow shoved to the floor. I stare at the ceiling, then swing my legs over the side of the bed.

"You can’t keep doing this," I mutter into the silence.

But I do. Every morning this week has started with this same fog—part anxiety, part regret, all Alex.

I throw on leggings, a shirt, and my sneakers. I grab my keys and walk out the door without even brushing my hair. The morning chill hits me as soon as I step outside, but I welcome it. It’s something sharp, something real.

My feet move without thinking. Down the street, across the little pedestrian bridge near the park. Past the café I usually stop at. Not today. Coffee feels too indulgent for the knot I’m walking around with.

The city is just waking up. Runners glide past, earbuds in. Dog walkers are out in abundance. Horns echo in the distance, but in my bubble, it’s quiet.

I think about the last game. About Alex’s save in the third. About the way the guys swarmed him afterward, how Coach couldn’t stop grinning in the locker room.

I think about the moment after that, when he looked across the room at me.

He looked calm. Composed. But there was something behind it. Something waiting.

He’s not just waiting for the Cup.

This isn’t just a career decision anymore. It’s a heart decision.

And I’m playing with someone else’s heart while trying not to break my own.

I stop at the end of the trail and stare at the small pond, ducks floating lazily near the shore. My breath fogs the air.

"You’re being a coward," I say under my breath.

But I’m not sure which decision would be brave anymore, staying or going.

***

When I arrive at the arena, the team is already practicing. I don’t check in with anyone. I don’t go to my office. I just climb into the stands, pull my jacket tighter, and sit.

Below me, drills are underway. Sharp stops, clean passes, the thud of pucks hitting boards. James and Connor are talking smack between sprints, per usual. Ethan’s checking people too hard for a Wednesday. Parker’s in dad-coach mode even on ice.

And Alex…

Alex is silent. Focused. Every move precise, explosive. Like he’s exorcising something with each glove save.

He could’ve done this without me. He always could. But he let me in and now I don’t know what to do.

I fold my arms over the cold seat beside me and stare at the ice.

This is where I feel the most like myself. Not the awards dinners or the glowing performance reports from the league. Not the title they’re offering or the career ladder I’ve spent ten years climbing.

Here.

With the sound of blades cutting clean across the fresh ice.

With the team who knows I’ll call them out and then help them find their center.

With him.

But is that enough to build a life on?

Suddenly, I hear footsteps on the concrete behind me.

Derek Stephens drops into the seat beside me with a grunt, arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the glass.

“Didn’t see you down in the staff section,” he says.

“Needed a different vantage point,” I say without looking at him.

He nods, lets a beat pass. “You here to watch or think?”

“Both.”

He glances sideways. “Want me to leave?”

“No.”

Another pause.

Then I add, “I talked to the league office yesterday.”

Derek shifts slightly. “Yeah?”

“They gave me the full pitch. Bigger staff. Larger budget. Travel. Prestige. All the boxes.”

“But?” he asks, already hearing it in my voice.

“But I’d be in charge of process, not people. Policies and playbooks. The real work—the on-the-ground, one-on-one, locker-room magic? I’d be delegating that.”

He hums. “Sounds like a good job… for someone else.”

I let out a quiet laugh. “They even offered to fast-track my role to VP in two years. Called me a rising star.”

“Rising stars burn out if they’re in the wrong orbit.”

We sit there, watching the team cycle into scrimmage drills. The clatter of sticks and the bark of Coach Max from the bench is like soothing music.

“What does legacy mean to you?” I ask suddenly.

Derek exhales slowly. “Legacy? It’s not the title you leave behind. It’s the people who whisper your name when you’re not in the room. Not because you were in charge, but because you made them better.”

I swallow.

He leans forward. “Titles don’t make legacies. People do. And sometimes, the biggest work doesn’t come with a plaque.”

I nod, blinking hard.

Derek shifts, glancing sideways at me. "For what it’s worth… I want you to stay. Management loves what you’ve done here. Shit, the guys would probably riot if you left." He nods out at the ice and then toward me again. "But this is a big opportunity, Nina. I get that. I wouldn’t want to be the reason you passed up something you’ve worked your whole life for."

Out on the ice, Alex makes a spectacular diving save. The guys cheer. He doesn’t even glance up.

“He’s been laser-focused since Game 5,” Derek says.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “He’s trying not to break.”

By the time practice ends, I’ve made it back down to the hallway near the locker rooms. I’m gathering my things from the staff table—my notebook, the stat sheets I was half-heartedly reviewing earlier—when I hear footsteps.

Alex.

He’s fresh out of the showers, damp hair curling at the ends, towel slung around his neck, jersey swapped for a simple black T-shirt. His eyes find mine for a second, and he nods.

It’s polite. Painfully polite.

I smile, tight. “You looked sharp out there.”

“Just keeping my edge,” he says, his voice neutral.

A pause of silence.

He shifts like he might say something more, but he doesn’t. Just gives me one more nod and turns down the hall.

My mouth opens.

“Alex—”

He stops, turning slowly. His eyes lock on mine, searching.

“Yeah?”

I swallow. My fingers twist around the strap of my bag.

“I didn’t mean to… I mean, I just wanted to say…this is hard.”

His brow lifts slightly. “Which part?”

“All of it.”

He leans against the wall, arms folded across his chest. “Yeah. Same.”

There’s another pause. The hallway hums with the echo of distant skate blades and muffled locker room noise.

“You played incredible in Game 6,” I say, softer. “That diving save?”

He smirks faintly. “You liked that?”

“It was hot. Objectively.”

That earns a real smile. “You know, you were the first person to call me reckless and brilliant in the same breath.”

“I stand by that assessment.”

He steps a little closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that I can feel the change in the air between us.

“So what’s going on, Nina?”

I look down, then back up. “I’m trying to figure out if I’m walking toward something or running away from it.”

He nods slowly. “And I’m trying to figure out if I’m supposed to wait… fight for it or let it go.”

My heart twists.

“I haven’t made my decision yet,” I say.

“I figured.”

“I talked to the league again. The job’s big. It’s career-defining. But…”

“But it’s not here.”

“Exactly.”

He takes a long breath. “I don’t want to be the reason you don’t go.”

“And I don’t want to leave because I’m afraid of staying.”

He studies me. “Then what do you want?”

“I want you,” I whisper. “But I also want to be proud of my choice. Not just because it’s safe. Or comfortable. Or expected.”

His jaw tightens. “You think this is comfortable?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s anything but.”

He chuckles bitterly. “Good. Then we’re both suffering.”

“Alex.”

He looks at me. Really looks. “I’m not mad, Nina. I’m just… tired of guessing what I am to you.”

“You’re not a question mark,” I say. “You’re the only thing I’m sure about. That’s what makes this so hard.”

We stand there, emotions twirling in front of our faces. And still, I can’t bring myself to say the final words.

“Can I see you later?” he asks. “After I’ve showered again and cooled down?”

“I’d like that.”

He nods, but doesn’t move just yet. “For the record… I miss being in your head. You used to tell me all your mental tricks.”

I smile. “You remember the breathing one?”

“Breathe in grit. Exhale panic.”

“That one.”

He starts to turn again, then stops. “Hey, Nina?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll wait. A little longer.”

And then he walks away.

But this time, I don’t feel paralyzed.

This time, I feel a little closer to ready but not quite yet. I can’t force it if I don’t fully know.

He walks away.

And I just… stand there.

Heart aching.

I could’ve said it. I wanted to. But “almost” doesn’t build a future. And I’m running out of time.