Page 24

Chapter twenty-three

Nate

I can barely lace up my skates without picturing the way she looked last night. Distant. Smiling like it cost her something. I’d rather take a slapshot to the ribs than see Mandy pull away like that again.

Practice starts early. Coach has us running through warmups before sunrise, but I might as well be skating through fog. My timing is off. My passes are half a beat too slow. Every time I shift direction, my mind boomerangs straight back to Mandy.

She said she needed her own space.

But I know what that really means.

Space turns into silence. Silence turns into goodbye.

Connor whistles beside me during a drill. "Yo, Jones. You planning on passing that puck to me today or just making snow angels out here?"

I grunt. "My bad."

We line up for the next set. I try to focus, but my stick fumbles a drop pass and I hear Coach's voice cut through the rink.

"Jones! Lock it in! You want a warmup or a wakeup?"

"Yes, Coach."

I chase the next drill like it owes me money, but my head’s still not in it. James skates up next to me and bumps my shoulder.

"Dude. You okay? You missed like three jokes in a row. One of them was even about a Zamboni and a raccoon."

"I’m fine," I mutter.

Connor smirks as he flies past us. "Somebody’s got a case of the 'girlfriend said something cryptic and now he's spiraling.'"

My teeth clench. "Fuck off."

They both go quiet. It hangs in the air like a slapshot gone wrong.

Then James whistles. "Damn. He’s in it. Like... it it."

Connor grunts. "That dude is sinking in quicksand and can't pull himself out."

I shoot him a glare, but it doesn’t land the way I want.

Because they’re not wrong.

***

In the locker room after practice, the guys are loud as usual. Towels whip through the air. Music blasts. Someone’s arguing over who farted during scrimmage like it’s a war crime.

I don’t move. I’m sitting on the bench, staring at my phone like it might ring. Or buzz. Or maybe just blink with a miracle.

Nothing.

James walks past, towel slung low, and stops. "Alright, bro, you gotta tell us what the hell is going on. You’ve been skating like you left your soul in the penalty box."

I rub my hands over my face. "She’s pulling away."

Connor spins around. "Mandy? The bar-exam badass?"

I nod.

Parker leans against his locker, frowning. "What happened?"

I exhale. "She saw those pics from our night out. You know the one. That blonde clinging to my arm like I was about to propose?"

James whistles. "Yikes. That girl was definitely auditioning to be a puck bunny centerfold."

"I didn’t do anything. Didn’t even notice her until the flash went off. But Mandy saw the comments. The tags. And then her sister FaceTimed her, apparently had a full meltdown over something on Instagram.”

Connor snorts. "That’s sucks."

I shoot him a look. "Not helpful."

He lifts a hand in mock surrender. "Sorry. Proceed."

I continue, voice low. "And then there was this woman at the meet-and-greet who made a comment to Mandy... something about me upgrading after my last girlfriend."

The room goes quiet.

Parker’s voice is soft. "That... sounds a little familiar."

James nods. "Yeah. Grace got hit with similar crap when she and Parker got together. People treat you like scenery in a guy's highlight reel."

Alex folds his arms. "Coach went through something with Lizzie, too. Damn near blew it until he figured it out."

I glance up. "Yeah?"

He nods. "You should talk to him. Guy's smart as hell and he's got wisdom tucked under that permanent frown."

I stare at my phone one more time. Still nothing.

***

After I get dressed, I grab my phone and step into the hallway. The locker room noise fades behind me. I scroll to Mandy's name and hit call before I can second-guess it.

It rings.

And rings.

"Hello?"

My chest tightens at her voice. But it’s not the usual soft, curious, teasing Mandy.

It’s neutral. Clipped. Like customer service Mandy.

"Hey. Just checking in after last night."

Pause.

"Yeah. I’m fine."

Another pause. Like she doesn’t know what else to say.

"You sure?"

"I’ve just been working a lot."

I nod even though she can’t see me. "Okay. I get that. But... if there’s something you need to say, say it. I can take it."

Silence.

"Mandy?"

She exhales. "I just need to focus right now, Nate. On school. On passing."

I blink. "So we’re pretending this thing between us isn’t real now?"

She doesn’t answer.

That silence says more than anything.

I force out a breath. "Okay. I hear you. I won’t push."

"Thank you," she says, but it doesn’t sound like gratitude. It sounds like finality.

We hang up.

I stand there in the hallway, phone still in my hand, heart still in my throat.

The call felt cold. And Mandy never felt cold.

I mutter, "Unreal," and turn to leave, and then remember I left my damn watch in my locker.

Of course I did.

Because apparently today wants to keep kicking me in the teeth.

Coach Stephens is standing just outside the locker room when I round the corner. He looks up and narrows his eyes.

“You look like someone just traded your heart to the minors.”

I snort, trying to keep walking.

But he blocks my path with a raised brow.

“Something you want to say, Jones? Because what affects you and your performance, affects the team. And you were off today at practice. Anything I can do to help?”

I hesitate, then mutter, “She’s pulling away. And I don’t know how to stop it.”

Coach folds his arms and leans against the wall. "Care to elaborate?

I nod slowly. "It’s not just one thing. It’s everything, little moments stacked on top of each other. She’s second-guessing us. Well, me, really, with my hockey player reputation and reading into publicity pics. And I’m trying to prove her wrong without even knowing what she needs, to feel right."

“When Lizzie pulled back, I thought giving her space was noble,” he says. “Turns out what she needed was presence. Not pressure. Not silence. Just… me showing up for her in the way she needed.”

I shift on my feet, his words hitting harder than I expect.

"How the fuck am I supposed to figure that out?"

"Figure it out, or lose her. Those are the stakes."

I nod slowly, taking that in.

He claps a hand on my shoulder. “You’re a smart guy. You’ll handle it. But don’t wait too long. Silence doesn’t break on its own. Someone has to do it.”

"Thanks, Coach."

"No problem, Jones."

After grabbing my watch from my locker, I pause in the hallway and mutter to myself, "Maybe Nina’s around. Could use a female perspective, and she’s sharp as a tack."

Nina’s office door is open. She’s typing away on her laptop, earbuds in.

I knock gently.

She looks up and pulls out one earbud. "Hey, Nate. You alright? Can I help you with something?"

I give her a half-smile. “Got a minute?”

“Sure. Come in.”

I do, slumping into the chair across from her. “Mandy is pulling away. I tried to talk to her a few times, but she shuts me down.”

Nina closes her laptop and listens as I explain the whole thing.

“I told her she’s not temporary. That she’s the one. But it didn’t land. At all.”

Nina tilts her head. “Because words aren’t always the answer. You’re a physical guy, Nate. But she’s emotional. Detail-oriented. Cerebral.”

I groan. “I just took her away for the weekend. Told her she’s the one I play for. Showed her I’m all in. And still it didn’t land. Because of some damn media posts and fucked up comments! So what the hell do I do?”

“Speak her language,” Nina says, leaning forward.

“Think about what matters to her. If she thrives on structure, clarity, and plans, give her something that shows you understand that. She builds walls to protect herself. You want her to believe you? Show her the blueprint that proves you’re not just trying to knock those walls down. You’re trying to belong behind them.”

I nod slowly. “Right. No more guesses. No more hoping she just knows. So how do I do that? Got any ideas?”

Nina offers a small smile. "Welcome to the mental game. Now it's your turn to find the play she’ll recognize, something that proves you're not going anywhere, even when she puts up a wall or the shit hits the fan from the outside."

"Thanks, Nina."

"You're very welcome. Good luck."

I walk out of the facility, still a little bruised, but now, I’ve got purpose in my eyes.

I pull out my phone.

Not to text her.

To plan my next move.