Page 14

Bennett

The blare of the final buzzer shoots through the arena, but it's a hollow sound without seeing the one woman I want to in the stands. I was half-hoping to catch a glimpse of chestnut hair and those striking green eyes while I was on the ice. Nothing. Gracie didn't make it.

"Great game, Halliday!" one of the rookies slaps my back, and I force a grin.

"Thanks, kid," I say, dropping my gear with a clatter into my locker. My phone buzzes from within the tangle of my street clothes, but it's just an alert about tomorrow's practice schedule. Although, there is a missed text from Gracie. It came in after the game started, letting me know that she wasn’t able to get away from work after all.

Gracie's career is booming. My mom’s company, Holidates, is revolutionizing how people connect, and it demands her time like the Kings demand mine. I get it; I really do. We're both hustling, chasing dreams wrapped in responsibility. Doesn't make the empty space beside me sting any less.

Dragging my fingers through my damp hair, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. There’s a tug-of-war going on inside me, muscles straining against each other—the pull of what I feel for Gracie pitted against the disciplined focus my career demands.

"Hey, Bennett, you coming for drinks at Rinkside?" someone calls out.

"Maybe later," I mutter, more to myself than anyone else. I need to clear my head, figure out where all this is heading.

The locker room empties, leaving me in a quiet that's too loud. I lace up my sneakers with robotic precision.

Am I just wasting time trying to juggle a relationship with a woman that is just as busy as me?

I shove my phone into my pocket and head out of the ice rink. I'm fooling myself thinking we could have something real, something lasting.

Nevertheless, I can't shake the image of her smile, the sound of her laugh, the way my name sounds coming from her lips.

Weightlifting workouts are brutal physically and mentally. At least when I’m on the ice, I don’t have time to think for long periods between reps. There’s always action that’s needed to be dealt with.

The clang of metal plates reverberates through the weight room, and I’m mid-rep when my phone buzzes in the pocket of my gym shorts. Another missed call from Gracie. My grip tightens around the barbell. That's the third one this week.

"Damn," I grunt, re-racking the weights with a clatter that echoes my frustration.

"Trouble in paradise?" Ethan teases as he hoists his own set of dumbbells.

"What’s it to you?" I wipe the sweat from my brow, wondering if Gracie's getting fed up with my schedule. It's relentless—practices, games, last-minute strategy meetings. There’s always something.

"Good luck keeping a lady around during the season, man," another teammate chimes in, not looking up from his bench press. "It's a beast."

"Tell me about it," I mutter.

I sit down on the weight bench for my next set, but my mind's not on the burn in my muscles. It's spinning with thoughts of Gracie.

"Focus, Halliday!" Coach barks from across the room, and I realize my arms have gone slack.

"Right, sorry." I force out another rep, each lift heavy with doubt. Is it even fair to drag her into this world? A world where I can't promise a Friday night dinner or a lazy Sunday morning without the threat of a sudden away game?

"Relationships are work, Ben. More than most can handle with a career like ours," Ethan adds once Coach is out of earshot.

"Maybe you're right," I concede, setting the bar back on the rack with a finality.

My fingers itch to dial Gracie's number, to hear her voice and explain, maybe apologize. What good would it even do? The team needs me. The Kings are counting on me to be at the top of my game, not tangled up in heartstrings.

"Hey, Bennett, you coming to Rinkside tonight?" someone calls out, snapping me back to reality.

"Sure," I lie, knowing full well I’ll spend the evening staring at my phone, contemplating whether to send Gracie a text or let the silence speak for itself.

In my sweatpants at home is exactly where I stay for the rest of the night.

My fingers hover over Gracie's name on the screen. I should call her, explain why I've been MIA lately, but then again, she may be busy working. I don’t want to interrupt her.

A deep breath in. Then I exhale slowly, my thumb brushing against the call button, but I can't press it. The voices of my teammates echo in my head. Am I being selfish wanting her, knowing I could only give her bits and pieces of my time?

"Damn it," I sigh, dropping the phone onto the leather couch beside me. It lands with a soft thud. My gaze drifts to the ceiling fan above, its blades chasing each other in endless circles.

Maybe I'm just not cut out for this.

My phone suddenly jolts to life in my hand, startling me. The screen lights up with her name.

Gracie: Hey, you. Missed your face today. Everything okay?

Three sentences. That's all it takes for a smile to tug at the corners of my mouth. Is it possible that she gets it? Maybe she understands this crazy life of mine, or maybe she's just too damn good at making me forget why I was worried in the first place.

I begin to type, “Everything’s fine,” back, but my thumbs stall. The truth is, everything's far from fine.