Page 31

Nate

T he roar of the crowd washes over me as I glide across the ice.

Dallas's green jerseys blur against the boards, but I see everything with crystal clarity—the lanes, the angles, the opportunities.

A month ago, I would have been scanning for something else: targets, reasons to unleash the anger that always simmered beneath my surface. Tonight feels different.

McCoy wins the face-off, sending the puck skittering toward me along the right boards. I snag it with my stick, banking it off the wall to avoid a crushing check from Dallas's defenseman. The game has barely started, but the intensity is already sky high.

"Barnesy!" Tucker calls from the slot, but he's covered too tightly.

I pivot, protecting the puck with my body, searching for another option. The defenseman lunges again, and I sidestep, feeling the whoosh of air as he misses. An opening appears—a clear lane to the net—and I accelerate, driving toward the goal.

The Dallas goalie drops to his butterfly stance, covering the bottom of the net. I fake a shot, then pull the puck to my backhand. He bites on the move, sliding right as I tuck the puck into the left corner of the net.

Goal.

The horn blares as my teammates crash into me against the boards. McCoy slaps my helmet, yelling something I can't hear over the crowd's roar. It's only five minutes into the first period, but drawing first blood sets the tone.

"Sick move, Barnesy," Tucker says as we skate back to the bench, bumping my glove with his.

Coach Martinez nods at me. "Well done," he says as I step over the boards.

I settle on the bench, gulping water, already thinking about my next shift. Dallas has a reputation for getting chippy when they're trailing, and I'm typically their favorite target. Especially Brenner—their alternate captain with the perpetual scowl and penchant for dirty hits after the whistle.

Sure enough, my next shift brings Brenner gliding past our bench, muttering something about "pretty boy Barnes" and making a show of spitting on the ice.

The old me would have immediately locked in on him, looking for the first opportunity to drop gloves.

The new me watches him, acknowledging the bait without taking it.

The first period ends with us up 1-0. The locker room buzzes with energy during intermission, guys making minor equipment adjustments and hydrating.

"They're keying in on you, Barnes," Coach says during his brief address. "Use that."

I nod, tightening my skate laces. The message is clear—draw them in, create space for teammates. Play smart, not angry.

Second period starts with Dallas pressing hard. They're faster now, more desperate. A turnover in the neutral zone gives them an odd-man rush, and they capitalize. Tie game.

The momentum shifts. Our passes stop connecting. Frustration builds on our bench.

Brenner skates by after a whistle, bumping my shoulder deliberately. "Got lucky on that first one, Barnes. Won't happen again."

I meet his eyes but say nothing. He wants me rattled. Wants the old Nate Barnes who would take a stupid penalty and put his team in a hole.

"What's wrong? Are you a fucking pussy now?" he sneers.

The comment stings, but I channel the feeling into focus. Next shift, I jump over the boards with renewed determination. Sawyer feeds me a perfect pass in the slot, and I one-time it past the goalie's glove hand.

2-1.

As I circle back after celebration, Brenner cross-checks me from behind, sending me sprawling face-first onto the ice. The ref's arm goes up—he's getting a penalty—but Brenner isn't done. He leans down as I get to my knees.

"I know you want to hit me. Just do it, you fucking pansy."

I stand slowly, my hands trembling with rage. Every muscle screams at me to swing, to shut his mouth with my fists. The hot anger floods my chest, clouding my vision around the edges.

But Elena's face flashes in my mind. The pride in her eyes when I told her about therapy. About working on myself and wanting to find a new way.

"Got nothing to say, Barnes? Not so tough anymore, huh?"

I give him my best “eat shit” look, then skate away.

"Way to keep your cool," McCoy says, when I join the bench. "Brenner's just trying to get in your head."

"Let's make him pay on the scoreboard," I reply, surprised by how calm I sound despite the adrenaline coursing through me.

The third period becomes a chess match. Dallas presses for the equalizer while we look to counter. With five minutes left, I find myself with the puck on a breakaway. It's just me and the goalie—the moment slowing down as I approach.

I fake forehand, go backhand, then pull it back to my forehand as the goalie commits. The puck slides into the open net as I crash into the boards, momentum carrying me through the shot.

Hat trick. Fuck yes…

The ice becomes dotted with caps and beanies as the crowd celebrates. My teammates mob me, faces bright with excitement. Even Coach allows himself a smile from the bench.

Brenner fumes by the Dallas bench, slamming his stick against the boards. When he catches my eye, I don't gloat or taunt. I just turn back to my team’s celebration.

We close out the game 3-1. A solid win against a conference rival.

The locker room afterwards vibrates with victory energy—guys laughing, music blasting, everyone riding the high.

"Miller's in twenty," McCoy announces, emerging from the shower. "First round's on me!"

A cheer goes up from the room. These post-win celebrations have become tradition, a way to bond off the ice.

"You coming, Barnesy?" Tucker asks, pulling a fresh shirt over his head. "Gotta celebrate that hatty, man."

I smile, thinking about the text I sent Elena earlier.

She's coming over to my new place tonight—our first real time alone together since we decided to try again. We’ve been on casual dinner dates and took a run together the other day but we haven’t spent time at either of our places yet. Not until tonight.

"Can’t, guys," I say, zipping my bag. "I’ll catch you next time."

As I leave the locker room, I feel happy and relieved. Not just because of the win or the hat trick, but because for the first time, I chose a different path. I faced the same old triggers and made a new choice.

And now, instead of drowning post-game adrenaline in beer and shallow conversation, I'm going home to Elena.

Ten minutes later, I’m parking my car in the deck.

I take the elevator up and the doors slide open to reveal my new place—thirty-six floors above Chicago, with floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering cityscape.

I've only been living here for a week, and it still feels like a dream—something I’ve always wanted and I can’t believe it’s actually mine.

My phone buzzes with a text from Elena: "Be there in 10."

I text back quickly: "Door code is 8989. Let yourself in. I'll be in the shower."

Stepping into the bathroom, I catch sight of myself in the mirror—helmet hair, skin flushed. I hardly recognize this version of me sometimes—the one who walks away from fights, who chooses quiet nights in over bar-hopping, who's actually working on building something real.

The hot water pounds against my back, washing away the game. I'm halfway through shampooing when I hear Elena's voice calling out.

"Nate? It's me."

"In the shower," I call back. "Make yourself at home. Wine in the fridge if you want."

I rush through the rest of my routine, impatient to see her.

When I emerge squeaky clean and dressed again, Elena is standing by the windows in the living room, silhouetted against the city lights. She's wearing soft leggings and an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder. Her dark hair falls loose down her back.

"This view is insane," she says without turning. "You can see half of Chicago from up here."

I move to stand beside her. "Best part of the place."

She turns to face me then, and the soft smile that spreads across her face undoes me.

"Hi," she says softly.

"Hi," I reply, resisting the urge to drag her into the bedroom and have my way with her. We're taking things slow. Building trust. So I give her a hug instead and she melts into me. Fuck, this is going to be harder than I imagined.

“Congrats on the game,” she says with an enormous smile. “I don’t think you saw me, but I was there. I was fifteen or so rows up from the bench.”

“I was hoping you’d made it.”

I hope she noticed what happened with me and that asshole Brenner but I didn’t want to bring it up—that would feel kind of weird.

“Can I show you around?” I ask.

“Yes, please. I’ve never been in this building before but, so far, I’m super impressed.”

“I'll give you the grand tour,” I say, taking her hand. Her fingers intertwine with mine naturally, like they belong there.

I lead her through the open-concept kitchen first. "Custom cabinets. Granite countertops. All the fancy stuff."

"Did you pick all this out yourself?" Elena runs her hand along the sleek island.

"God no. Hired a designer. Told her I wanted something that didn't scream 'bachelor pad' but still felt like me."

"She nailed it." She then inspects the six burner range that cost me a small fortune. "Do you actually cook, or is this just for show?"

"I'm learning," I admit with a laugh. "Made pasta that wasn't completely terrible last night."

"Impressive," she teases, that playful spark in her eyes that I can’t resist.

I tug her hand gently and we move down the hallway, and I push open the first door. “Guest room,” I say.

The room is tastefully decorated in soft grays and ivory, with a plush king bed and a small reading nook by the window.

Finally, I lead her to the owner’s suite. The door swings open to reveal a spacious bedroom with panoramic views of the city. A massive king bed dominates one wall, draped in white linens with a few muted throw pillows.

Elena’s eyes are wide as she touches the bed linens. “Was all this the designer, too?”