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SEVENTEEN

PATRICK

I tightened my grip around my stick, circling restlessly on my skates as I waited for the puck to drop. The ref hesitated, holding the moment in suspense, and I stole a glance toward the stands.

Habit, maybe. Or maybe something more.

But for the first time in two months, Shane wasn’t there.

The spot he usually claimed—a spot I’d grown annoyingly used to—sat empty and glaring, a silent accusation in a sea of noisy faces.

My stomach twisted sharply, raw and hollow.

It felt like someone had carved a hole into my chest and left it open to the cold air of the rink.

I clenched my jaw, trying to ignore the ache. It wasn’t working.

“Hey, P, you awake?” Easton teased, nudging me gently with his elbow as we prepared for the face-off. I didn’t answer, barely even registered his voice. I was locked into that empty seat, searching for Shane’s messy hair, his oversized hoodie, and those damn notebooks of his.

Nothing.

When the puck dropped, something inside me snapped.

The blade of my stick hit the ice with a furious crack, and I lunged forward, faster and harder than I’d ever moved in practice.

Ice sprayed up behind me, and my muscles burned, but I embraced it, pouring every bit of frustration and confusion into each stride.

I caught the puck effortlessly, weaving around two Ice Hawks who hadn’t anticipated the fury I brought tonight. One guy—big and mean-looking—tried to knock me into the boards, but I ducked low, skating circles around him. If I’d cared, I might’ve smiled at the curses he hurled after me.

But tonight, nothing was funny.

I’d spent two days replaying our fight, two nights staring at the ceiling, wondering how it had all gone so wrong.

Shane thought I’d betrayed him, that I’d violated his trust, but hadn’t he done the same thing?

Hadn’t he been watching my every move, noting my every flaw, reducing me to a case study, an experiment?

Anger flared hot in my chest as I fired the puck to Elio, who redirected it quickly toward Easton.

It narrowly missed the net, bouncing off the post with a hollow clang that echoed my frustration.

“Fuck!” Easton growled, slamming his stick against the ice.

I circled back, heart pounding. It didn’t matter. I’d set it up again. I’d fight harder, skate faster, anything to quiet the noise in my head, to fill the gaping hole Shane had left behind.

When play resumed, I went at it relentlessly. I raced down the ice, narrowly dodging an elbow aimed directly at my head. My shoulder collided with one of the Ice Hawks, and a sharp jolt ran through my body, but I didn’t care. Pain was better than the numbness, better than the ache I couldn’t shake.

I stole the puck, my pulse thundering in my ears as I charged the goal again. I felt eyes on me, hundreds of them, but none were his. Shane had been the steady, quiet observer, the one face I never admitted I searched for after each shift. Now he was gone, and I was playing blind.

I cut right, faking out the defender, passing the puck to Elio once more. This time, Easton caught Elio’s pass and flicked it sharply into the net.

The crowd erupted in cheers, a wave of sound crashing around me. But it felt distant, muted somehow. Elio and Easton were celebrating, embracing each other in triumph, and my teammates slammed into me in congratulations, patting my back, shouting praise.

I forced a smile, accepting their high fives with numb fingers.

My pulse didn’t slow, my breathing came ragged, and the emptiness gnawed deeper.

I searched again—pointlessly—eyes scanning the stands for Shane’s absent face, desperate to share this moment of victory, even if only silently, from afar.

But his seat remained vacant.

As the game went on, my intensity grew, fueled by a strange mix of hurt and fury.

My moves became more reckless, the plays more aggressive.

I welcomed each rough check, threw my body willingly into every collision.

Anything was better than facing the fact that Shane had cut me out, severed the fragile bond we’d built, and left me alone in the spotlight I’d foolishly convinced myself I hated.

By the third period, the Ice Hawks had begun to fear me. They gave me space when I took the puck, eyed me warily as I sped toward them. And still, none of it was enough.

With only a few minutes left, I caught the puck again, pushing through defenders, breath harsh in my throat, muscles trembling with exhaustion.

Sweat blurred my vision, but I didn’t slow down.

I couldn’t. Stopping meant feeling the hollow ache again, acknowledging the empty seat, the broken connection.

I unleashed a wild, desperate shot toward the net, watching it sail past the goalie’s reach. The arena exploded with sound, roaring my name, celebrating my ruthless victory.

But as my teammates crashed into me, elation shining in their eyes, I felt nothing but emptiness. My gaze drifted once more toward Shane’s empty spot, hoping foolishly he might’ve appeared suddenly, forgiving everything, erasing the hurt.

He hadn’t.

Instead, I skated toward the bench, hollow and weary. I dropped my head into my hands, breathing shakily, knowing I’d poured everything I had onto the ice tonight—and it hadn’t fixed a single damn thing.

After the game, we all gathered at Lumière, the air thick with laughter and lingering adrenaline.

I sat quietly among the chatter, feeling more bruised and battered on the inside than from any check I’d taken on the ice.

Halfway through my beer, I realized I couldn’t do it tonight.

I couldn’t pretend everything was fine while Shane’s empty seat back at the rink still haunted me.

Quietly, I pushed my chair back, leaving the beer unfinished as I slipped outside. The cool air bit into my skin, and I breathed deep, hoping it might numb the rawness that clung stubbornly inside my chest.

I hadn’t expected company. But moments later, the door behind me creaked open, and I glanced over my shoulder to see Elio stepping out into the chilly night. He approached slowly, eyes thoughtful, cautious, reading me the way he always seemed to do so effortlessly.

“You okay, P?” he asked gently.

I shrugged, unwilling to admit just how far from okay I really was. “Just tired. Rough game.”

He hummed softly, leaning against the brick wall beside me. Silence fell between us, broken only by distant laughter from inside the bar. Eventually, he spoke again, voice careful yet firm. “Shane wasn’t there tonight.”

I felt my throat tighten. “Nope.”

Elio paused, waiting. But I wasn’t giving anything away, not willingly. I’d always been good at hiding behind silence. Until now. This time, Elio wasn’t letting me slip by.

“Listen,” he started again, quieter, more direct, “we don’t really talk about this stuff. You never said anything officially, but it’s pretty obvious.”

“What’s obvious?” I asked, turning my head, forcing defiance into my tone.

“You and Shane,” Elio said plainly. “You’re dating.”

I stared at the ground, my jaw clenched tight. It hurt hearing it aloud. It felt like ripping open a wound I’d barely managed to close.

“Patrick,” Elio insisted softly, “come on. It’s just me.”

I exhaled shakily, defeat creeping into my bones. “Fine. Yeah. We were …together. Or whatever.”

Elio waited a beat. “What happened?”

The story crawled out slowly, painfully.

It dragged out of me piece by humiliating piece.

I told him about the notebook, the betrayal, the fight, and how everything spiraled out of control in a matter of moments.

How Shane’s words had cut deeper than I’d imagined possible and how mine had wounded him just as badly.

By the time I finished, I felt drained, exposed in a way that made me desperately want to run.

Elio said nothing for a moment, absorbing every word. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, deliberate, full of quiet understanding. “You know, when things went bad with Jaxon, I was ready to give up, too.”

I glanced up at him, surprised. He rarely talked openly about his relationship, especially when things had gotten tough. But here he was, laying it bare for my sake.

“We pushed each other away hard,” Elio admitted. “I hurt him because I was scared, Patrick. I’d convinced myself I didn’t deserve him and that if he saw the real me, he’d leave. So I made sure he never had the chance.”

I swallowed thickly, recognizing myself in his words. “But you guys figured it out.”

Elio nodded slowly, eyes serious. “Yeah, we did. But it took courage, Patrick. Real courage. More than any hockey game ever demanded. I had to stop running from my mistakes and face them head-on. I had to admit that I was scared, vulnerable…and wrong.”

I closed my eyes, exhaling through the tightness in my chest. “What if it’s too late?”

Elio offered a small, knowing smile. “If Shane feels half of what you feel right now, it’s not too late. Sometimes we hurt the people we care about because they’re the ones close enough to take the hit. But you don’t give up just because things got messy. Love is messy.”

My throat tightened painfully. “I don’t even know if he wants to talk to me.”

“He might not right away,” Elio agreed gently. “But if you don’t even try, you’ll never know. It’ll eat you up, Patrick. Trust me, I know.”

I nodded silently, staring down at my feet, my mind swirling with doubt, fear, and fragile hope. Elio placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.

“You guys deserve a real shot,” he said, voice firm. “But that means you have to be brave enough to risk failing again. Maybe you’ll screw it up—maybe it’ll hurt even worse—but at least you’ll know you didn’t just give up when it mattered most.”

His words lingered, heavy and honest, sinking deep into my chest. He squeezed my shoulder gently and turned toward the door. “Think about it. If you really care about him, you have to fight for it.”

Elio disappeared back inside Lumière, leaving me alone again, standing in the cold with my heartbeat echoing his advice.

I took a deep breath, the first one in days that didn’t feel suffocating. Maybe Elio was right. Maybe Shane deserved a real fight—not a hockey game, not an angry exchange of words—but an honest, vulnerable battle for something deeper, something worth every bruise along the way.

I wasn’t sure if I could do it, if I was brave enough. But as I stood there, the ache inside me softened just a little, enough for me to realize that I owed it to Shane, and to myself, to try.

After all, what was the point of winning on the ice if I lost the one person who made it all mean something?