Page 20

Chapter twenty

Colton: Another Shot

I stared at the ceiling, still unsure how long I’d been awake. I hadn’t moved. Not really. Just blinked. Swallowed. Breathed.

But her voice was still there. I don’t want you to leave. It hadn’t stopped echoing—not through the night, not now, as I dragged myself out of bed and padded barefoot into the kitchen.

The fridge creaked open, cool air curling around my ankles. I leaned in, nudging a carton of eggs aside, searching for the pre-washed spinach. Blueberries or strawberries? I probably didn’t need to buy both, but here we are. Fine—no decisions today. I grabbed both.

Fruit, peanut butter, protein powder, spinach—everything landed in the blender. Let's see how this smoothie tastes. The blender roared. I stood there, palm flat on the counter, replaying everything.

Riley. Her arms around me. The way her voice caught when she said, Stay.

She saw all of it. Every flaw, every headline, every mess. And she still chose me. I wasn’t someone to tolerate. I was someone to choose.

I’d spent years trying to be whoever I needed to be to get by. The fighter. The comeback kid. The PR problem. The warning story.

But lately I’d been showing up as just me. Every time I showed up as just me, I got a win.

I poured the smoothie into a glass and took a sip.

Not bad. No, good enough for today. It wasn’t perfect. Neither was this new version of me I was learning to become.

***

On the way to the rink, I swung by the pet store.

Janice was still out—flu or sinus thing, I couldn’t remember—but the dogs didn’t care.

They had expectations. I grabbed two bags of the good stuff, the kind that made even the older rescues sprint to the front of their runs.

The guy behind the counter raised an eyebrow.

“That's a lot of treats, man.” I just smiled.

"And the dogs will say that I didn't bring enough. "

I pulled into the lot at the rink. Glanced at my watch. Good, I had some time to find Ryan.

Ryan was at the corner table in the staff lounge, bent over a notebook with his usual black coffee in hand. His pen kept tapping against the side of the cup, but whatever he was writing wasn’t moving forward. Not really.

"You planning our playoff run?" I said, sliding into the seat across from him.

He didn’t look up. "Just trying to figure out why we keep losing faceoffs in the third."

"I think the teams are adjusting. We win early draws, but by the third, they've got us figured out." I paused, " Well, that and we are usually low on gas at that point."

Ryan gave me a look but didn’t argue.

"So," I said, fingers laced together on the table. "I’ve been thinking. About the transfer. About what you said. About Riley."

That got his attention. He sat back, eyebrows lifting.

"And?"

I hesitated. Not because I didn’t know what to say, but because her face flashed through my head again. Her hands. Her voice. Her lips.

"We, uh… talked."

Ryan held up a hand. "Nope. Stop. You remember the rule. Only tell me what I need to know."

I grinned. "Right. Just—consider it covered."

He nodded once, satisfied. "So?"

"So… I’m staying. I want to stay. This place is good for me. Why should I leave? If I leave, Vanessa wins."

Ryan was quiet. Too quiet.

"You’re not gonna say anything?"

"I’m glad," he said finally. "That you talked to her. That you thought it through. That you came here to tell me."

But there was something else in his voice.

"Everything good?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Just… a lot going on."

I didn’t push. Whatever it was, it wasn’t for now. I slapped the table lightly and stood. "Alright. See you out there."

"Yeah. See you."

I walked out, that weird note still echoing in my head.

Something was off. Still, my head felt clearer than it had been in weeks.

I stepped into the locker room, and I grabbed my gear. Scrimmage day. The best kind of practice. Just pure, high- speed hockey. Playmaking instincts, quick reads, and the kind of competition that reminds you exactly why you fight for a spot on the ice.

I pulled on my gear, tightened the laces on my skates, and rolled my shoulders. A few guys were already messing around, tossing pucks against the boards and chirping each other about yesterday’s reps.

Helmet on. Gloves secured. I stepped on the Ice. Time to work.

Coop and a few guys were already on the ice, waiting for the coaches to call lines. I skated toward them, then turned towards the coaches.

"Put Grady on my line."

Grady had pushed me harder than I expected yesterday, and that was exactly why I wanted him on my wing today.

A few heads turned. Grady’s did, too—wide-eyed, mouth half-open, like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard right.

Coop smirked as he skated past. "What, you develop a death wish overnight?"

I snorted. "Nah. Just figured I should play with the guy who made me skate faster than I have in weeks."

Grady finally found his voice. "You sure about that?"

The coaches didn’t hesitate. "Fine. You two work the rush. Coop, round out the line."

Coop clapped Grady on the shoulder as they skated toward me. "Guess you’re stuck with us, buddy."

Grady shook his head, muttering something under his breath, but he didn’t argue.

I shifted my stick in my hands, taking a steady breath. This was exactly where I wanted to be .

***

The end of scrimmage days always feel the same. Heavy legs.

I skated toward the boards, pulling my helmet off and running a hand through my damp hair. The ice had felt right. So had the shifts. I liked having Grady on my line.

A couple of guys glided past, tapping gloves against mine. Movement near the benches caught my eye. The coaches. Ryan. A couple of assistants. Talking.

Then, one of them glanced over, then gave a slight nod, toward the office This was either really good or really bad.

I skated toward the tunnel, pulling my gloves off. Whatever this was, I could handle it. I rolled my shoulders, exhaling as I stepped off the ice. Let’s hear it.

I stepped into the coach’s office. Adrenaline had been settling after the scrimmage. I think I just felt another jolt.

Ryan was here, leaning against the desk. The head coach sat behind it, fingers laced together, watching me with the kind of measured calm that meant something big was coming.

I sat down across from him, gripping my gloves in one hand, waiting.

He didn’t waste time.

"I have some news for you," he said, tone even. "I think you’ll be happy—you’re going back up."

Going up.

That’s what I wanted. That’s what I’d been fighting for. Why do I feel like I just won and lost Game 7 of the Stanley Cup simultaneously?

I nodded slowly, the words settling it. "That is great news."

I can’t believe it. It's happening. I mean, I know I worked hard and earned this. But for a while, I wasn’t sure. I felt like I kept getting knocked down, that maybe I would never get a second chance.

I was already thinking ahead—imagining telling Riley and how she’d react.

Would she smile? Would she say something sharp but warm, making it seem like she wasn’t just proud of me, but happy?

Would she give me a big hug? Would she kiss me?

The coach kept going, voice steady. "There was an injury—Trevor’s out for the season.”

The thrill—the energy that came with hearing I was going up— was still there. But I was beginning to feel something else creep in.

I wasn’t just moving up. I was leaving.

I nodded again, but only half-heard him. Trevor. Injury. Opportunity.

Leaving this rink. Leaving this team.

Leaving Riley.

I swallowed, shifting my grip on my gloves, trying to make sense of the collision between what I had wanted for so long and the reality of it arriving like a freight train.

“They need someone fresh, and they see how well you've been doing here. They want you back for the end of the season."

Long-distance relationships. Other guys do it. I can do it.

"You’ve got plane tickets for tomorrow morning. Pack up."

I blinked, pulse slamming in my ears.

Tomorrow morning?