I check my phone for the fifth time in twenty minutes. Still nothing from Harmony. It’s been three days since her last real text—not counting the "busy, talk later" bullshit she sent yesterday. I toss the phone onto my bed and run my hands through my hair. This isn't me. Dakota "Lucky" Miles doesn't pine after women. They pine after me. At least, that's how it used to be before Miss Green Eyes stormed into my life with her that smile that makes me forget my own damn name.
"Fuck," I mutter, pacing the length of my bedroom. Our last time together replaying in my head.
The memory makes my jaw clench. I grab my gym bag harder than necessary, knowing I need to get to practice. Our team has a critical game tonight against the Chicago Bladed, and I can't afford to be distracted. Yet here I am, a grown-ass professional hockey player, moping over a woman who's clearly lost interest.
I grab my keys, slam the door behind me, and take the stairs two at a time. Outside, the sun beats down, mocking my dark mood with its cheerfulness. I slide into my Porsche, the leather seats hot against my back, and tear out of the driveway faster than I should.
On the drive to the rink, I try to focus on hockey. The team. The plays we've been working on. Although my mind keeps circling back to Harmony. The way she'd laugh at my ridiculous jokes just to humor me. The slight furrow between her brows when she's concentrating. I grip the steering wheel tighter.
When did I become this guy? The one checking his phone like a teenager waiting for a girl to text? I'm Dakota Miles, for Christ's sake. Charleston Renegades center. The guy who once had three different women show up to the same game wearing jerseys with my number.
I pull into the players' lot at the rink, park haphazardly, and grab my gear. Maybe crushing it at practice will clear my head.
"There he is! The man, the legend," Ryder calls out as I walk into the locker room, already half-suited up. "Thought you might be running late, considering."
"Considering what?" I snap, dropping my bag onto the bench.
Ryder raises his eyebrows, exchanging a look with Asher. "Considering the game tonight. You okay, man?"
"Fine." I yank open my locker and start changing, avoiding eye contact with anyone. The room fills with the usual pre-practice chatter. It’s all normal hockey player shit that usually feels like home but today just grates on my.
"Miles, you look like someone pissed in your protein shake," Kaleb observes.
"Just focused on the game," I mutter, lacing up my skates.
"Bullshit," Asher says, dropping onto the bench beside me. "This is about Weather Girl, isn't it?"
I shoot him a glare. "Her name is Harmony."
"So it is about her," Asher grins, nudging my shoulder. "Trouble in paradise?"
"There is no trouble, because there is no paradise." I stand up, grabbing my stick. "Can we just focus on hockey? You know, the thing we get paid to do?"
Practice is a disaster. I miss passes. I botch shots I could make in my sleep. Coach benches me twice to "get my head out of my ass," his words echoing across the ice for everyone to hear. By the end, I'm sweating, frustrated, and more wound up than when I arrived.
As we're heading back to the locker room, Asher falls into step beside me. "Hey, let's grab a coffee. We've got time before we need to be back for the game."
I start to refuse, but there's something in his expression that makes me nod. "Fine. Give me ten to shower."
Twenty minutes later, we're sitting in a quiet corner of Caffeine Beach. Asher pushes a black coffee toward me and leans back in his chair.
"So, you gonna tell me what's going on, or do I have to guess?" he asks.
I take a sip of coffee, burning my tongue. "Nothing's going on."
"Dakota." Asher uses my full name, a sure sign he's being serious. "I've seen you take hits that would put most guys in the hospital, and you've never looked as wrecked as you do today."
The coffee tastes bitter in my mouth. I set the cup down and sigh. "I think Harmony's pulling away."
"What makes you think that?"
"She's been distant. Canceling plans. One-word texts. The classic 'I'm too busy' routine." I trace the rim of my cup with my finger. "I've seen it before. I'm usually the one doing it."
Asher nods slowly. "Have you talked to her about it?"
"And say what? 'Hey, are you ghosting me? Because it feels like you're ghosting me, and I don't like how it feels'? Pass."
"Actually, yeah. That's exactly what you could say." Asher takes a sip of his own drink—some fancy latte thing that Elle's got him hooked on. "Look, before Elle, I was just as bad as you at the relationship thing. Maybe worse."
"This isn't a relationship," I say automatically.
Asher gives me a look. "Isn't it, though? You're checking your phone constantly. You're distracted at practice. You nearly took Ryker's head off with that wild pass today. That's not Dakota 'Lucky' Miles behavior. That's relationship behavior."
His words hit like a punch to the gut. "I just don't get it," I admit quietly. "Things were good. Really good. And now suddenly she's acting like I'm an obligation, not a priority."
"Did you ever consider that maybe her job actually is crazy demanding? She predicts the weather, man. That shit affects people's lives."
I hadn't really thought about it that way. In my mind, meteorology was just pointing at maps and saying it might rain tomorrow.
"How do you and Elle make it work?" I ask, surprising myself with the question. "With hockey and her... whatever it is she does."
"Nursing school," Asher supplies with a smile. "It's not easy. We miss each other sometimes. We have to be intentional about making time. We talk about it. We don't just assume the other person knows what we're thinking."
"Talking. Great." I drain the last of my coffee. "Not exactly my strong suit."
"No shit," Asher laughs. "Here's the thing about relationships—they're like hockey. You don't get better by avoiding the hard parts. You get better by practicing them."
The metaphor is so cheesy I have to roll my eyes, but I get his point. "I'll think about it."
"That's all I'm asking." Asher checks his watch. "We get going and go take our pregame nap. Game time's coming up fast."
Later, back at the arena, I try to focus as we suit up. Coach gives us the same speech he always does before big games—about heart and hustle and showing those Chicago bastards who owns the ice. I go through my usual pre-game routine, taping my stick just so, adjusting my pads, but my mind keeps drifting to Harmony.
Would she be watching tonight? She said she might catch the game on TV if work allowed.
As we take the ice for warm-ups, the crowd roars. I force myself to be present, to feel the cool air on my face, to sync my breathing with my movements.
The first period starts strong. I'm on my game, making clean passes and creating opportunities. We're up 1-0 on a beautiful goal from Ryder off my assist.
Then my phone buzzes in my gear bag during the first intermission. I shouldn't check it. I know I shouldn't. Yet I do anyway, hoping to see Harmony's name.
Instead, it's a notification from Instagram. Someone tagged me in a photo. Some random chick from a bar I don't even remember visiting. I close the app, disappointed and annoyed at myself for caring so much.
"Phones away, Miles," Coach barks. "Focus on the game."
I nod, shoving the phone deep into my bag, but the damage is done. My focus is fractured.
The second period is a different story. I'm sloppy and distracted. I miss a critical defensive assignment that leads to Chicago tying the game. Coach benches me for six minutes—an eternity in hockey time—before sending me back out with a look that makes me straighten my spine.
By the third period, we're down 2-1, and I'm playing like I've forgotten what sport I'm participating in. The frustration builds inside me.
With five minutes left in the game, I get the puck on a breakaway. It's just me and the Blades’ goalie. I can feel the arena holding its breath. This is my moment to redeem myself and tie the game.
I fake left, cut right, and shoot—directly into the goalie's glove. A save so easy it's embarrassing.
"Fuck!" I slam my stick against the ice.
As I skate back to our zone, a Chicago player—Zach Mickelson, their star defenseman—skates past me with a smirk.
"Nice shot, Miles. My grandmother has better aim."
Something snaps inside me. All the frustration, insecurity, and anger I've been bottling up explodes. I drop my gloves and grab Mickelson by the jersey, throwing a wild punch that connects with his jaw.
The officials blow their whistles frantically as we grapple on the ice. I vaguely register my teammates trying to pull me off him, Kaleb's voice in my ear telling me to calm down. I'm beyond reason, beyond listening.
When they finally separate us, the penalty is announced: five minutes for fighting, game misconduct. I'm done for the night.
As I'm escorted off the ice and not even to the penalty box to boos from Chicago fans and shocked silence from our own, the reality of what I've done hits me. I've let my team down. In a critical game. All because I couldn't keep my personal shit in check.
In the locker room, I tear off my gear, throwing my gloves across the room in. I'm showered and halfway dressed when the final buzzer sounds. The door bangs open, and the team files in. We lost 3-1, Boston scoring on the power play after my penalty.
Kaleb storms directly toward me, still in full gear, eyes blazing. "What the actual fuck was that, Miles?"
"Back off, Jensen," I warn, not in the mood for a lecture.
"No, I won't back off. You cost us the game because you couldn't control your temper." He's in my face now, all six-foot-three of him. "We're fighting for playoff position, and you pull this childish bullshit?"
"It was one game," I mutter, though the excuse sounds weak even to my own ears.
"One game could be the difference between making playoffs and watching from home," Kaleb growls. "Whatever's going on with you, fix it. The team deserves better."
"The team deserves better," I echo sarcastically. "As if you've never had an off night, Viking."
"An off night is one thing. Deliberately throwing away a game because you're pissy about your love life is another." Kaleb's words hit too close to home, making me flinch.
"You don't know what you're talking about," I say, grabbing my bag.
"We all know, Dakota," Asher cuts in, his voice softer but no less serious. "We're your friends. We see you. Kaleb's right—you can't bring that energy to the ice. It hurts all of us."
The locker room has gone quiet, everyone watching our confrontation. I feel exposed, raw, like they can all see right through me to the mess underneath.
"Fine," I say, jaw clenched. "I'll fix it."
I push past them, nearly running into Coach in the hallway. He gives me a look that says we'll be having a very unpleasant conversation tomorrow, but he lets me pass without a word.
In my car, I sit with the engine running, hands gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles ache. This is Harmony's fault. No—that's not fair. It's my fault for letting her get to me. For caring too much. For breaking my own cardinal rule: never get attached.
The solution seems suddenly, blindingly clear. End it now, before it gets worse. Before I'm so invested that I can't function when she inevitably walks away. Cut my losses and get back to being Dakota Miles, the guy who doesn't need anyone.
I grab my phone, typing before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: We should end this. It's not working for me anymore. Take care, Harmony.
My thumb hovers over the send button for a long moment. Then I press it, watching the message deliver.
It's done. I've cut the cord. No more checking my phone. No more wondering if she's thinking about me. No more distractions on the ice.
So why does it feel like I've just made the biggest mistake of my life?
My phone sits heavy in my hand and the bright light of the screen illuminating the interior of my car. Three dots appear, then disappear. She's typing, then stopping. My heart pounds in my chest so hard I can hear it in my ears.
Then nothing. No response. Just read receipts staring back at me, confirming she's seen my message and chosen not to reply.
I throw my phone onto the passenger seat and start driving, not sure where I'm going, just knowing I need to be anywhere but here, sitting in an empty parking lot with the hollow feeling in my chest.