Page 30 of The Dating Coach (Hearts on Ice #4)

I channeled heartbreak into hockey the only way I knew how – with brutal, punishing efficiency.

Every practice became a war against my own body. First on the ice, last off. Extra drills until my legs shook. Shots until my arms screamed. Coach finally had to physically remove me from the rink when I nearly collapsed from exhaustion.

"This isn't healthy," Henry said for the hundredth time, watching me tape my stick in the locker room. My hands were steady despite the exhaustion – muscle memory taking over where conscious thought failed.

"I'm fine," I said automatically.

"You're playing the best hockey of your career while looking like death," Frank observed. "That's not fine. That's a breakdown with good stats."

They weren't wrong. In the two weeks since Gemma and I had fought, I'd scored fifteen points in five games. Every scout who'd backed away was suddenly interested again. My father had left three voicemails about my "renewed focus" and "return to form."

The irony tasted like copper in my mouth. Gemma had walked away so I could focus on hockey, and now hockey felt like performing chest compressions on a corpse.

"Mia's coming to the game tonight," Henry said carefully. "Thought you should know."

My hands stilled on the tape. "Is she..."

"Gemma's not coming," he said gently. "Hasn't left the library in days, according to Karen. Living on coffee and determination to avoid anywhere you might be."

"Great," I muttered. "We're both handling this like mature adults."

"You're handling it like someone got their heart ripped out," Frank corrected. "Which, you know, is accurate."

The game that night was against Maine, a must-win for playoff positioning. I played with mechanical precision – faceoffs won, assists made, defensive responsibilities handled. But there was no joy in it, no fire. Just motion without meaning.

We won 4-1. I had three assists. The scouts were thrilled.

I felt nothing.

In the handshake line, Maine's captain – a guy I'd played with in juniors – pulled me close. "Heard about the girl, Delacroix. Sorry, man. But hey, you're playing unreal without the distraction."

I wanted to punch him. Instead, I smiled and moved on, performing the role of focused athlete everyone wanted to see.

Back in the locker room, Mia waited with Henry and Frank. She looked tired, stressed in ways that made my chest ache. This was supposed to be her safe space, but now it was complicated by the ghost of what her sister and I had broken.

"Good game," she said quietly.

"Thanks." I sat heavily, too exhausted for pretense. "How is she?"

"Drowning herself in work. Not sleeping. Not eating unless Karen forces her." Mia's voice turned fierce. "She's miserable, you're miserable, and I'm sick of watching you both suffer for no reason."

"She made her choice," I said flatly.

"She made a fear-based decision while panicking about your future," Mia corrected. "There's a difference."

"The result's the same."

"Is it?" She pulled out her phone, showing me something. "She turned down UC San Diego yesterday. Said she needs to stay local for 'family reasons.'"

My heart stuttered. "She what?"

"Turned down her dream program to stay here. Near you. Even though she's too stubborn to admit that's why." Mia pocketed her phone. "She's sacrificing her dreams now too. You're both so busy protecting each other that you're destroying yourselves."

"What am I supposed to do?" The words came out raw. "She won't talk to me. Won’t reply to my messages. She's made it clear—"

"She's scared," Mia interrupted. "Terrified of being happy because happiness has always come with conditions in our family. But you? You were the first person to love her without conditions. Don't give up on her now."

She left me sitting there, surrounded by hockey gear and shattered dreams. Around me, teammates celebrated another win, another step toward playoffs. All I could think about was Gemma turning down San Diego, choosing to stay even as she pushed me away.

That night, I sat in my room staring at acceptance letters I’d been ignoring—offers from Prague for architecture, sustainable design, and urban planning. All gathering dust while I played out a season that felt increasingly meaningless.

"You could defer," Henry suggested from the doorway. "Take a gap year. See what happens with hockey."

"Nothing's going to happen with hockey," I said quietly. "Not the way my father envisioned."

"Because of Gemma?"

"Because of me." I set aside the letters. "She was right about one thing – I need to choose my future for myself. Not for my father, not for her, but for me."

"And what do you choose?"

I thought about it, really thought about it. Without the noise of expectations and obligations, what did I want?

"Architecture," I said finally. "Building things that matter. Creating spaces where people like Mia feel safe. Where families don't have to hide who they are."

"And Gemma?"

"Is making her own choices," I said, even as it killed me. “I can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.”

But that night, unable to sleep, I pulled up the livestream of the swim meet I knew she was competing in. Watched her destroy her competition in the butterfly, touching the wall a full body length ahead. She stood on the blocks like a warrior, fierce and focused and absolutely beautiful.

The camera caught her face after – triumph mixed with something hollow. The same expression I saw in the mirror every morning. Victory without joy, success without satisfaction.

"We're idiots," I muttered to the empty room.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number that turned out to be Gemma's teammate Delia: She cried in the locker room after winning. Thought you should know. Some of us think you two should stop being stubborn and figure this out.

I stared at the message, thumb hovering over the reply button. What was there to say? That I missed her like a lost limb? That every success felt empty without her?

Instead, I turned off my phone and tried to sleep, knowing tomorrow would bring another game, another empty victory.

The acceptance letter stared up at me from the desk. Prague was stunning this time of year, and the program promised everything I’d ever wanted.

It lay exactly 4,100 miles from someone who’d turned down San Diego to stay close to a love she couldn’t admit to.

We were both so foolish it physically hurt. But I was too tired to fight for someone who’d already surrendered.

Tomorrow, I decided, I’d commit to that future without her. Tonight, I’d allow myself to grieve what might have been. Some blueprints are harder to draft than others.