Page 10

Dane

Six months later

The puck hits my tape like destiny.

Clean pass from Moretti—crisp, perfect. I’m already moving, legs burning, eyes slicing through center ice like I own it.

“Go, Whitmore!” someone shouts. I don’t look. I don’t need to.

Two D-men converge—too late. I drop my shoulder and cut through the seam. One tries to check me into the boards, but I slide under and keep flying.

Everything narrows: stick, puck, net.

The goalie shifts left. I fake—then flick it top shelf.

Red light. Horn.

My teammates explode off the bench, howling. Helmets slam mine, gloves smack my back.

“Fucking beauty, Whitmore!”

“That’s three, hotshot!”

We huddle by the glass, laughing and thumping sticks, but even as the chaos hits, I feel it—

The ice is the only place I don’t second-guess myself.

Off the ice?

I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

The celebration feels hollow.

Because I know what comes next.

Sure enough, my phone's already lighting up in my stall. Three texts from Ivy:

Ivy: Saw the goal—highlight reel worthy.

Ivy: Meet you at the team dinner?

Ivy: Thought we could grab a corner table. Just us.

I exhale slowly, remembering how different things were just months ago. Back when we first got home from the island, everything felt possible. Perfect, even.

Maybe I asked her to move in too quickly, but why wait? We’d already wasted years being without each other. The whole fake engagement thing had shown us what we could be together.

Those first months were magic.Preseason games where she'd wear my jersey and laugh with the other players' wives or girlfriends.

Lazy Sunday mornings making pancakes and planning renovations.

Team parties where she'd charm everyone with her quick wit and warm smile.

She even made Christmas special—our first together, the tree glowing while snow fell outside.

She didn’t mind when that woman—Hortensia?—inserted herself between us during that weird conga line at my cousin’s wedding. Now? She gets tense if I mention talking to the team's social media manager. A woman who, by the way, is happily married with three kids.

"Earth to Whitmore!"

I blink. Claude’s standing there, half dressed, looking concerned.

"You coming to dinner? The new place downtown?"

"Yeah, I—" My phone buzzes again. Another text.

Ivy: Should I wear that blue dress you like? The one from the Christmas party?

The Christmas party. Where some drunk fan tried to kiss me under the mistletoe, and everything started shifting. Like that one moment flipped a switch in Ivy's head.

"Trouble in paradise?" Claude asks quietly.

"It's fine."

But it's not. Because I have dinner with my mother after the team thing, and I already know how that's going to go. She's been pushing this Amanda person for weeks—some corporate lawyer's daughter who "understands the demands of a public life."

My phone lights up again.

Ivy: Babe?

I start typing a response, but what can I say? That I miss how easy things used to be? That I'm tired of walking on eggshells? That maybe—just maybe—my mother has a point about compatibility and lifestyle and...

No. I delete it all.

Me: Blue dress is perfect. See you there.

But something's shifted. And I'm starting to wonder if we can shift it back.

*

The new restaurant is all exposed brick and crystal chandeliers. The kind of place that makes you feel underdressed even in designer suits. Half the team's already here, spread across the room.

Ivy’s waiting by the bar in that blue dress. The one that usually short-circuits my brain. Tonight it just makes my chest tight. She's beautiful—always is—but there's tension in her shoulders, her smile a little too bright when she kisses me hello.

"You were amazing tonight," she says, fingers trailing down my arm. "That goal was incredible."

"Thanks, baby." I scan the room, spotting Ethan and his wife by the windows. "Want to—"

"Maybe we could sit over there?" She gestures toward a corner table, far from my friends.

I exhale slowly. "Ivy..."

"What? I just thought it would be nice. More private."

"It's a team dinner."

"Right. Team. Of course." Her smile stays fixed, but something flickers in her eyes.

We end up at a middle table, close enough to be social but not really part of any conversation. Ivy keeps her hand on my thigh, grip tightening whenever someone female approaches. I catch Axel watching us, his expression concerned.

"I should go," she says after an hour. "You have to go ‘talk business’ with your mother, right?"

*

My mother’s house is all old money and curated disapproval. Even the dust is probably designer.

"Darling." She air-kisses my cheeks, Chanel No. 5 and disapproval wafting around her. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me," she says as she hands me a glass of scotch.

"Had team dinner."

"Mm." She leads me to the dining room. "With that girl?"

"Ivy. Her name is Ivy."

"Of course." She signals the staff to bring coffee.

“What business did you want to talk about, Mother?”

“The Whitmore Foundation’s Sapphire Soirée is next month. As you know, I’m the president, so my image—and this family’s—needs to be impeccable. I’d like you to give a speech. Amanda Buffett will be in town to attend.”

Here we go.

"Mother..."

"I'm just saying, darling. Amanda understands this world. The obligations. The spotlight." She sips her wine. "Unlike some people who seem to think professional sports is just a game."

"Ivy understands plenty."

"Does she? Is that why she's been calling you constantly during road trips? Why she gets... uncomfortable... around female fans?"

I frown. "How do you—"

"People talk, darling. And what they're saying isn't flattering." She sets down her glass. "A man in your position needs someone who can handle the pressure. The attention. Someone who won't embarrass herself—or you—with juvenile jealousy."

"It's not—"

"Amanda Buffett would never. No Buffett would." My mother's voice turns gentle. "She knows how to support a man's career. How to be an asset, not a liability."

The words hit harder than they should. Because lately, everything with Ivy feels like a negotiation. Every event, every interaction with a female fan or coworker—one more thing to manage.

"Just think about it," my mother says. "The gala's coming up soon. And like I said, Amanda will be there. No pressure, just... options."

My phone buzzes. Another text.

Ivy: Miss you. Coming home soon?

Six months ago, that message would have made me smile. Now it just feels heavy.

Maybe my mother's right.

Maybe some dreams are too big to compromise.

Maybe some loves aren't meant to last.

I put the phone away without answering, and let my mother tell me more about Amanda.

*

The fight replays in my head as I drive home.

"Business talk," I'd said, not meeting her eyes. "You'd be bored."

"Right." Her voice had that edge. "Because I'm too stupid to understand business ."

"That's not what I—"

"You're ashamed of me."

"Ivy—"

"If you really took me seriously, you wouldn't hide me from your mother."

The words echo as I grip the steering wheel tighter. Classic manipulation. Just like my mother warned me about. Just like every woman who's tried to use guilt to control me.

"A real man would..."

"If you really loved me..."

"Someone who cares would..."

I've seen it before. With teammates' wives demanding trades to better cities. With puck bunnies trying to trap guys with pregnancy scares. With my own mother using emotional leverage to control my father until he finally walked away.

And now Ivy's doing it too.

The perfect girl from the island is gone, replaced by someone who uses my feelings as weapons. Who turns every independence into rejection. Who makes me feel guilty for putting hockey first—the same hockey that lets me give her everything she has.

I park in our driveway, but don't get out immediately. Through the window, I can see her pacing in our bedroom. Probably writing her next guilt trip.

When did love become a transaction? When did "I miss you" turn into "you owe me"?

I rest my head against the seat, closing my eyes. In my pocket, my phone buzzes with another text. Probably Ivy, wondering where I am.

I don't check it.

Instead, I think about what my mother said about Amanda. That she’s a woman who understands the demands of fame and wealth, who won't try to change me, who won't make me choose between love and career.

Maybe that's what I deserve.

The porch light flicks on—Ivy's signal that she's waiting. That she expects me to come up and make things right.

But I'm tired of making things right.

I'm tired of being made to feel wrong.

I start the car again and pull out of the driveway. She'll be hurt, angry, probably blow up my phone all night.

And that just proves my point.