CHAPTER 2

BLAKE

The locker room smells like sweat and liniment and the specific cologne that Vault insists on wearing despite the fact that it smells like a department store had a nervous breakdown.

"Yo, Cap," Vault says, dropping onto the bench next to me. His real name is Marcus Vaultier, but nobody's called him that since junior league. "You seen the press list for the embed?"

I don't look up from lacing my skates. My hands know this motion like they know breathing left-right, left-right, pull tight. Muscle memory. The kind that doesn't require thought.

"Negative," I say.

"There's a journalist from the Riverside Chronicle. Senior staff. Full access for the season." Vault's voice has that tone—the one he uses when he's about to say something that's going to matter. "Her name's Elle Bloom."

My hands stop.

Not completely. Not in a way that would be obvious to anyone watching. But they stop. The lace goes slack in my fingers, and for one full second, I am not breathing, and I am not thinking, and I am not the captain of The Forge.

I am twenty-eight years old and hearing a name I haven't let myself say out loud in three years.

"Elle Bloom," I repeat. My voice is flat. It's the voice I use in interviews when I'm saying nothing while appearing to say something. The voice of perfect control.

"Yeah, she—"

"Is she here?"

"Not yet. She's supposed to observe practice starting tomorrow, but—"

I stand up. My skates are half-laced, one boot still loose, but I stand up anyway. The motion is aggressive enough that the immediate area of the locker room goes quiet. Not the whole room—just the guys closest to me. They feel the shift in temperature.

Vault's eyes go wide. "Cap, what—"

"She's not doing this," I say. The words come out flat and final. "She's not embedded with this team. She's not watching us. She's not—"

I stop myself. I'm breathing too hard.

The locker room is definitely quiet now. Everyone's pretending they're not listening. That's how you survive in a locker room: you hear everything and act like you heard nothing.

I sit back down. Finish lacing my boot with deliberate, measured movements. My heart is doing something irregular in my chest.

"Cap," Vault says quietly. "You know this girl?"

"No," I lie.

THREE YEARS AGO

Elle's apartment smells like her vanilla and something floral, like she's rubbed perfume into every corner of the space. Or maybe that's just what her skin smells like when you've been inside her, when you know her in that specific, animal way that makes everything else blur.

It's late. Three in the morning. We're in her bed, and she's curved against my chest, and I am thinking about how I never want to leave this moment. How I would give anything to stay in this moment forever.

That's the thought I'm having when my phone buzzes.

I ignore it. Whatever it is, it can wait.

It buzzes again.

Elle makes a small sound of irritation. She's half-asleep, her leg draped across my stomach, her hand splayed across my ribs like she's checking that my heart is still beating.

The phone buzzes a third time.

"Check it," she mumbles, not opening her eyes.

"It's fine."

"Baby, check it."

I extract myself carefully trying not to wake her fully and reach for the phone on the nightstand. The screen illuminates my face in the dark room.

COACH: Emergency practice. Injury report. Need you now.

I read it twice, hoping the words will rearrange themselves into something different.

They don't.

"What is it?" Elle's voice is suddenly alert. She's always been like this—able to flip from asleep to present in a single breath.

"Coach needs me."

"No." She says it simply, like it's a fact she's stating. "You have two days off. It's Sunday."

"One of the guys got injured. A serious one." I'm already out of bed, already pulling on boxers. "I don't have a choice, Elle."

"You do have a choice."

She's sitting up now, the sheet falling away from her body. Even in the dark, even angry, she's beautiful in a way that makes my chest hurt.

"You're always choosing hockey. Always. When do I get to matter?"

I stop. My hands are on my jeans, and I stop, because she's right. She is objectively, undeniably right, and I know it. I have known it for a while.

I turn back to her. "Elle, I'll be back tonight. We can—"

"No." Her voice is steady now, and there's something in it that sounds like finality. Like a door closing. "I'm done waiting. I'm done being the person you come back to when hockey doesn't need you. I deserve better."

"Elle—"

But she's already turning away from me, already reaching for her own clothes like she's the one leaving. And I leave instead. I finish dressing. I try to argue, but she won't look at me, and arguing with someone who won't look at you is like fighting a ghost. Pointless. Exhausting.

I drive to practice thinking I'll fix it when I get back. I'll bring her flowers. I'll take the next two days off no matter what. I'll show her that she matters.

I don't realize she's already made her decision.

I don't realize that I'm already losing her.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Practice is brutal.

I'm not being metaphorical. I'm driving the team harder than I have all season. My checks are vicious. My passes are sharp enough to draw blood. When young Martinez gets too close to the puck, I hip-check him into the boards hard enough that he stays down for a second, catching his breath.

Royce, our assistant coach is watching me with an expression I don't like. It's the expression that says 'we need to talk about this.'

I don't care.

All I can think about is Elle. Elle here. Elle with a press badge, full access, embedded in my life for six months. Elle, who left me in the dark like I meant nothing. Elle, who didn't even have the courtesy to warn me, to contact me, to do anything but show up like a ghost and shatter everything.

Elle, who I have spent three years trying to convince myself I didn't miss.

The puck is passed to me, and I take it at full speed toward the goal. The rookie defenseman tries to block me kid's got guts, no brains. I use my size and my anger to create space, and I shoot. The puck goes exactly where I intend it: top corner, no chance for the goalie.

The whistle blows. Practice ends.

I shower alone, standing under water so hot it burns. My body is tight with an anger I don't know how to discharge. I'm thinking about her. About how she looked the last time I saw her eyes closed, back to me, done.

I'm thinking about what happens when she sees me tomorrow.

I'm thinking about how I am not going to let her walk through this team's season without remembering why she loved me. Without wanting me again.

Control. That's the word that settles in my chest like a stone.

I will control this situation. I will control her access, her time, her proximity to me. I will make her regret leaving me. I will make her understand that walking away from Blake Delvalle from The Forge's Blake Delvalle was the biggest mistake of her life.

And then—

Then I'll decide what happens next.

The water runs cold, and I don't turn it off. I stand in it until my teeth chatter, until my body is numb, because numbness is safer than the alternative.

Because the alternative is admitting that seeing Elle's name on a roster is the most alive I've felt in three years.