“And you weren’t going to tell me?”
His fingers flex at his sides. “I was. Just not like this.”
Jake scoffs. “See? He wasn’t even going to tell you.”
I ignore him, my focus still locked on Grant.
“How bad? How bad was the fight?”
His lips press together for half a second before he answers.
“Broken nose for him. Cracked rib for me.”
What the actual fuck. A grown man who solves problems with violence? Then I remember where I am—in the rink of an NHL team. The league took him back. Hired him as coach. So maybe…?
Jake slices through the tension. “He comes with baggage, Kenz. A lot of it.”
And honestly? I don’t have a response. Because I don’t know what to do with this.
I don’t know what this changes. But I do know one thing. This just got a whole lot more complicated.
I don’t know how long I stand there. I don’t know how long the weight of his words presses down on me, heavy and suffocating.
All I know is that I can’t breathe.
The cold from the rink seeps into my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the icy realization settling in my chest.
This isn’t just a hookup. This isn’t just a bad idea I can walk away from without consequences.
Grant has a whole damn history I knew nothing about.
And I’m standing here, staring at him like I have any business being in it.
“Say something.”
He’s calm. Careful. Every word chosen with precision.
But I hear it. The crack underneath. I want to say something.
I want to ask him why he kept this from me.
I want to demand to know what else I don’t know.
I want to understand why this feels like the ground just shifted beneath me.
But I can’t. Because I don’t even know what I’m feeling yet. So I swallow hard, force my spine straight, and tell him the only thing I can.
“I need time to think.”
The words are barely above a whisper, but they land like a brick between us.
Grant doesn’t move.
Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t chase.
He just watches me. And for the second time since this whole thing started…
I walk away first.
