It was my big night, and I couldn't disappoint the team. I had to show my face at the post-game celebration at The Drop.
It was the kind of dive bar that existed in every hockey town—sticky floors, neon beer signs, and a jukebox full of classic rock songs from the 80s. Half the team showed, riding the high of a decisive win.
I nursed a beer in the corner booth, watching Pickle attempt to teach the bartender his victory dance while Hog held court at the dartboard. The puck sat heavy in my jacket pocket, a constant reminder of the latest moment that had tilted my world sideways.
"You're quiet tonight, Vegas."
Kowalczyk slid into the seat across from me, his beer barely touched. He was one of the veterans, a guy who'd seen enough hockey to know when someone was processing something more than one game.
"Just tired," I said.
"The good kind?"
I stared at the neck of my beer bottle. "Different tired."
He nodded. "First real goal'll do that to you. Makes it feel possible, you know? Like maybe it's not only borrowed time."
His comment hit me harder than he knew. Borrowed time—yeah, that was it. The team, the acceptance, and whatever was building between Evan and me.
"Maybe."
By eleven, the celebration had wound down to the usual suspects—Hog challenging anyone brave enough to arm wrestle, and Pickle scrolling through his phone, watching replays of his goal from six different angles. I made my excuses and headed home.
The apartment was dark when I got home. Evan's door was closed, with a thin line of light visible underneath. I suspected he was updating his post-game spreadsheets.
I stood in the hallway, puck still in my pocket, wondering whether I should knock. I could thank him properly for being such a gentleman in the locker room. Instead, I went to my room and pretended I wasn't disappointed when his light went out twenty minutes later.
At 3 AM, I was awake, staring at the ceiling. The puck sat on my nightstand. Unmarked. Unorganized. It was the most beautiful thing Evan Carter had ever given me, and he didn't even know it.
My phone buzzed with notifications I didn't want to read—probably screenshots of the local sports blog calling tonight "Riley's Redemption" or some other clickbait headline that would make me want to throw my device into Lake Superior. I'd mistakenly read my own press in the past. It never ended well.
I rolled onto my side, facing the nightstand, and reached for the rubber disc. It was heavier than I remembered, solid in my palm. Real in a way that most things in my life weren't.
As I stared at it in the dim light, a spiral began.
What if this is just another setup?
I'd been here before—riding high on something I thought was genuine, only to watch it collapse under the weight of my own stupidity.
Love on Icehad started in a positive light. I had three weeks connecting with Derek, the quiet guy from Manitoba who made me laugh without trying. We'd snuck away from the cameras to talk about stupid romcoms and what we wanted after the show ended. We shared the belief that we didn't expect to find something real in the middle of manufactured drama.
Then, the producers decided our storyline was "too boring for television." They edited our conversations into manipulative game-playing. They turned genuine tears into crocodile performances. They made me into a villain who broke hearts for sport.
I watched Derek's face change during the finale. He realized the producers were repackaging everything he felt into dramatic content, and I couldn't save us. He wouldn't even look at me during the reunion show.
And "Puck Life"—damn, "Puck Life." That disaster had started as therapy, a way to own my narrative before someone else twisted it. I'd written decent verses about the pressure of being a gay hockey player and trying to find your own story in the jungle of overgrown myths.
The studio producers convinced me to "punch it up." Make it funnier. More viral-ready. So, I added the auto-tune, the smoke machines, and the bedazzled jersey, turning frustration into a joke that nobody got.
The agent's voice echoed in my head like a ghost: "You're not serious enough for the NHL, Riley. Fix that, or find another dream."
I sat up in bed, heart hammering against my ribs.
After catching my breath, I told myself Evan was different from Derek. He saw through my performances, called out mybullshit, and demanded authenticity. That also meant I had nowhere to hide when I inevitably screwed whatever we had up.
And I would screw it up. I always did.
I slipped out of bed and padded to my desk, bare feet silent on the cold hardwood. My notebook sat where I'd left it, dog-eared and stuffed with fragments of thoughts I wasn't brave enough to finish.
