The second the door closes behind them, my smile drops.
Gone.
Erased.
My hands fist the steering wheel the second I sit down, knuckles white. My jaw locks, and my chest is tight, coiled, and aching. Because all I wanted to do was kiss her goodbye. Just one.
And now that we’re not under the same roof? Now that I don’t get to see her every day, the ache in my chest says it louder than I ever will.
This is not where it ends.
The door shuts behind me with a hollow click. There’s no laughter, no music, no Melody.
Just fucking silence.
I drop my duffel in the hallway and stand there for a second, staring at the clean, polished floors like they’re mocking me. I’ve gotten used to Melody in my house, so now this feels like an empty cave.
I run a hand through my hair and make my way to the kitchen, open the fridge, close it again.
I’m not hungry.
I’m restless.
Fucking haunted.
One week surrounded by noise, chaos, guys yelling, beer cans popping, music blaring—and her. Always her. Her laugh, her smartass comments, her quiet smiles when she thought no one was looking. And now I’ve got nothing but the hum of the AC.
I pace. I sit. I stand up again.
My phone’s still in my hand, so I open our chat and my thumb hovers. I think about texting her, but I don’t get the chance. Her message comes in first.
Bunny: I already miss you.
Her message rips the air from my lungs and stitches me back together all at once. Because it means we’re still in it.
I stare at her message for a second, a slow grin curling my mouth. I type fast, without hesitation.
Me: Say the word and I’m coming to get you.
“Let’s run it again,” Coach barks.
I’m already bent over, gloves on my knees, lungs burning. But my blood’s still electric. My head’s clear and my body’s sharp.
“One more. Let’s bury this shit.” Dom skates past me, tapping my stick with his.
“You’re not burying anything with that freak in net,” I grunt, nodding toward Zed, who’s standing tall in the crease like he’s been summoned from hell itself.
He hasn’t let a single puck past him this whole fucking drill. Not even in warmups. And we’ve been throwing rockets.
He’s 6’7, 260 pounds, fully padded like a tank with reflexes like a cat.
And he looks bored.
“Yo, Tanner,” I call as we line up. “Don’t even bother with a slapshot. Try telekinesis.”
Dom drops the puck, and the drill explodes. The forward line cuts up the ice. Dom takes the zone like a heat-seeking missile, stick-handling between two cones before threading a no-look pass right to Tanner on the wing. Tanner winds up and fires, top shelf.
Zed moves—just the tiniest movement.
