As we step outside, the crisp Seattle breeze brushes against my face. The city feels alive around me, the hum of traffic and distant chatter weaving into the moment. I take a deep breath, letting the cool air fill my lungs. This is it. This is the beginning of something new.
Constantine glances at me, his brow furrowing slightly. “You sure you’re ready for the next part of your plan?”
I meet his gaze and smile, the kind that feels like it comes from someplace deep inside. “I’m ready,” I say, and I mean it.
Because I am. Ready to embrace the future, to embrace Haydn, to embrace the life I’ve been too afraid to fully claim. The weight of the past is gone, replaced by a sense of freedom I didn’t think was possible.
In a couple of hours, I’ll cheer for Haydn as he takes the ice. And tomorrow? Tomorrow, I’ll step into the life that’s been waiting for me all along.
Chapter Fifty-One
Keane
“Are you okay?”Rowan’s voice is careful, his eyes scanning me like he’s bracing for impact, half-expecting me to crack right here in front of him.
I’ve had my fair share of breakdowns since moving to Seattle to live with him. Learning my parents were gone—gone without so much as a goodbye—was like the world tipped on its axis, andI was left trying to hold on to something, anything, as it spun out of control. My reaction wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t strong. It was raw, messy, and unfiltered, a collision of grief and regret I didn’t even know how to process.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” I lie, my voice flat as I stare at the guitar resting across my lap. This would be a good moment to compose something, right? Pull all these feelings into something useful, something tangible. But the truth is, I lost her. I fucking lost the girl.
I swallow hard, trying to bury the ache that’s been gnawing at me since the day she walked out of my life for good. “I’m in recovery—physically, mentally,” I say, forcing a smirk I don’t feel. “This is good, you know? Her coming to search for closure. Maybe I won’t have to do the fucking twelve steps with her because she left.” My tone is clipped, an attempt at indifference that lands nowhere close.
But that’s the thing about me—well, past me. I didn’t care. About anyone or anything. Years of abuse and neglect do that to you. They hollow you out, leave you detached from your body, your feelings, your life. Philly was the only one who bridged that gap. She connected my heart to my brain, made me feel like I could be something close to normal.
And now? Now it feels like trying to build a house with no foundation. Like I’m rebuilding a life with tools I don’t know how to use and a missing piece that I can’t replace.
“It’s going to be a hell of a ride doing it without her,” I mutter, my fingers brushing the guitar strings, the faint vibrations humming against my fingertips. “But what’s the alternative?” My voice drops lower, almost to myself. “Quit? Let it all go to shit again?”
Rowan leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me carefully. “No,” he says finally. “The alternative is you figureit out. You get better. For you. Not for her, not for anyone else—just you.”
I glance up at him, the words hitting harder than I want to admit. He’s not wrong.
But then I take the chance to ask something that’s been bothering me since the first time I saw Constantine. “What about him? Are you two . . . when did it end?”
I don’t even know what to call their relationship. Constantine seemed to have some awakening or simply just fell in love with my brother. He wasn’t ready to come out to anyone but Rowe claimed it was real. Now . . .
“We both made choices. It’s been over for years. I don’t give a shit.”
“Of course you do,” I claim.
“I did, not anymore. So, are you good?”
I nod. Philly may have been my savior back then but now . . . now this is all me. This fight is mine. And it’s time I figure out how to do it without relying on someone else to light the way.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Haydn
The noisein the arena is deafening. Seattle fans are relentless, a sea of blue and green roaring with chants, jeers, and stomping feet. The energy buzzes around me, crawling up my spine like static, but my focus is off. It’s warmups, and I’m supposed to be running through the motions, settling into myzone. Instead, I’m stuck on the fact that Coach forced me out here.
“Wesford, go,” he barked in the locker room earlier. “Get your ass on the ice and loosen up.”
I argued, of course. Warmups in front of all these fans aren’t my thing. I hate them. They throw me off more than anything. But tonight, apparently, wasn’t up for debate. So here I am, skating laps and pretending I’m not silently cursing under my breath.
The crowd hisses louder as I circle the ice, their boos growing more intense every time I pass the glass near center ice. Summits fans. Man, they’re ruthless, ready to tear you apart if you let them.
I drop into the crease—my crease—and run through my usual routine. Tap the right post, then the left, then the crossbar. Stretch side to side. It’s muscle memory, something I’ve done a thousand times, but tonight it’s not working. My brain is loud, my nerves louder.
I skate out for a quick lap, my eyes scanning the stands—not really looking for anything, just trying to reset. That’s when I see it.
