God, I missed this.
I walk down to the ice level, lean against the boards, and just breathe it in. The cold air. The smell of ice and Zamboni exhaust. The echo of the empty building.
I stand there a long time.
I think about every shift I've ever taken on this ice. Every win, every loss, every time the arena erupted into cheers that rang in my ears. This place has been the most reliable thing in my life since I was twenty-two. The one part of me I never had to second-guess.
And I think about how, for the last two weeks, I haven't missed it the way I should.
I miss it. But I miss something else more.
I miss the way Noah looked at me across his kitchen the first morning I stayed over. Half asleep, hair a sexed up mess, and the second he registered I was still there he tried to hide how relieved he was. He failed. He didn't know I saw it. I've been holding that look in my memory ever since.
I miss the way he laughed at the rink that day with the kids…the actual laugh, not the professional once when the seven-year-old asked him if he played and he said no and the kid said, "that's okay, you can still cheer." I miss how he looked at me right after, embarrassed and open, like he'd been caught at something he didn't know was a secret.
I miss him.
And what I did to him in that conference room…telling him he gave up, telling him to stay the fuck away from me…that's not the man he saw on the ice with the kids. That's not the man he risked everything for.
I grip the boards. The cold shoots up my forearms.
I gave Alex that interview because I thought Noah was already lost. Because I thought I had nothing left to lose for him. Because I'd already decided we were over and I was just protecting the next person I could reach.
But he's not lost. He's just hurt. And I'm the one who hurt him last.
I'm done waiting for him to make the first move. Done waiting for the right time. Done telling myself pride is the same thing as principle.
Tomorrow morning I'm going to find him. I'm going to apologize for the conference room. For the silence. For believing him when he said it was over instead of believing what I knew underneath.
I'm going to fight for him.
Whatever it costs.
Whatever he says back.
I'm going to fight.
That's when I hear footsteps behind me.
Coach Enver’s standing at the tunnel entrance, arms crossed, watching me.
Fuck.
“I know I’m not supposed to be here,” I say immediately. “I just... I needed to see it. I’ll leave.”
“How’d you get in?”
“Loading dock door was open.”
He walks down toward me. “Can’t sleep?”
“Something like that.”
“Me neither.” He comes to stand beside me at the boards, both of us looking out at the empty ice. “Been watching tape and trying to figure out how to stop the bleeding. Five straight losses. Six after tonight.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what? Getting suspended? Or for what happened with my son?”
