I could take the Seattle job. I could run away, start over, protect myself the same way he does.
Or I could stay. I could fight. I could be the person who doesn’t leave, who doesn’t give up, who shows him that love doesn’t have to be a trap.
It might not work. He might still push me away. I might get my heart broken all over again.
But I’d rather break trying than wonder forever what could have been.
I pull out my phone and draft a reply to Seattle.
Thank you for the opportunity, but I have to decline. I have unfinished business in New York.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself.
Then I open a new message. To Banks.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I type four words:
We need to talk.
I stare at them for a long moment. He might not even see his phone for a while…they have a game tonight and I know how busy all the pre-game rituals can be.
But I hit send anyway, because whatever happens next, I’m done running.
Chapter Thirty
Everything
Banks
I’m playing like absolute shit.
It’s the second period, we’re down 2-1 against Philly, and I’ve already blown two defensive assignments, taken a bad penalty, and nearly put the puck in our own net. Coach glares at me every time I come off the ice. My linemates communicate in frustrated grunts and hand gestures. Even Zayden, who’s been nothing but supportive throughout this disaster, looked at me after my last shift with an expression that clearly said,get your head out of your ass.
I can’t.
My head is full of Winnie—her face when she walked away from Logan’s place and the text she sent me a couple of hours ago:We need to talk.
The puck drops, and I try to focus. Defensive positioning. Read the play. Anticipate the pass. Basic stuff. Stuff I’ve been doing for fifteen years.
My brain won’t cooperate.
Philly’s forward cuts across the blue line, and I’m a half-second late on the challenge. He blowspast me, feeds his winger, and suddenly it’s a two-on-one, with Lockwood scrambling to cover the angle.
The shot goes wide. Lucky.
“Banks!” Coach’s voice cuts through the arena noise. “Get your head in the game!”
I get my head in the game. For about thirty seconds.
Then one of Philly’s defensemen—a guy I’ve fought before, a real piece of work named Kowalski—takes a run at Zayden behind the net. It’s borderline legal, the kind of hit that’s technically clean but designed to send a message. Zayden goes down hard, and something in me snaps.
I don’t think. I just move.
Kowalski sees me coming and drops his gloves before I even reach him. Good. I want this. I need this. I need to hit something, hurt something, channel all this chaos inside me into something I actually understand.
We grab each other’s jerseys and start swinging.
He’s strong, but I’m stronger. I’m also angrier, which counts for something. My first punch connects with his jaw, snapping his head back. He responds with a shot to my ribs that I barely feel. We’re spinning now, trading blows, the crowd roaring around us.
