But the denial wouldn't come.
Maddox clapped my shoulder once. "Fix it, Coach. Before you destroy yourself trying not to."
"It's not like that."
The words came out flat, unconvincing even to my own ears.
Maddox snorted. "Yeah, keep lying. See how that works out."
I turned away, grabbed another puck. Lined up the shot with mechanical precision, trying to find the calm that used to come so easily on the ice.
The puck sailed wide.
"I'm done here." I tossed my stick toward the bucket harder than necessary. It clattered against the boards.
"Running again?" Maddox called after me.
I didn't answer. Just skated toward the tunnel, blades cutting sharp lines in fresh ice.
But his words followed me anyway, burrowing deep where I couldn't shake them loose.
You're already losing her.
My chest tightened. The truth sat there, ugly and undeniable. I'd pushed her away twice now. Left her standing alone, confused, hurting. How many times before she stopped reaching for me? Before she gave up entirely?
Before someone else—Ben, that fucking rookie, anyone—stepped in and claimed what I'd been too much of a coward to take?
Rage flared hot and immediate. The image of another man touching her, making her smile, getting to keep her?—
I slammed my fist against the boards. Pain jolted up my arm. Didn't matter.
You need to avoid her.
That was the plan. The only sane option. Distance meant safety—for both of us.
But I also want to break anyone who looks at her.
The contradiction tore through me with vicious clarity. I couldn't have her. Couldn't protect her from myself. But I also couldn't stomach the thought of anyone else trying.
I shoved through the tunnel doors, shoulders rigid with tension I couldn't release.
The sickening realization settled in my gut like lead. Avoiding her wasn't working. And it might not be possible anymore.
Chapter 21
Olivia
I peeled off my coffee-stained work shirt and tossed it toward the hamper. Missed. Didn't bother picking it up.
The apartment felt too quiet, the kind of silence that made every thought louder than it should be. I stripped down to my underwear and stood in front of the mirror longer than I meant to, cataloging flaws I knew Ben wouldn't notice. Wouldn't care about even if he did.
My hair was a mess—frizzy from the steam and humidity of the café, smelling faintly of espresso and burnt milk. I grabbed the elastic from my wrist and pulled it into a ponytail, then immediately took it back down. Too casual. Too much like I wasn't trying.
I rifled through my closet with increasingly frantic energy. Everything felt wrong. The sweater Rhys had held that night hung near the back, soft fabric mocking me with memory. I shoved it aside hard enough the hanger clattered against the rod. Settled on jeans—dark, fitted enough to be flattering without screaming desperation—and a simple blouse. Navy blue. Safe. The neckline showed nothing, promised nothing, demanded nothing in return.
I buttoned it with trembling fingers.
This shouldn't feel like betrayal.
