Page 75 of Breakaway Daddies

My response is a scratchy, thin “Hey,” as if the sound itself were pleading for solace.

After a pause that crackles with unspoken worry, Ally asks, “What’s wrong?”

I press one hand against my temple as a dizzy pulse builds behind my eyes. “Have you seen the tabloids?” I murmur, my voice heavy with resignation.

Another pause, a fragile silence, then her soft confession: “Yeah… I have. I wasn’t sure if I should mention it unless you brought it up.”

With a gentle exhale, I admit, “Well. I am.”

Her tone shifts, laced with quiet concern. “What’s going on now? With the boys?”

“I don’t know what I want,” I confess, closing my eyes as a dull ache behind them throbs in time with my admission. “I thought I had it all figured out, but now I’m just… lost.”

Without missing a beat, Ally challenges, “Are you asking yourself what you want, or just what you think you’re supposed to want?”

I freeze, the silence stretching like a drawn-out heartbeat between us.

Finally, in a voice laden with gentle truth, she reminds me, “You can’t try to live up to expectations that aren’t truly yours—neither your parents’ nor society’s, not even those of the boys. Listen to your own heart, or you’ll never find your own happiness.”

Those words settle around me, heavy and undeniable. “Thanks, Ally,” I manage.

She replies simply, “Anytime.”

I hang up, staring at the dark, lifeless screen for a moment before drawing a long, steady exhale. With a final glance at the empty lot, I pivot and head toward the small café down the block.

CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR

Bruno

The chillof the rink cuts deeper today. Not just in the skin, but in the bones, in the breath, in the way the air refuses to warm no matter how many laps I take. It’s like the cold has teeth and it’s gnawing on all of us.

Rowan hasn’t said more than two words since we stepped onto the ice. Not even a grunt when Thomas tripped into him during warmups. Just silence and a look in his eyes that could shatter glass.

And Thomas… he’s all twitchy energy, like someone wound him up too tight and then snapped the key. His passes during drills come fast and sharp, too aggressive.

He nails me in the shin once during a 3-on-2 breakout and doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t apologize. Just skates on like nothing happened.

Like the game’s the only thing holding him together.

We rotate through high-intensity puck control drills, tight turns around the cones, puck tucked close, stick barely breathing. Then it’s sprint transitions: blue line to red line, back, again, again, again.

My lungs are a furnace. Legs screaming. Sweat freezing against my skin.

Coach isn’t letting up. He’s watching us like a hawk, jaw tight, that clipboard clenched in his fist like he wants to snap it in half. We’re less than a week from the championship, and we’re falling apart.

And then it happens.

Jack misses a wide-open shot on goal, wide, sloppy, his stick too high, too slow. He mutters something under his breath on the glide back to center.

I almost miss it. Almost.

But I hear the word “Jinx” come out of his mouth.

Then “drama.”

Then something that sounds a hell of a lot like, “Rowan’s too whipped to play straight.”

It’s like lighting a fuse.

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