Page 51 of Rules of Play

When play resumed, I went at it relentlessly. I raced down the ice, narrowly dodging an elbow aimed directly at my head. My shoulder collided with one of the Ice Hawks, and a sharp jolt ran through my body, but I didn’t care. Pain was better than the numbness, better than the ache I couldn’t shake.

I stole the puck, my pulse thundering in my ears as I charged the goal again. I felt eyes on me, hundreds of them, but none were his. Shane had been the steady, quiet observer, the one face I never admitted I searched for after each shift. Now he was gone, and I was playing blind.

I cut right, faking out the defender, passing the puck to Elio once more. This time, Easton caught Elio’s pass and flicked it sharply into the net.

The crowd erupted in cheers, a wave of sound crashing around me. But it felt distant, muted somehow. Elio and Easton were celebrating, embracing each other in triumph, and my teammates slammed into me in congratulations, patting my back, shouting praise.

I forced a smile, accepting their high fives with numb fingers. My pulse didn’t slow, my breathing came ragged, and the emptiness gnawed deeper. I searched again—pointlessly—eyes scanning the stands for Shane’s absent face, desperate to share this moment of victory, even if only silently, from afar.

But his seat remained vacant.

As the game went on, my intensity grew, fueled by a strange mix of hurt and fury. My moves became more reckless, the plays more aggressive. I welcomed each rough check, threw my body willingly into every collision. Anything was better than facing the fact that Shane had cut me out, severed the fragile bond we’d built, and left me alone in the spotlight I’d foolishly convinced myself I hated.

By the third period, the Ice Hawks had begun to fear me. They gave me space when I took the puck, eyed me warily as I sped toward them. And still, none of it was enough.

With only a few minutes left, I caught the puck again, pushing through defenders, breath harsh in my throat, muscles trembling with exhaustion. Sweat blurred my vision, but I didn’t slow down. I couldn’t. Stopping meant feeling the hollow ache again, acknowledging the empty seat, the broken connection.

I unleashed a wild, desperate shot toward the net, watching it sail past the goalie’s reach. The arena exploded with sound, roaring my name, celebrating my ruthless victory.

But as my teammates crashed into me, elation shining in their eyes, I felt nothing but emptiness. My gaze drifted once more toward Shane’s empty spot, hoping foolishly he might’ve appeared suddenly, forgiving everything, erasing the hurt.

He hadn’t.

Instead, I skated toward the bench, hollow and weary. I dropped my head into my hands, breathing shakily, knowing I’d poured everything I had onto the ice tonight—and it hadn’t fixed a single damn thing.

After the game, we all gathered at Lumière, the air thick with laughter and lingering adrenaline. I sat quietly among the chatter, feeling more bruised and battered on the inside than from any check I’d taken on the ice. Halfway through my beer, I realized I couldn’t do it tonight. I couldn’t pretend everything was fine while Shane’s empty seat back at the rink still haunted me.

Quietly, I pushed my chair back, leaving the beer unfinished as I slipped outside. The cool air bit into my skin, and I breathed deep, hoping it might numb the rawness that clung stubbornly inside my chest.

I hadn’t expected company. But moments later, the door behind me creaked open, and I glanced over my shoulder to see Elio stepping out into the chilly night. He approached slowly, eyes thoughtful, cautious, reading me the way he always seemed to do so effortlessly.

“You okay, P?” he asked gently.

I shrugged, unwilling to admit just how far from okay I really was. “Just tired. Rough game.”

He hummed softly, leaning against the brick wall beside me. Silence fell between us, broken only by distant laughter from inside the bar. Eventually, he spoke again, voice careful yet firm. “Shane wasn’t there tonight.”

I felt my throat tighten. “Nope.”

Elio paused, waiting. But I wasn’t giving anything away, not willingly. I’d always been good at hiding behind silence. Until now. This time, Elio wasn’t letting me slip by.

“Listen,” he started again, quieter, more direct, “we don’t really talk about this stuff. You never said anything officially, but it’s pretty obvious.”

“What’s obvious?” I asked, turning my head, forcing defiance into my tone.

“You and Shane,” Elio said plainly. “You’re dating.”

I stared at the ground, my jaw clenched tight. It hurt hearing it aloud. It felt like ripping open a wound I’d barely managed to close.

“Patrick,” Elio insisted softly, “come on. It’s just me.”

I exhaled shakily, defeat creeping into my bones. “Fine. Yeah. Wewere…together. Or whatever.”

Elio waited a beat. “What happened?”

The story crawled out slowly, painfully. It dragged out of me piece by humiliating piece. I told him about the notebook, the betrayal, the fight, and how everything spiraled out of control in a matter of moments. How Shane’s words had cut deeper than I’d imagined possible and how mine had wounded him just as badly.

By the time I finished, I felt drained, exposed in a way that made me desperately want to run.

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