Page 216 of Break the Ice
JJ?!?!?!?
Ansel
Do we need to add Weismann to the chat?
Matheo
Stand-in stays out until we know more.
I bounce back to Eli’s thread. No read receipts. Nausea rolls through me at the list of possibilities: transfer, loan, conditioning stint. The idea of him in another jersey tightens something cruel around my throat.
Dylan’s name flashes.
He’s going nowhere
I look across the aisle. He tips his chin, quick, sure. The bus hushes as Coach appears with Eli at his shoulder, Dr. Armstrong behind them. One look at Eli’s face and every cell in me braces. He passes my row without a glance and takes the back corner. Dr. Armstrong drops into the seat beside me like a period at the end of a sentence.
The engine growls and we lurch forward. Panic gnaws holes in logic. Last night loops in my head—how close we were, how I didn’t push, how he almost…
I check our chat again. Two ticks turn blue.
I wait.
And wait.
Through the gap in seats, I can see him scrolling. His thumb flicks. My messages disappear from his screen. He powers down like it costs him nothing. Like I’m not sitting here with my chest ripped open.
We were fine on the flight. Mostly. He drifted in and out, tired, which is normal. Practice felt… okay. We skated together. We talked. I think.
The buzz in my hand hits like a defibrillator. I don’t even register the app before the headline slams into me.
Sex, Secrets & Sylkes
The article opens to Eli’s team photo—broody, distant, that look he gets when the world is too loud. I could quit there. I don’t. My eyes catch the first line and lock.
From Preacher to player; the sordid love life of hockey’s most mysterious heartthrob. Guys, gals, secret rendezvous, and stolen touches. They say it’s always the quiet ones…
My thumb scrolls before I can stop it.
All I can do is stare at the first photo; Eli and Fin on the beach, her straddling his lap, his arms wrapped around her like the ocean might take her if he loosens his grip.
My stomach punches inward. I love him like that—whole-body, whole-heart, clutching the one thing that keeps the tide from dragging him under.
I force myself to scroll down. And I regret it instantly.
The next image guts me.
Same jolt as the day he walked into lunch with Finley’s hand in his, except meaner. Suffocating. The guy from the old photos—the one he showed me with a shrug like the past was harmless—has Eli caged in his lap, tongue on Eli’s jaw, fists in his shirt.
Make it make sense.
He’s nobody.He was nobody.
I slap the phone to my chest like pressure can stop the sound that wants out. Swallow hard. It burns going down.
I thought he didn’t know what he wanted. I told myself he wasn’t ready. So, I handed him my heart anyway, steady and open, and let him take what he could, when he could.
He ruined me for anyone else, and I thanked him for it.
