Page 103 of Hearts on Ice
My brain split in two: one half tracking their voices, the other replaying the exact moment the world had shifted under us. The look on Sam’s face when he saw us. That was the moment the fuse lit.
The GM’s tone softened. “We’ve got to protect the organization. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”
“I do.”
He sighed. “We’d like you to take the weekend. No media appearances, no practices. We’ll announce it as routine post-season evaluations.”
“Understood.”
Kendra slid a form across the table. “Acknowledgment of discussion,” she said, polite, perfunctory. I signed it because there was no universe where not signing would help.
The pen left a faint tremor in my hand. I turned it over once, set it down precisely parallel to the folder edge. Old habits—order when everything else cracked.
When they stood, I did too. The meeting was already fading from their minds, another problem logged and labeled. For me it was just starting.
The GM walked me to the door. “We’re not passing judgment, Drew. But you know how this looks. Keep it quiet. We’ll circle back soon.”
He reached out like he might clap my shoulder, then thought better of it. I nodded and stepped into the hall.
By the time I reached my car, the mask of calm had started to crack. The steering wheel bit into my palms as I sat there, staring through the windshield at nothing. I’d spent years teaching players how to recover from a hit—head up, square your shoulders, move on to the next play. But this wasn’t the kind of blow you skated off.
The drive blurred. I must’ve hit every red light between the rink and his place, and I still don’t remember a single one turning green.
When I pulled up outside his building, the nerves finally hit—low in my gut. I didn’t even think about what I’d say.
My hand hovered before I finally knocked.
The door opened, and there he was—barefoot, hair damp.
“Hey,” I said, the word coming out softer than I meant.
He smiled a little, tired but real. “Hey.”
He stepped back, glancing over my shoulder before closing the door firmly behind me, the click of the latch louder than it should’ve been. Only then did I breathe again.
For a second, neither of us spoke. His eyes flicked over my face. My hand found his shoulder anyway. The warmth of his skin hit like air after being underwater.
He stepped closer until our foreheads touched, the contact small, grounding. A breath passed between us—mine unsteady, his steadying it.
The light from the window caught in the damp edges of his hair. His was wrinkled and I wanted—God, I wanted—to smooth it out, to smoothhimout, to take the worry from his eyes.
My hand just did what my heart had already decided, finding his jaw, the rough edge of stubble warm against my palm.
He leaned in, eyes half-closed, breath brushing my chin.
The kiss —a shared breath. Then it deepened by instinct, not hunger, butneed. His fingers curled to pull me closer.
When I finally drew back, our mouths barely parted.
I followed him to the couch, and when we sat, our knees brushed.
His eyes searched mine. “They called you, didn’t they?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You okay?”
I almost laughed—short, humorless. “They pulled out the contract. The clause about professional boundaries. PR sat in.”
