Chapter Six - Rowen
651 Words
I don’t lose my temper.
That’s what everyone thinks they know about me.
I play hard. I talk a little trash. I take risks on the ice that make coaches swear under their breath. But I don’t unravel. I don’t spiral. I don’t let personal s**t bleed into places it doesn’t belong.
So when I see Hollis Reed laughing with Evan Cole beneath a forty-foot Christmas tree, my expression doesn’t change.
Not even a little.
I sign another autograph. Pose for another picture. Tell a kid in a tiny jersey that yes, I really do know how to skate backward that fast.
I am the picture of calm.
Inside, something sharp twists low in my gut.
Evan leans in toward her—just enough to be familiar. Comfortable. He says something that makes her smile, soft and unguarded in a way I haven’t seen since she walked back into my life.
That’s the part that stings.
Not that she’s flirting.
That she looks like she could.
I remind myself—firmly—that I have no claim here. No right to bristle or step in or rewrite the scene to my liking. Hollis made the rules clear. Friends. Professional. Distance.
So I stay exactly where I am.
And that restraint feels a lot like punishment.
“Beckett.”
I glance up to find Griffin Reed watching me from a few feet away, arms crossed, posture relaxed in the way that means he’s absolutely not relaxed at all.
“You enjoying yourself?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say easily. “Kids are great.”
His gaze flicks past me—to Hollis. To Evan. Back to me.
“You’re gripping that marker like it owes you money.”
I glance down, loosening my fingers. “Habit.”
Griffin hums, unconvinced. “You volunteering for a lot lately.”
“Community involvement looks good,” I reply.
“On who?” he asks mildly.
I meet his stare. Hold it. “On the team.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once like he’s filed something away.
“Don’t forget,” he says, “we’ve got dinner tonight.”
“Yeah,” I reply. “Heard.”
His eyes narrow a fraction. “You going?”
I shrug. “Depends how festive I’m feeling.”
Griffin’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “Careful.”
There it is. The warning tucked neatly into a single word.
“I know where the line is,” I say.
“I hope so,” he replies. “Because you’re standing pretty close to it.”
He walks off before I can respond.
I turn back to the event just in time to see Evan step away from Hollis, heading toward the ornament table. Hollis watches him go, expression unreadable, then turns and catches me looking.
For a split second, something flares between us—recognition, challenge, the shared awareness of what we’re pretending not to feel.
Then she lifts her clipboard slightly.
A shield.
I nod once in return.
Distance.
Later, when the crowd thins and the decorations start coming down, I help pack up without being asked. No jokes. No lingering. Just efficiency.
Hollis gives me a look like she’s surprised.
“Thanks,” she says.
“For what?”
“For not… complicating things.”
The words land heavier than she probably intends.
“Anytime,” I reply. “Friends, right?”
Her mouth tightens just slightly. “Right.”
As I turn away, I catch Griffin watching us again—not angry. Not suspicious.
Assessing.
And that’s when it hits me:
This isn’t about whether I want Hollis Reed.
It’s about whether I can keep pretending I don’t.
Because the thing about restraint is—it doesn’t erase want.
It just teaches you how to carry it quietly.
And I’m starting to wonder how much longer I can.
- Writer
