Chapter Four - Rowan
613 Words
Practice is the one place my head is usually quiet.
Angles. Speed. Pressure. Simple rules. Simple goals.
Today, none of it sticks.
I miss a clean pass in the first drill. Clip the post on a shot I normally bury. By the third rotation, Coach’s gaze has gone sharp in that way that says he’s filing this away for later.
“Beckett,” he calls, whistle dangling from his lips. “You planning on joining us today?”
A few guys snort. I lift a hand in acknowledgment and dig in harder, skating until my lungs burn and my thighs scream. The ice answers back—predictable, unforgiving.
It helps.
It doesn’t erase the image of Hollis Reed sitting across from me in a conference room, fingers steady even when her pulse wasn’t.
After practice, I strip off my gear fast, tugging a hoodie over my head like it might shield me from my thoughts.
“Beckett.”
I don’t have to turn to know who it is.
Griffin Reed stands at the end of my stall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He’s still in practice gear, hair damp, jaw set. Defensive wall. Captain material. Professional grudge-holder.
“What’s up?” I ask, casual.
“You volunteering for charity work now?” he says. “Didn’t peg you for festive.”
I shrug. “Trying to improve my image.”
His gaze flicks past me—to the hallway that leads toward the offices. “You know my sister’s running point on that stuff.”
“I noticed.”
Something tightens in his expression—not anger. Not yet. Calculation.
“Just making sure we’re clear,” he says. “She’s here to work. Not to deal with… distractions.”
The word lands exactly where he intends.
I straighten. “You implying something?”
Griffin steps closer, voice dropping. “I’m saying I don’t want drama. Not this season.”
Neither do I.
But Hollis has always been the exception to rules I didn’t know I was breaking.
“We’re good,” I say. “I know where the lines are.”
He studies me for a long beat, then nods. “Good.”
He turns and walks away like the conversation is over.
It isn’t.
I slam my locker shut harder than necessary and head for the showers, letting the hot water pound against my neck. It does nothing to quiet my thoughts.
Because knowing where the line is doesn’t stop you from remembering exactly what it felt like to cross it.
Years ago.
One night.
Too much music. Too little sense.
I’d followed her down a quiet hallway at a post-game party—just to make sure she got home safe, I’d told myself. She’d laughed, breathless, daring me to admit the truth.
“You’re not supposed to look at me like that,” she’d said.
I hadn’t denied it.
The kiss had been quick. Stolen. Messy in the way that rewires something fundamental. Her hands fisting in my jersey. My mouth learning hers like it had always known the way.
We’d broken apart almost immediately—panic crashing down hard.
Griffin.
The team.
Everything at stake.
We never talked about it again.
Until now.
I shut the water off and grab my towel, chest tight, pulse unsteady.
Hollis Reed is back, standing right in the middle of my life, and I can already feel the season tilting—every decision heavier, every look loaded.
I’ve built my career on control. On knowing when to push and when to pull back.
But some mistakes don’t come from losing control.
They come from knowing exactly what you’re doing—
and doing it anyway.
- Writer
