Chapter 92: The Secret

Cassian’s POV

The lie got heavier every day.

I saw it first after morning practice.

He came off the ice with the rest of the guys, skating like everything was fine until he slowed at the boards and his jaw tightened for half a second. That was all it took, one small break in the face he was showing the team. One tiny wince he probably thought nobody noticed.

I noticed.

I always noticed.

He reached for a water bottle, took one pull, and shifted his weight off the right side before he caught himself. A couple of the guys were talking over each other near the bench, somebody laughing about a missed drill, somebody else complaining about conditioning. Torin nodded at the right times, said the right things, and kept his face calm.

Then he turned away and the second he thought nobody was looking, he braced one hand on the boards and let out a slow breath through his teeth.

My jaw tightened hard enough to hurt.

He knew I had seen it because when he looked up, his eyes hit mine immediately.

Neither of us said anything.

By the time we got home, I was already wound too tight to sit still.

He went straight to the kitchen, set his bag down, and asked without looking at me, “You want coffee?”

“No.”

That made him pause.

He turned and looked at me over his shoulder. “That sounded like a real no.”

“It was.”

He studied me for a second longer, then reached for a glass instead. “Fine.”

I watched him move around the kitchen with that controlled care he used when he thought nobody was watching. He had been winning at that for days, better than I wanted to admit. He made it look normal from far enough away. The team had no idea, Danton had no idea, the guys had no idea that every time he got off the ice, he was hiding the pain from the same people he was playing through it for.

I stepped in and said, “You winced again today.”

His back went still.

He did not turn around right away. “I did not.”

I stared at him. “Torin.”

He set the glass down with more force than necessary and turned to face me. “What?”

“You winced.”

“No, I didn’t.”

I took a step closer. “You did.”

He gave me a flat look that was clearly meant to end the conversation. It did not. “You are imagining things.”

I laughed once, short and humorless. “I am imagining things?”

“Yes.”

“You braced on the boards.”

“I was tying my skates.”

“You were already off the ice.”

His jaw tightened.

There it was.

The first crack.

I watched it happen and felt my own temper sharpen around the edges. “You are lying to me.”

His eyes flashed at that. “I am not lying.”

“Then what would you call it?”

He looked away for half a second and then back at me. “Managing.”

“Managing what? Your pain? Your entire body? Another season of pretending nothing is wrong?”

“Cassian.”

“No.” I took another step closer and kept my voice low, because I knew if I raised it I was going to lose it. “Do not say my name like that and act like this is some small thing.”

His expression changed immediately. Not anger only. Frustration. The kind that lived under his skin when he knew he was being pushed and hated that I was right to push.

“You do not know what it is like to be told you might miss the start of the season again,” he said.

I stared at him.

He kept going, his voice harder now. “You do not know what it is like to hear that and know the team is already depending on you. That they are already counting on you, that the second you step back, somebody else has to cover for you.”

My chest tightened.

I said, quieter, “That is not what this is about.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it is about you pretending you can just keep skating through this because you do not want to let anyone down.”

His eyes went sharp. “I am not pretending.”

“You are.”

“I am showing up.”

“That is not the same thing.”

He stepped towards me now, and the room got hotter immediately. Not because of the argument only. Because the look in his eyes had shifted into that dangerous place it went when he was angry and still trying not to show too much of what else was under it.

“Do you know what happens if I stop?” he asked.

I held his gaze. “You get treated.”

He laughed once, hard and humorless. “That is not what I meant.”

“I know exactly what you meant.”

“No, you do not.”

“Yes, I do.” I took another step until there was barely any space left between us. “You think if you stop, the team falls apart. You think if you say it out loud, you become the reason something gets lost.”

His jaw flexed.

He looked at me and said, “They do depend on me.”

“Yes.”

“That is not nothing.”

“I know that.”

“Then why are you looking at me like this?”

I dragged a hand over my face. “Because you are not fine.”

His eyes darkened.

“I am trying to keep us together,” I said. “And you keep acting like lying to everybody is the same thing as protecting them.”

He flinched at that.

“You promised,” he said.

The words came out low, sharp, and they hit me right where they were supposed to.

I looked at him.

He took one breath and kept going. “You promised me you would not tell anyone unless we decided together.”

“I know what I promised.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“I am not going to let you ruin yourself for a season.”

His expression changed fast.

That was the wrong phrase.

I knew it before he even answered.

“Ruin myself?” he repeated.

I went still.

He stepped back half a pace, just enough to put a sliver of air between us, but the room still felt too small. “That is what you think this is?”

I regretted the word instantly. “That is not what I meant.”

“It sounded exactly like what you meant.”

“I am angry.”

“So am I.”

The silence snapped between us.

He looked at me with that hard, direct stare he used on the ice when he wanted the puck and nobody else in the room mattered. I had seen that look in locker rooms, on benches, in hotel hallways. It always did the same thing to me. It made me want to fight him, kiss him, or shut up and listen.

Tonight it made me want all three at once.

“I am trying to make it through the season,” he said, voice lower now. “I am trying to stay on the ice.”

“And what happens when you cannot?”

His gaze held mine. “Then I will deal with it.”

“That is not enough.”

“It is what I have.”

I stared at him, too angry to speak cleanly. “You think I am asking you to quit.”

“You are asking me to stop.”

“I am asking you not to lie to me.”

He let out a slow breath through his nose and looked away, just for a second. When he looked back, the anger was still there, but now I could see the hurt under it. The part that made this worse. The fact that he thought I was fighting him when I was actually trying to keep him from burning himself alive on a promise to the team.

He said, quieter, “I cannot let them down.”

The words sat in the room between us.

I looked at him and felt my own temper shift into something else, something rougher and less clean. “And I can?”

That made him stop.

I kept going, because once it came out, it had to come out all the way. “You think I am not watching you every time you get off the ice? You think I do not see it? You are in pain. You are hiding it from everybody. And I am supposed to smile through it because you do not want anyone to know?”

His jaw tightened.

I stepped closer again. “That is not fair.”

His eyes met mine. “Neither is this.”

We stood there for a second, breathing too hard to be calm, close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him. That was the thing that always ruined me in fights like this. Not the anger. The fact that it sat right next to wanting him, even with the argument burning in the room.

I lowered my voice. “I am not asking you to quit.”

“Then what are you asking?”

“To stop pretending this is small.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to sit on the floor.

He looked at me for a long time, and for one brief second I thought he might say something softer. Instead he let out a tired breath and stepped away, not enough to escape the room, just enough to make it clear the fight was not over.

“You do not get to be angry at me for wanting to finish what I started,” he said.

I stared at him. “And you do not get to shut me out because you think that is noble.”

He went still.

That landed.

“I am trying to protect what we have,” he said.

I felt something in my chest tighten hard.

“And I am trying to protect you,” I said back.

The room went quiet.

We looked at each other for one long second with too much heat still hanging between us for either of us to pretend this was only about the knee. It never was only about the knee. It was the season, the promise, the secret, the way I had to stand there and love him through a lie because he had asked me to, and the way that lie was starting to feel like it was swallowing both of us whole.

Then he looked away first.

That hurt more than I wanted to admit.

He crossed to the living room and rested his head on the wall, breathing hard through the silence. The fight was over in the only way it could be for now; not solved, only dragged to a stop.

I stood in the kitchen for a while and said nothing.

Neither did he.

The house was so quiet I could hear the refrigerator hum.

Eventually I picked up my keys, grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch, and stopped at the edge of the living room long enough to look at him.

He did not look up.

That almost finished me.

“I am sleeping here,” I said.

He nodded once without moving.

I pulled the blanket over myself and lay down on the couch with my back to him, staring at the dark room until the ceiling blurred.

I did not sleep right away.

I heard him get up later, move once in the hallway and then a second later, I heard the bedroom door close.

The couch was too short and too hard and too quiet.

By the time sleep finally came, I still had the same thought sitting in my chest.

He had asked me to keep the secret.

And I hated how much I was starting to understand why.