Chapter 75 Win
LIAM
The night air bites at my skin, sharp enough to sting, but I barely notice it. I don’t know how long I’ve been driving. Maybe an hour, maybe more. The world outside is a blur of streetlights, neon reflections bouncing off wet asphalt, the occasional car passing in a ghostly trail of headlights, but it doesn’t register. My hands are locked around the wheel, knuckles stiff and white, the veins standing out like cords under my skin. My jaw aches from how tightly I’ve been clenching it, and yet, no matter how much I try to release it, the tension doesn’t leave. I shouldn’t have left, I know that. I shouldn’t have walked out of that apartment, left her there curled up on the couch like she was carrying the weight of the world alone. But if I stayed, if I hadn’t left… I would have said something I’d regret. I would have fallen apart right there, in front of her, and I wouldn’t have been able to stop it. I would have gotten on my knees, begged her to trust me, begged her to let me in, when she already had every reason not to. And maybe she would have said yes, maybe she wouldn’t have, but I can’t take that chance. I can’t face the possibility that I’d destroy the fragile control I have over myself right now.
I pull into an empty parking lot outside my brother’s apartment, the neon glow of the signage casting long shadows across the asphalt. I don’t get out. I don’t even take a breath. I just drop my forehead against the steering wheel, close my eyes, and squeeze them tight. The world is quiet except for the sound of my pulse, pounding like a drum in my ears.
“You didn’t trust me with this.”
The words echo, looping in my mind. They’re not angry, not shouted, but they sting sharper than anything else. Like a blade scraping against the raw nerves of my chest. I would have given her the world. I would have left hockey tomorrow if it meant keeping her safe, keeping her happy, keeping her whole. I would have walked away from everything I’ve ever wanted without a second thought if she had just told me. But instead… she hid it. She hid it because she thought I’d pick a game over her. Over our baby. Over us. And the thought—no, the certainty—that she thought I could walk away from this, from her, twists something inside me that I didn’t even know was fragile.
A sharp, humorless laugh escapes me, raw and ragged. “Fuck.” I press my forehead harder against the wheel, tasting the night air, tasting desperation, tasting guilt and rage all wrapped into one. I tip my head back, staring at the cracked ceiling of my car, forcing myself to breathe, though each inhale feels like it’s trying to rip my lungs in two. I’ve never felt anything like this before. Not after a loss, not after a broken wrist, not after getting knocked out cold in the third period. Nothing. Nothing compares to this. This is her. This is Ava. And for the first time in my life, I don’t know how to fix it.
The locker room is buzzing, a stark, cruel contrast. Laughter, locker doors slamming, the smack of sticks being tossed into bags, shouts and jokes and the high-pitched screech of skate blades being cleaned. Energy so thick you could drown in it. We just finished our last practice before the biggest game of the season, and the guys are riding the adrenaline, a roaring tide of excitement.
“Come on, Carter,” Jason says, tossing a towel at me. “One last night out before we win this thing tomorrow.”
Around me, the guys are hyping up plans, tossing around ideas about bars, drinks, celebrations. The kind of reckless freedom that comes before a storm—the calm before the biggest chaos, the finality of everything we’ve worked for, and the promise of glory. They’re high, I’m low.
I sit on the bench, rubbing a towel over my hair, barely registering their words. My body is pulsing, muscles sore from practice, heart still racing from the night’s earlier confrontation with myself. But my mind? My mind is somewhere else entirely. I glance down at my phone, hope creeping, some tiny, desperate hope that maybe… maybe she reached out, maybe she said something, anything, to let me know she’s okay. No messages. Not one. And I don’t even expect one, not after what I said. Not after I walked out like a fool, like a coward.
But fuck. I can’t sit here anymore. I can’t keep letting this fester.
“I’m out.” My voice cuts through the room, short, sharp, cold.
“What?” Jason frowns, confused. “Dude, this is tradition. You can’t bail now.”
“Not for me.” I push off the bench, my shoulder brushing the edge of the locker, metal rattling under my touch.
“Come on, bro, you need to let loose. Tomorrow’s game is huge. You don’t wanna overthink it, it’s your biggest comeback too.”
I slam my locker shut. The metal clangs, sharp, echoing, drowning out everything else. The room falls silent, and I can feel their eyes on me, their confusion, their disbelief.
“Yeah? Well, I already did,” I say, voice tight, almost cracking. “And I realized something.”
“Yeah? What’s that?” Jason raises a brow, leaning against the locker beside me.
I exhale through my nose, gripping my keys like a lifeline, the metal cold and unyielding against my palm. “I’ve been wasting time.”
Because I have. Five days. Five fucking days of cold nights, of empty rooms, of looking at her side of the bed, her side of the couch, and seeing nothing. Nothing but absence. Five days where my pride, my stupid fucking ego, held me back from running to her, from telling her how much I needed her, from showing her that no matter what, she is my world.
I storm out of the locker room, ignoring the calls, the shouts, the confused voices behind me. I don’t need their noise. I don’t need their distractions. My eyes are locked straight ahead. My destination isn’t a bar, it isn’t some pointless night out. It isn’t anything else that matters.
I start the car, hands tight on the wheel, and I drive. Not to my apartment, cold and empty and meaningless. Not to the hotel that smells like disinfectant and lonely hotel rooms. I drive to her. To Ava. Because she’s my home. Always has been. Always will be. And I don’t give a fuck about pride, or anger, or fear, or anything else anymore.
Tomorrow, I’ll step onto the ice for the most important game of my life. But tonight? Tonight, I go to her. I go to the girl who owns my heart, who’s building a life with me without even asking for permission. I go to the woman who is carrying our future inside her.
Fuck. Just the thought makes my chest expand, makes my heart thrum like a war drum, like I’ve won the lottery, like I’ve touched something sacred and real. And truth? I have. I fucking have.
Every red light, every empty street, every distant sound of the city hums around me like background noise. I’m not afraid anymore. I know where I’m going. I know what I have to do. And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, there’s a fire in my chest that isn’t anger or frustration or fear. It’s hope. It’s clarity. It’s the pull of destiny wrapped in her presence.
Every turn I make, every stop I hit, I can feel her waiting. Not just for me to come home, but for me to show her, to prove to her, that no matter what, no matter how many mistakes, no matter how many days lost to silence, I am here. I am not leaving. I am never leaving.
I don’t slow down. I don’t hesitate. Not for a second. The city around me blurs into a smear of yellow lights and dark shadows. Every beat of my heart screams her name, every thought in my head is her face, her hands, her laugh, the curve of her smile, the way she makes me want to be better than I ever was.
And when I pull up outside her apartment, I don’t wait. I don’t think. I just run, throwing the door open and pushing through the hallway, the elevator, the stairs, like a man possessed. Like every step, every second is sacred because it brings me closer to her.
I don’t knock. I don’t hesitate. I reach her door, and the second she sees me, everything falls away. All the fear, all the tension, all the silence of the past days—it melts, replaced by a storm, by a tidal wave of relief and love and need that I can’t contain.
I grab her hands, pulling her close, pressing my forehead to hers. Her pulse against mine is chaotic, frantic, and I don’t care about the noise of the city outside, the silence in the hall, the echo of my own breath. It’s just us. It’s always been just us.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “I’m here, Ava. I’m never leaving. You hear me?”
And she does. I can feel her trembling, the tightness of her fingers digging into me, and it only makes me hold her closer. I’m home. She’s home. We’re home.
And nothing—nothing—is going to take that from us.