22. Tom

Chapter 22

Tom

I clenched my fists so tightly that my knuckles turned white. The desire to hit something consumed me, each heartbeat a drumbeat of frustration and helplessness. The bruise on Ally's face had triggered a cascade of emotions I couldn't afford to feel. So, I replaced the pain with rage, pushing it down until anger was all that remained.

I stormed out of the house and jumped into my truck. My mind raced as I drove, the streets blurring together. I needed an outlet, a place to channel this fury.

The ice.

The familiar sight of Pandora's Box came into view just as the sun began to set. Its fading light cast long shadows across the parking lot.

I pulled in, tires screeching, and slammed the door shut behind me. The rink stood silent and empty, its cold air offering a semblance of clarity. I headed straight for the locker room, yanking open my locker with more force than necessary. My skates felt like an old friend as I laced them up, each tug on the laces grounding me slightly.

The ice was pristine, untouched. I loved hockey season, but fuck, every now and then, I loved when the rink was as silent as the fucking grave. I stepped onto it, letting the cold seep into my bones. It wasn't enough to cool the fire inside me, but it was a start. Pushing off hard, I glided across the surface, each stride faster and more forceful than the last. The sound of my skates cutting through ice echoed in the empty rink.

Skating had always been my sacred ground—a place where I could lose myself and forget everything else. But tonight, it felt different. The memories I tried so hard to bury surfaced with each lap around the rink. Nick's face during our last argument flashed before me, followed by Ally's pained expression when she looked at me during the awards ceremony.

I stopped abruptly at center ice, panting heavily. The rage hadn't subsided; if anything, it had intensified. My fists clenched at my sides as I looked up at the rafters where championship banners hung—a stark reminder of both my achievements and failures.

I bent down to touch the ice with my gloved hand, feeling its chill seep through even that barrier. A futile attempt to freeze out emotions too hot to handle.

There was no escape from this—no easy answers or quick fixes. All I had was this rink and these skates.

And a stick.

I skated off the ice, careful to only step on the rubber mats that lined the edge. The familiar creak of the locker room door welcomed me as I made my way to my office. The space felt cramped, cluttered with memorabilia that served as both trophies and ghosts. I ignored the framed photos and plaques, focusing instead on grabbing my stick and a few pucks from the corner.

Back on the ice, I positioned a puck in front of me and gripped my stick. My knee ticked, a sharp reminder of old wounds, but I pushed through it. Pain had become a constant companion, something I had learned to manage rather than fear.

With practiced precision, I skated toward the net. Each movement was fluid, an extension of muscle memory honed over years. The cold air rushed past my face, but it did nothing to cool the fire inside me.

I wound up for a slapshot, feeling the tension build in my muscles before releasing it in one powerful motion. The puck flew across the ice, a black blur against the white surface. It slammed into the back of the empty net with a satisfying thud.

Again.

I set up another puck and repeated the motion. Each slapshot was an outlet for frustration, each thud a temporary balm for deeper wounds. My knee protested with every stride, but I didn't care. This was my sanctuary, where pain could be channeled into something tangible.

The sound of each shot echoed in the empty rink, a symphony of isolation and rage. My breaths came heavy and labored as I continued to skate and shoot, losing myself in the rhythm of it all.

Eventually, exhaustion began to set in, but I kept going. The anger hadn't fully dissipated; it still churned beneath the surface, demanding release. But for now, this was enough—a way to feel something other than helplessness.

Each shot carried with it a piece of my turmoil—anger at Nick's betrayal, frustration over Ally's bruise, regret for things left unsaid and undone. But as long as I had this ice and these pucks, I had an outlet—a way to keep moving forward despite it all.

The sound of the puck hitting the back of the net reverberated in the empty rink, a harsh reminder of a career that never was. Each slapshot took me back to a time when my life revolved around the promise of greatness. I remembered the smell of sweat and ice, the adrenaline rush before a game, and the intoxicating feeling of being on the brink of something extraordinary.

But then came Janet's news—the pregnancy. My dreams had collided with reality in an instant. The weight of responsibility crushed me, anger and frustration bubbling to the surface. I wasn't ready for that kind of life change. I wasn't ready to let go of my dreams.

The anger was overwhelming. It clouded my judgment, pushing me to train harder than ever, as if I could outskate my fate. One wrong move during an intense practice session was all it took—a sharp twist, a sickening pop, and my knee gave out. The pain was immediate and excruciating, but it was nothing compared to the realization that followed.

I had pushed too hard, trying to outrun the inevitable, and instead had run straight into it. My knee was shattered before I ever had a chance to see what I could become.

I stopped at center ice again, leaning on my stick as those memories flooded back. The dreams I had chased so fiercely were now just fragments of a past life. A career that almost was, now buried beneath layers of regret and what-ifs.

Each thud of the puck hitting the net brought me back to reality. My breathing steadied as I stared down at the ice beneath me. This rink had become both paradise and prison—a place where I could confront my demons but never fully escape them.

I thought about Janet then—how her words had been the catalyst for everything that followed. The announcement that changed our lives forever, setting off a chain reaction that led me here. The anger I felt toward her at that moment seemed so distant now, replaced by a lingering sense of loss.

The rink remained silent as I gathered up the remaining pucks, each one feeling heavier than before. The weight of missed opportunities and broken dreams settled on my shoulders as I skated off the ice, leaving behind the echoes of a career that never was.

My knee twinged with each step back to the locker room, but it was nothing compared to the ache in my chest—the ache of a life defined by what could have been.

I dropped onto the bench, my body aching but my mind still racing. The anger was there, but muted now, a dull roar instead of a raging inferno. The ice had done its job, taking the edge off my frustration.

But as I sat there, the questions started to creep back in. Why didn’t Ally trust me? What more did I have to do to prove myself to her? It gnawed at me, the uncertainty and confusion.

I knew it had to do with Nick. It always came back to Nick. Janet wouldn’t have had the balls to show up in my office if it wasn’t something serious. Her smug face flashed in my mind, her words dripping with insinuation. She knew something, and it was driving me insane not knowing what it was.

What was Ally hiding?

Why wouldn’t she let me in?

She claimed it was to protect me, but that was bullshit, and we both knew it. Protect me from what? From who? The secrecy only added fuel to the fire of my frustration. Every time I thought we were getting somewhere, she’d pull back, retreat into herself. It was like trying to hold water in my hands—impossible.

I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the sweat starting to cool on my skin. Ally’s face lingered in my mind’s eye—those expressive blue eyes that held so much but revealed so little. The bruise on her face haunted me, a bitch of a reminder of everything I couldn’t control or fix.

If she would just talk to me, maybe we could find a way through this mess together. But instead, she built walls higher and thicker than any I’d ever seen.

I slammed my fist against the bench beside me; the wood giving a satisfying thud under the impact. It wasn’t enough to break anything except maybe a few splinters free, but it felt good. It felt real.

Breathing heavily, I leaned back against the cold metal lockers behind me. This wasn’t just about Ally or Nick or even Janet—it was about control. My need for it and my utter lack of it in this situation.

My thoughts circled back to Ally again and again like a bad loop on an old tape player. She was hiding something significant—something that tied all these loose threads together—and until she trusted me enough to share it, we’d be stuck here in this maddening limbo.

What did she think would happen if she let me in? That I’d run away? Give up?

She didn’t know me very well, if that was what she believed.

I sighed deeply, letting the tension drain out of me as best as I could manage for now. The answers weren’t here on this bench or even on this ice—they were with Ally.

And until she decided to share them with me, all I could do was wait and hope that whatever she was protecting us from wasn’t already tearing us apart at the seams.

The locker room door creaked open, and I shifted my eyes toward the entrance. Dean John Walker stood there, looking like he just walked off a movie set—a fucking cowboy in his prime. He had that same rugged, no-nonsense demeanor, and his eyes carried a weight of wisdom and experience that was hard to ignore.

"I thought you were here," Walker said, his voice carrying across the empty room. "You look miserable for someone who just won an award."

I scoffed, the sound echoing off the metal lockers. "I don't give a shit about that award."

Walker gave me a long look, his gaze penetrating. "I know you don't," he said, stepping further into the locker room. He paused, taking in the scattered pucks and the lingering tension in the air. "Have you been thinking about your plans for the future?"

Ally's face flashed in my mind, but I pushed it away. I wasn't ready to deal with that right now. Not here.

"You really want to talk business in a locker room?" I drawled, raising an eyebrow at him.

Walker chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Always the smartass," he said. "But yes, Morgan, I do want to talk business. This award may not mean much to you, but it's a reminder of your potential—of what you can still achieve."

I leaned back against the lockers, feeling their cold surface against my skin. The future? It felt like a foreign concept right now, something distant and intangible.

Walker waited patiently, his presence steady and unyielding. He wasn't going to let this go easily.

I sighed again, running a hand through my hair. The anger had dulled to a simmer, but the uncertainty remained.

"All right," I said finally. "Let's talk."

Walker took a step closer, his boots echoing on the cold floor. "Morgan, we want to re-sign you. The Titans need you. You've built something incredible here, and there's no denying the impact you've had on this program."

I began unlacing my skates, each tug feeling like an anchor being pulled from the depths. "Why do I feel like there's a 'but' coming in?"

Walker sighed, leaning against the doorframe. "Because there is," he said, pausing for effect. "Newport is looking at you."

I stopped mid-lace, my eyes narrowing. "The fucking Seagulls? I thought Cherney was coaching the team."

"He's ready to retire," he replied, his voice calm but firm. "But he doesn't want to leave Seraphina Hanson without an adequate replacement."

"Adequate?" I echoed, the word tasting bitter on my tongue.

Walker chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Don't get your skates in a twist, Morgan. Adequate is a hell of an understatement, and we both know it."

I sighed deeply, finishing with my skates and setting them aside. "Why are you telling me this?" I asked, looking up at him. "I thought you wanted to sign me."

"I do," Walker insisted, his gaze steady. "But you need to know your options."

"It sounds like you want to get rid of me," I said, my voice low.

He pushed off the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest. "It's not about getting rid of you. It's about giving you the chance to think about what's best for you—for your career and your future."

"How long do I have?" I asked, trying to mask the frustration in my voice.

"The sooner the better," Walker replied. "I hear Newport'll approach after their post-season finishes. They might go all the way, you know. Your brother, isn't he a?—"

"Yeah," I cut him off, not wanting to delve into the complexities of my relationship with Dean. Dean, who was always the second best between us, now living the dream I always saw as mine. Like Nick.

Walker studied me for a moment before asking, "Could you coach your brother?"

"How the fuck should I know?" I grunted, pulling on my boots. "Look, I'm not going to worry about fucking Newport until they fucking reach out. And that's if they do."

"And if they do?" Walker pressed. "Hell, maybe you can ask for your kid?—"

"Fuck no." I stood up abruptly.

"Ah," Walker said, his tone softening. "So, it's like that between you and the kid."

"You really asking me about personal shit?" I snapped.

"I have a kid too," Walker pointed out.

"Not like my asshole of a son," I retorted. "Your daughter?—"

"Used to date Damien Sinclaire," Walker interrupted.

My mouth dropped open in surprise. "Date?"

"That's what she says," he confirmed.

"Fuck," I muttered, running a hand through my hair.

"Yeah," he echoed quietly.

We stood there in a thick silence, the weight of unspoken words hanging between us.

"Look, I'd like to sign you by the end of the month and secure you for another few years," Walker said, his tone businesslike, but laced with sincerity. "But I get if you want to wait for Newport, too."

I clenched my jaw, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on me. "I don't know what the fuck I want," I muttered, more to myself than to him.

"Bullshit," Walker shot back without missing a beat. "We all know what we want. Deep down, we do. It's just a matter of whether we got the balls to go after it… and that's only after we admit it."

His words hit home, and I felt a surge of frustration. Did I really know what I wanted? The anger that had been simmering inside me started to boil over again. I thought about Ally, about Nick, about everything that had been tearing me apart from the inside.

"I can't make decisions based on what ifs," I said, my voice tight. "You think I don't want to coach in the NHL? That I don't want to see how far I can push myself?"

Walker nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. "Then what's stopping you?"

"Everything," I snapped, my voice echoing in the empty locker room. "My knee, my son, this fucking mess with Janet—" I stopped myself. I almost said Ally's name. I was already saying too fucking much.

I looked away, feeling a sharp pang in my chest. Ally was a complication I hadn't anticipated—a wildcard that threw everything into chaos.

Walker stepped closer, his expression softening slightly. "Morgan, life's messy. It's never going to be perfect or easy. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that you can't let fear hold you back."

I met his gaze again, seeing the wisdom in his eyes. He was right; deep down, I knew he was right. But admitting it—taking that leap—felt like standing on the edge of a cliff with no idea what lay below.

"I'll think about it," I said finally, my voice rough with emotion.

Walker nodded again, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "That's all I'm asking for."

He turned and walked toward the exit, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the echoes of our conversation. The weight of decision hung heavy in the air, but for the first time in a long while, it felt like maybe—just maybe—I could see a way through the fog.

As Walker's footsteps faded away, I sat there in silence, contemplating everything that lay ahead.