Chapter 13

Amelia

I tug at the hem of my uniform, and my fingers fumble on the buttons, clumsy from the restless night. Riley's absence in my apartment made my space unsettling. I glance in my bathroom mirror and fix my ponytail.

If I were to go to work, then I would for sure see Riley again. I'm supposed to be part of that world now, right?

My reflection is pale, and I tug again at my uniform, wishing it could shield me from the rapid pace my life has taken since Riley and I... well, since we became whatever 'we' are now.

And then there’s the weight of those confessions from last night, heavy on my heart and mind. It's odd how the words spilled out so easily to Riley, truths I've kept tucked away under layers of sarcasm and late-night snack wrappers.

My chest tightens, pulse racing. So many pieces of myself - raw, unfiltered bits of Amelia Brooks - now rest in Riley's hands. My secret OnlyFans gig, the dreams of my own wellness studio, even the quirks of my guarded nature; he knows them all. Trust is a slippery slope, and I've never been great at it.

I reach for the countertop, steadying myself against the cool metal, trying to calm the flurry inside me. Openness was never my strong suit, yet here I am, decked out in fear and hope, wondering if I’ve said too much.

Doubt in my head needs to be smoothed out before I step into the Blade’s, ready to tend to jerseys, towels, and egos.

I shove my makeup to the side to reach for the hand towel to wipe the beads of sweat on my forehead. The sudden shift makes my mascara roll off and land on the floor with a clank. It reminds me of the falling out with my brother—the silence that followed our last harsh words still echoes louder than anything hitting the floor would. I haven’t told Riley about that, about the gaping rift between family ties that once bound us together. How do you explain to someone that your own flesh and blood feels like a stranger now?

The weight of all these confessions still not made sits heavy on my chest as I lace up my work shoes; they're sturdy, meant for navigating slippery floors, but no amount of traction can keep my thoughts from skidding uncontrollably.

My fingers brush against the soft comfort of my bed sheets, or maybe in search of some grounding.

I just can’t.

The light of my phone on the nightstand pulls my attention and I reach for it.

I tap out the message with shaky fingers to my boss, the words "not feeling well" barely capturing the chaos brewing inside me. The send button feels like a tiny bit of pressure that’s released from my spiral. There's no going back now. I've never called in sick before. Not once.

I'm not okay. I'm a mess, a jumble of nerves of truth and secrets, and the thought of seeing Riley today is enough to make my stomach churn.

My head hits the pillow and I close my eyes. After my boss’s acknowledgement reply, I close my eyes and rest my thoughts.

That is until my phone starts vibrating on repeat.

I know without looking that it's him—Riley, with his persistent concern and ways to always seem to find me when I'm most at risk. I can't deal with his questions, his probing gaze trying to peel back layers I'm not ready to shed. So, I do what any self-respecting woman on the edge would do: I ignore it.

The screen lights up again and again. It's cowardly, maybe, but necessary. I need space to breathe, to think, to figure out how to figure out if I’ve said too much to him already about hidden parts of me.

"Sorry, Riley," I whisper to the silent room as the distance between us grows with every reply not sent. The grip of guilt tightens around in my gut, but for now, I let the messages go unanswered, let the silence speak for me. It's easier this way—at least that's what I tell myself as I curl up on the bed.

***

Two days of not working is all I could afford without being in jeopardy of losing this ‘real job’.

The Blade's Sanctuary buzzes with the pre-game chaos that's become my normal, but I'm a ghost, slipping through the locker room without a word. Every time Riley's laugh booms over the clatter of gear, my insides knot up, and I double down on my invisibility act.

"Amelia, can we get some extra towels over here to clean up this spill?" Coach barks across the room, and I'm there in a flash to clean up the mess. No fuss, no eye contact, especially not with number 17, who's looking for any excuse to cross paths.

I’m always darting away before anyone, particularly Riley, can do more than nod in my direction.

Days bleed into each other—dodge, weave, repeat. The rink is my battlefield, and I'm a master at evading the one guy whose gaze feels like it's burning holes in the back of my head.

"Hey, Brooks, wait up!" His voice chases me as I scurry out after Thursday's practice, but I'm already gone, scurrying into the shadows of the parking garage.

Friday rolls around, and I half-run from work. My keys jangle against the door ready to burst into my apartment, desperate to shed the weight of the week. That's when I see it—a large and unexpected package on my doorstep.

Great, another thing to deal with.

Curiosity edges out frustration, and I haul the mystery box inside.

From... Riley?

The name stares up at me, and I feel strange. I’m scared, anxious, and, I’m not going to lie, a little excited. With hesitant fingers, I tear into the cardboard.

"Whoa." The fabric spills out just as I pop the tape on the top of the box. With a few tugs, I pull it out and hold it up to see a jersey with 'Watson' emblazoned across the back. It's official, real, and unmistakably his. A rush of emotions floods me, too strong to ignore.

A card with handwriting on it falls to the floor, so I quickly pick it up to open it to see a ticket and a note.

Princess,

Wear this for me. Sit where I can see you, not hidden away.

– R

It's simple, sweet, and so damn Riley.

Glass seat ticket?

He's asking me to step into the light, to be seen in a way I've spent a lifetime avoiding.

I let myself imagine it—me in his jersey, sitting in my seat at rinkside, his eyes finding mine. The idea is scary as hell... and tempting.

I’m going to have to think about this. My fingers trace the stitching on the jersey. What could possibly be if I'm brave enough to show up?