39. Tyler

CHAPTER 39

TYLER

I slide in across from DJ at the tiny table, our knees knocking beneath. The cafe near the arena bustles with the usual lunchtime rush but it all fades away as I meet his troubled gaze. He looks as exhausted and heartsick as I am.

"Any luck?" I ask, already dreading the answer.

DJ shakes his head grimly. "Nada. Straight to voicemail again. Texts still on ‘unread.' It's like she's vanished off the face of the earth, bro."

I scrub a hand over my face. "Fuck. What are we gonna do, man? We can't lose her. Not like this."

"I know." DJ toys with the wrapper from his sandwich, jaw clenched. "It's killing me, Ty. I can't stop thinking about her, worrying if she's okay. If she hates us now."

"She doesn't hate us," I insist, though uncertainty gnaws at my gut. "Sydney's just...processing. So much has happened. She needs time."

"And space, apparently." DJ's voice cracks and he looks away, blinking hard. "Away from us."

My chest constricts. It physically pains me to see him hurting like this. Impulsively, I reach across the table and grip his hand.

"Hey. Look at me." I wait until DJ's glistening eyes meet mine. "We're gonna fix this, alright? Failure is not an option. Not when it comes to Sydney."

He swallows thickly. "I want to believe that, but...what if we can't fix it? What if we pushed her away for good? I mean…she resigned. It can't get more final than that, right?"

I refuse to even entertain that possibility. "Nope. I won't accept that. We fight for what we want, remember? And there is nothing I want more than the three of us, together. We'll make her see how much she means to us. Whatever it takes. We've just gotta make it through the playoffs and then we can focus on getting our girl back."

DJ searches my face for a long moment before managing a small nod. "Okay. You're right. We can't give up." He squeezes my hand. "Thanks, Ty."

I squeeze back, mustering up a smile I don't quite feel. The thought of flying off tomorrow and facing our biggest rivals without Sydney by our side just doesn't feel right.

This can't be how our story ends. Not when it feels like we're just getting started.

The next day I'm staring out the airplane window watching the clouds below, lost in thought.

"You okay, man?" DJ asks from the seat next to me, nudging my arm.

"Yeah, just...thinking about Sydney."

DJ sighs. "I know. Me too. But she'll come around. It's like you said, we'll figure out how to get through to her." He rests a reassuring hand on my shoulder, his touch lingering.

I glance over at him and manage a half-smile. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Probably be even more of a moody goalie," he teases with a wink.

I roll my eyes but can't help chuckling. "Whatever, dude. You love that I'm dark and broody."

"Among other things..." DJ murmurs, his gaze heated as it roves over me. I inhale sharply, my body reacting to the fire in his eyes despite the swirl of nerves in my stomach. Damn, if only we were alone…

My filthy mind would love to drag him into the bathroom and join the mile high club, but these toddler-sized airplane toilets barely fit one fully grown professional athlete, let alone two. That would be quite the show for everyone.

The plane hits some turbulence as we start descending and I tense up, my flying anxiety flaring. DJ notices and slides his hand over to rest on my thigh, squeezing gently.

"Almost there, Ty. Just focus on me, okay?" His deep brown eyes lock onto mine, grounding me. I nod, trying to match my breathing to his.

Noticing that I need a distraction, DJ slips me some noise-canceling headphones, and I put them on gratefully, staring blankly at the screen in front of me. Some colorful Bollywood movie plays out, the dramatic scenes and dance numbers oddly mesmerizing.

Before I know it, we're touching down, the plane rattling as the wheels hit the runway. I let out the breath I was holding.

As we deplane, I can practically feel the nervous energy vibrating through the team. The gravity of this playoff game settles over us all. It's time to box up all the feelings once again and get in the zone.

Focus on nothing but hockey and getting the W.

Celebratory shouts and laughter of my teammates echo off the locker room walls. Sweaty bodies jostle around me, hands slapping my back, ruffling my hair. I force a grin, accepting the barrage of congratulations, but inside I feel numb. Hollow.

"Tyler, my man!" DJ slings an arm around my shoulders, his lean muscles glistening. "You were on fire out there! Those saves were straight out of a highlight reel."

"Thanks, bro." I manage a weak smile. "Couldn't have done it without the rest of you beasts."

"Nonsense. This win is all you. When Adam went down, we thought we were screwed. But you? You stepped the fuck up." He leans in closer, his breath hot against my ear. "I knew you had it in you."

My throat tightens. DJ's proximity, the warmth radiating off his inked skin, sends a shiver down my spine. I swallow hard, stepping back. "Just doing my job."

"Well, you were perfection. This calls for a proper celebration! Steakhouse on me, boys!" DJ announces to the room. Whoops and cheers erupt in response.

I plaster on a smile, but my heart's not in it. As the guys file out, eagerly discussing dinner plans, I hang back. Slowly, methodically, I peel off my gear. The pads that felt like armor on the ice now suffocate me.

"You coming, Ty?" DJ pauses at the door, his brow furrowed.

"You know, I think I'm gonna sit this one out. Feeling pretty beat."

It's not entirely a lie. Exhaustion weighs on me, but it's not just physical.

DJ studies me for a moment, his gaze probing. "You sure? We can always grab a quiet bite, just the two of us."

The offer is tempting. Too tempting. DJ deserves better than my mopey ass right now .

"Nah, man. You have fun. I'm just gonna crash."

He nods, but the concern doesn't leave his eyes. "Alright. Get some rest, superstar. You've earned it."

With a final clap on my shoulder, he's gone. And I'm alone. In the suffocating silence of the empty locker room.

I make my way back to the hotel, each step heavier than the last. The door to my room clicks shut behind me, sealing me in. I survey the generic decor—the bland walls, the impersonal furniture. It's a perfect reflection of the void inside me.

This is it. The moment I've dreamed of since I first laced up skates. A crucial playoff win. A chance to prove myself. To step out of my brother's shadow.

But as I sink onto the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, I realize the bitter truth. None of it matters. Not without her. Not without the woman who completes us.

I close my eyes, picturing her face. The way she looks at me, like she sees past the mask I wear. The way she fits so perfectly in my arms, in DJ's arms. The three of us, an unbreakable unit.

But she's not here. And the victory turns to ashes in my mouth.