Chapter 47

Chapter Forty-Seven

Haydn

The arena is electric, the roar of the crowd reverberating through my helmet and down to my core. Fans are on their feet, a sea of jerseys and signs, their voices rising in unison as the puck drops at center ice. The cold air bites at my face, but it barely registers. The ice beneath me feels like solid ground in a world that’s always shifting.

I skate backward into the crease, the space where everything clicks into place, tracing the same well-worn steps I’ve taken a thousand times. I tap the goalposts—right, left, top, and then the ice—before crouching low, my stick lightly brushing the surface, eyes locked on the play unfolding at center. The crowd chants, 'Wes the Wall! Wes the Wall!' Their voices echo through the arena, a pulse of energy that ignites something fierce inside me, a reminder of who I am and why I’m here.

This keeps the ritual vivid and adds depth to the scene.

Johnson picks up the puck, barreling down the ice like a freight train, his stick weaving with precision as he fakes out our defense. The boards rattle as one of our guys slams into him, but he shrugs it off, his focus unshakable. His eyes flick toward the wing, selling the pass, but I see it—the hesitation, the subtle shift in his body. He’s going for the shot.

I crouch lower, tracking the play. His stick strikes, sending the puck hurtling toward me with brutal force. Time stretches, every detail coming into focus—the puck spinning through the air, the scrape of my blade as I slide into position, the resounding crack as it meets my pad. The puck deflects away, skidding harmlessly into the corner.

The arena erupts, a deafening wave of cheers and chants. Sticks bang against the boards, the guys yelling, “Fuck, yes, Wes!” and “That’s the Wall!” My heart pounds as I skate to the edge of the crease, clearing the snow with a swift kick of my blade. This is what I live for—this rush, this moment.

The play resets, and I roll my shoulders, shaking off the tension. My rituals take over, bringing me back to the moment. Tap the posts. Trace a line with my skate. Scan the ice. The puck shifts to the far end, but I stay ready, hyper-focused, every muscle coiled, ready for the next attack.

The chants rise again, the crowd’s energy rippling through the arena like a living thing. “Wes the Wall!” they roar, louder, fiercer, riding the wave of momentum. It surges through me, setting my nerves alight. I glance at the camera hovering above the rink, knowing every move is being recorded, dissected, replayed. But none of that matters right now. It’s just me, the net, and the puck.

Without thinking, I let instinct take over. I flash a grin at the camera, tap my stick to my lips in a mock kiss, and point at it with a cocky tilt of my head. Stupid? Maybe. But there’s a part of me hoping—just hoping—Pia might be watching. And if she is, I want her to know I’m thinking of her, even if it doesn’t mean anything to her anymore.

“Wesford’s flirting with the cameras again,” Hanson hollers as he skates past, his grin wide, easy.

“Someone’s gotta keep the fans entertained,” I shoot back, adKeaneg my mask as my focus shifts back to the ice. The puck’s moving fast, a blur of black against white, and I’m already tracking it, blocking out everything but the game.

But tonight, no matter how hard I try, there’s a crack in my concentration. It’s her birthday. All I could manage was sending her a gift. A present for a woman who walked away from me two months ago, leaving behind a hole I can’t seem to fill.

Pia moved out after Constantine showed up and let some of their secrets out into the world. Rowan picked up Keane, she packed her things and left with Constantine, and me . . . well, I was relegated to the sidelines once again, which was maybe for the best.

Pia left claiming she wasn’t ready, and I deserved more. More of what, I still don’t know. She was everything to me, even with all her unresolved pain. But then again, who doesn’t have their scars?

Mine? They’re still tied to my mother walking away, her absence a wound that hasn’t healed, no matter how many therapists or coping strategies I’ve tried. After Pia left, I knew I had to face it, so I changed therapists, changed tactics, started digging deeper. For what? To be better. For myself. For her, if there’s ever a chance.

If our paths cross again, I want to be ready. But if they don’t? That’s the question I can’t bring myself to answer. Every time I imagine moving on, meeting someone new, I can’t see it. No one else fits the picture. No one else feels like home.

Ophelia Foster is it for me.

When she left, she said she loved me. But even love wasn’t enough to hold us together. She had questions she needed answered, truths about her past and the accident that left her doubting what was real and what wasn’t. She needed clarity. Closure. And she needed it without me.

I get it. At least, I tell myself I do. But it doesn’t stop me from hoping—hoping that one day, when she’s pieced together the broken parts of herself, we’ll find our way back to each other.

It has to happen, right? It’s the only way this story makes sense.