Page 4 of Lose You Twice

By 4:27, I’m dressed, keys in my pocket, bag over one shoulder. In the kitchen, I grab a protein shake from the fridge and a banana off the counter. Down half the shake in a few long swallows. Eat the banana standing over the trash so I don’t leave the peel on the counter. Rinse the empty bottle and put it in the recycling bin.

Then I scribble a note on the pad by the fridge.

Gym early.

It’s not like Grayson needs to know. I’m not his responsibility, but some part of me still works like the people I care about need to know where I am. Like leaving without a trace is a bad omen. If something goes wrong, the least I can do is make sure there’s a starting point.

Another old habit.

Another thing I should’ve grown out of by now.

I lock the apartment door behind me and test the handle.

Once.

Twice.

I force myself not to do it a third time.

Outside, the January air is cool, but not too cold. I take the long route to the training facility, cutting across the edge of the empty practice fields because I need the walk more than I need the extra sleep I wasn’t going to get anyway.

Wren has been the star of my dreams for as long as I can remember, but I didn’t know she’d land a leading role in my nightmares.

I haven’t asked why she’s here. I haven’t asked if she’s staying.

I haven’t asked anything, because asking means I care, and caring means she could look at me and know exactly how pathetic I’ve been without her.

She doesn’t need to know. If it was meant to be, we’d still be together.

At least, that’s what I’ve been trying to convince myself.

Much easier said than done when I have to see her pretty face and blue eyes that I’d happily let myself drown in.

By the time I swipe into the athletic facility, the tightness in my chest has sharpened into something I can use as fuel. The building is dark except for the emergency lights and the glow from the weight room windows.

The quiet settles over me the second I step inside.

No music. No teammates.

Perfect.

I toss my bag onto the bench and start my warm-up.

Ten minutes of mobility. Five minutes incline walk. Activation circuit.

Then weights.

Everything in order. Everything with purpose. That’s the only way this works. Hockey doesn’t reward almost. It doesn’t care if you’re tired or distracted or carrying some childhood heartbreak around like a lovesick fool. The ice doesn’t make room for your feelings, and neither does the scoreboard.

You show up, or you don’t.

You’re ready, or you’re not.

And I have to be ready.

I’m captain. I’m supposed to be the standard. First in, last out. The guy everyone can count on when the season gets ugly, and bodies start wearing down. The guy Coach can point to when the freshmen need to understand what hard work looks like.

I can’t fold.