Page 80 of From Wink to Kink

Coach chuckles. "Enlightening, huh? Well, whatever they did to you, keep it up. I haven't seen you this focused in a long time."

As I leave his office, I can't help but think about what's really driving me. It's not enlightenment or some newfound tranquility. It's that damn Ruby Brooks. Or rather, the absence of Ruby Brooks. Every grueling workout, every extra hour on the ice—it's all to keep my mind off her. To prove to myself that I can be better, do better, even if she's not here to see it.

The next few days pass in a blur of practices, workouts, and team meetings. Management is thrilled with my new ‘hardcore focus,’ as they call it. There's talk of increased ice time, maybe even a leadership role in the future.

I should be on top of the world. This is what I've worked for, what I've dreamed of. So why does it all feel so... meh?

I'm lacing up my skates for an afternoon practice when Tyler drops onto the bench beside me. Ruby's brother. My teammate. My friend.

Am I about to get my teeth kicked in? I’ve been waiting for this moment.

"Hey, man," he says, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "How's it going?"

I shrug, focusing on my laces. "Can't complain. You?"

He’s quiet for a moment, but feel his gaze on me. "You've been different since you got back from that retreat," he says finally. "Focused, yeah, but also... I don't know. Tense? Like you're carrying something heavy."

I force a laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. "What are you, my therapist now? I'm fine, Brooks. Just taking things more seriously this season."

"Uh-huh," he says, unconvinced. "And this wouldn't have anything to do with my sister, would it?"

Shit.

My head snaps up, my heart pounding. "What? No. Why would you think that?"

Tyler holds up his hands, his expression a mix of concern and amusement. "Whoa, defensive much? I just thought, you know, since you were at the same retreat..."

"It was a big resort," I say quickly. Too quickly. "We barely saw each other."

It's a lie, and from the look on Tyler's face, he knows it. But he doesn't push. Instead, he stands up, clapping me on the shoulder.

"Alright, man. If you say so. But if you ever want to talk..."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. As Tyler walks away, I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Does he know? Has Ruby told him about us? About how I opened up to her, how I wanted to try for something real?

About how she walked away?

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. It doesn't matter. What happened in Costa Rica stays in Costa Rica. I'm here now, focused on hockey, on being better. That's all that matters.

But as I step onto the ice, Ruby's face flashes through my mind. Her laugh, her passion when talking about books, the wayher eyes lit up when she was excited about something. For a moment, the ache in my chest threatens to overwhelm me.

Then I hear the whistle blow, signaling the start of practice, and I push it all down. I channel every emotion, every regret, every 'what if' into my skating, my shooting, my checking.

By the end of practice, I'm exhausted, dripping with sweat, my muscles screaming. But my mind is blissfully quiet. This is what I need. This is how I move on.

As I'm leaving the rink, Coach stops me again. "Whatever you're doing, Newcomb, keep it up," he says, his tone gruff but approving. "This could be your year."

I nod, forcing a smile. "Thanks, Coach. I plan to."

But as I walk to my car, Ruby's words echo in my head. "We're too different," she’d said. "It's better if we end this now."

Maybe she was right. Maybe this is for the best. I'm Chuck Newcomb, star hockey player. I don't need romance or complicated feelings. I have the ice, the game, my teammates. It's enough.

It has to be enough.

Because the alternative, admitting that a week with Ruby Brooks changed me more than any therapy and team mandates, is too terrifying to contemplate.

So, I'll keep pushing, focusing, pretending that the hole in my chest is just from a particularly hard check and not from the absence of a certain red-headed librarian.

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