Page 14 of Chips & Checks
My first thought when I wake up is that I never asked her to leave. The room smells like her—sweet, citrusy, a little like lemon and sin—and it’s soaked into the sheets, my skin, and the pillow that’s still dented from where her head lay on it.
Except she’s not there now, and I feel… disappointed?
Sitting up, I scrub a hand over my face. What the hell? I don’t do this. I don’t feel likethis.
I’ve never asked a girl to stay over. Hell, I don’t even remember the last time I woke up beside one. The last person who got that close was my first girlfriend, and that crashed and burned after twenty-two days of me choosing hockey over everything else.
I’ve seen what love does to people.
My dad? He’s a goddamn simp.
Ask anyone in the league—hell, check the old Cup footage. He won the biggest prize in hockey and beelined straight for my mom like she was the only trophy worth lifting. He held her like she was breakable, like the whole world could watch him fall to his knees and he wouldn’t give a shit.
They still slow dance in the kitchen. Still hum when they hug. Still finish each other’s sentences like they’ve been scripted since the dawn of time.
And yeah, it’s sweet. It’s also… suffocating.
Because I saw what being an NHL legend cost him. How he spread himself thin being everybody’s best friend. How I always had to share him—with the fans, the team, the league.
I didn’t want that. Still don’t.
No handholding. No slow dancing. No huggling.
Only—
I lie back, exhaling slowly as I turn my head toward the dent in my pillow.
Only now the pillow smells like her.
And I kind of want it to stay that way.
That’s why hookups are easier. Cleaner. Less risk. No lingering complications or deep conversations in the morning light.
But Vi didn’t complicate anything last night. She just… shifted something.
I lean back on the pillows and exhale through my nose. My chest’s tight. Not painful. Just… tight.
What did Briggs say yesterday?I guess it got old. Lonely, too.
Am I lonely?
No.
Maybe.
Fuck, I don’t know.
I liked her. That’s it. I liked her. And if I saw her again, I’d still like her. Maybe that’s messing with me more than it should because I haven’t seen the guys yet, haven’t skated in a few days, haven’t settled into this city that still feels like a fever dream.
But what bothers me most is that I didn’t get her number. Didn’t ask for her last name. Even though we joked about it at The Puck Drop, I didn’t leave myself any way to see her again. Just let her walk out like she didn’t wreck me for casual. What the hell was that?
Crawling out of bed, I make my way to the shower so that I can wash off the last of Vi’s perfume. I send the aromatic residue swirling down the drain and get dressed in plenty of time to head over to the arena to meet my teammates.
I tell myself it was just a night. Nothing more. No big deal. But even as I grab my gear and check my reflection one last time, there’s this strange sense of… static. Like I left something behind that I wasn’t supposed to. Like I forgot to collect a piece of myself before she walked out. I shake it off, lock the hotel door behind me, and head out into the heat. After tossing my bag in the back of my rental, I slide behind the wheel, the leather seats already too warm. Time to get my head on straight. New city, new team, fresh start. Whatever that was last night, it stays there.
All the rules still apply.
I meet Briggs in the lobby of the arena. He gives me a quick refresher of the layout—training room, film room, weight room—and hands me off to Assistant Coach Shaw outside the locker room.
