Page 68 of Breakaway

“My what?” Henley asked, screwing up her face.

“Henshaw brigade? Hennites? Henhouse?” Scar said, tapping her finger as she thought out loud. “I’ll work on a name for your fans and supporters. But Finley and a couple of her boyfriends are apparently legit hackers, so when she heard what had happened, they offered to help.”

“Who was it?” Fletcher asked, staring at the floor. I tilted my head as I watched him. He seemed a bit distant today. I’d check in later so he didn’t keep something else from us under the guise of protecting us.

“Some guy named Owen Hewitt. He sold the info to Polar Garments. Does the name ring any bells?”

“Fuck,” Fletcher cursed. “I fired him a few weeks ago. So there’s someone else leaking information to him. I’m so sorry, guys. This was on me.”

“But how did he even know about the shoot? We kept it all SnowPoke.”

“That might require more digging, but for now, we know who, at least. Do you make your employees sign an NDA when released?” Keaton asked.

“Yeah. I’ll have my lawyer send it over and bury him in legal tape. But the damage has been done. What do we do next?” Fletcher asked. He rubbed his beard, his eyes dark, and I wondered if he even got any sleep last night.

“My PR team worked with the photographer to create new layouts with some editing. We’re still going to drop it today. It means too much not to. If people think we copied, so be it. The message is still clear—hockey is changing.”

“Let’s push it big. Show them we’re not afraid and can’t be silenced that easily,” Henley added.

They spent the rest of the breakfast discussing tactics, and I zoned out, glad I wasn’t needed for this part. At least, it seemed there was progress, and that was something I could get behind.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Henley

Despite my exhaustion, I couldn’t sleep all night, and I didn’t think another orgasm would fix the anxiety coursing through me this time. The revised campaign had dropped at midnight, and I was terrified of how it was being received.

Would people think we copied? Would ours seem second-rate? Would they even care?

I hated having doubts, especially concerning something I’d been so excited over. This campaign—this movement—had the potential to make so many people feel seen, and the Society had tarnished it. It made me sick to my stomach.

Giving up on sleep, I got up and ran five miles before anyone else in the house was awake. I finished at the arena, wanting to get some ice time before everyone showed up for the day. My body tensed as I came upon the parking lot, but when I saw there had already been changes made, I instantly relaxed. Taking a deep breath, I walked over to the side of the building and stopped.

The blacktop had been painted to represent an ice rink with two goals, the school logo in the center. A bucket of pucks sat next to a bench, along with a few sliding boards to practice on, simulating movement on the ice. A water cooler and cubbies were at the other end of the bench for the students to put their stuff in. Everything a player could need to practice shooting and moving on without even going inside. Impressed with the setup, I turned to the wall and immediately froze.

A mural had been painted on the brick wall of all the players, with Reese and me right in the front, our friends and teammates around us. Everyone from the support staff, star players, and coaches were included with “The Lux ‘Breakaway’ Blizzards” at the bottom. It was everything I didn’t know I needed.

This was what teamwork looked like, coming together as one unit; it was my favorite part of playing hockey.

The sick feeling I’d been experiencing since the attack no longer existed, hope and renewal now in its place. Taking a deep breath, I let it out and spread my arms wide as I accepted the new sensations—love, family, and pride resonated in this space.

Heading through the back door, I scanned my keycard with more pep to my step than before. The main ice rink was empty, but I could hear some music from one of the smaller rinks where several figure skaters practiced.

Going through my routine, one I’d done a million times, I put on my pads and skates as I made my way to the ice. My stick felt right in my hand, something I’d been missing. Usually, this time of year was filled with back-to-back games and practices. And while I still had those going on, being on the coaching side of things was different.

Some days I didn’t even touch my stick, which felt wrong. I enjoyed coaching a lot. It had shown me parts of myself I hadn’t known existed and brought Reese and me closer than I ever could’ve imagined. It’d taught me so many new things and made me a stronger person. I had a new respect for the game and all the aspects that went into a lineup and shift placement.

Coaching had been precisely what I needed after being dismissed from the league. It was the solid place to land that gave me the space to bloom.

But I didn’t think it was my forever. My heart belonged on the ice as a player, and I knew somehow I wanted to make that happen again, whatever that looked like.

Finished with my warmups, I skated up and down the rink doing quick suicides. My blades cut across the fresh ice, the sound soothing and enticing, and made me want to push harder. After that, I set up cones and skated through them, moving the puck back and forth, and then transitioned into hitting goals. I fell into my old practice routine so easily that it was like returning home after I’d been gone so long.

You might’ve changed, but the foundation was still there, waiting for the new version of you.

When I finished, my face was red and sweaty. My muscles ached, and it took me a while to catch my breath. But I hadn’t felt so connected with my former hockey self in a bit, and that meant everything. Taking one final shot, I slapped the puck from the center and watched it sail across the ice and bank into the goal.

“Nice shot.”

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