Puck, Passion, and Broken Promises

Three years. Two months. Fourteen days.

That's how long I've been gone.

The Seattle Blizzards' press room smells exactly the same. Ice. Sweat. Expensive cologne trying to cover both. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like angry bees. Reporters crowd the wooden benches, laptops open, fingers ready.

My press badge says "Ava Thompson – Freelance."

It should say "The Woman Who Destroyed Ethan Hayes."

I grip my recorder so hard my knuckles turn white.

"You okay?" The reporter next to me, a kid named Jamie, frowns. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Something like that."

"You know Hayes personally? I heard—"

"I don't."

The lie tastes bitter.

Because I do know him. I know the scar on his ribs from a skate blade. I know the way he takes his coffee. Black. No sugar. The way he hums in his sleep. The way his voice drops an octave when he's about to say something he doesn't want to say.

I knew all of him.

And then I destroyed him.

The locker room door swings open.

Players spill out. Big men. Loud laughs. Expensive suits.

Then him.

Ethan Hayes walks out last. Like always. Captain's privilege. His navy suit fits like it was painted on. Hair still damp from the shower. Dark circles under his eyes. Jaw tight.

He hasn't slept in years.

That's what they say in the blogs.

"He's been different since the scandal."

"Cold."

"Untouchable."

I know why.

Because I made him that way.

"Thompson."

The word cuts through the noise.

I look up.

He's stopped walking. His team parts around him like water around a rock. His eyes find mine across the room. Thirty feet. Might as well be a mile.

"Ethan." His name slips out. Quiet. Broken.

He moves.

Players step back. Reporters stop typing. The room holds its breath.

"You're not supposed to be here."

"I have credentials." I hold up my badge. It shakes. "Press pass. Full access."

"Those don't matter." He drops his gym bag. It hits the floor like a body. "What matters is you're not welcome."

My chest tightens. "I'm covering the playoff run. It's my job."

"Your job." He says it like a curse. Like the word itself offends him. "Like last time?"

"Ethan, please—"

"Don't." He steps closer. Ten feet now. Close enough that I smell him. Cedar. Ice. Something darker underneath. "Don't say my name like you have the right."

Around us, phones rise. Recording. Always recording. This will be on T*****r in thirty seconds. "Ethan Hayes confronts ex-journalist." Headlines write themselves.

"I wrote one article," I say quietly. "One."

"You burned my reputation."

"I reported the truth."

"You reported lies." His jaw locks. A muscle jumps in his cheek. "You took anonymous sources and rumors and you printed them like gospel."

"The sources were solid."

"The sources were paid." His voice drops. Only I can hear it. "You know that. I know that. Everyone in this room knows that."

"Then why won't you talk to me? Clear it up?"

"Because I don't owe you anything." He picks up his bag. "Find another story, Thompson. This one died when you killed it."

He walks away.

Every step echoes.

The whispers start immediately.

"Did you see his face?"

"She really ruined him."

"I heard they were together. Secret. For months."

"He was in love with her."

"Was?"

"He's never been the same."

My phone buzzes.

My editor. "Get the Hayes interview or don't come back."

I shove the phone in my pocket.

And I follow him.

The hallway outside the locker room is empty.

Trophy cases line the walls. Championship photos. Golden moments frozen in time.

Ethan leans against the wall at the far end. Head back. Eyes closed. Neck exposed. His suit jacket is gone. Tie loosened.

He looks human like this.

Almost.

"You followed me."

"You stopped walking."

"Maybe I wanted to see if you'd chase me." He opens his eyes. Dark. Hollow. Something flickers there. Something that looks like pain. "You always did."

My throat closes. "That was before."

"Before what? Before you sold me out for a byline?"

"I didn't sell you out."

"Your article cost me twelve million dollars in endorsements."

"I know."

"It cost me the captaincy vote."

"I know."

"It cost me—" He stops. Swallows. "It cost me everything."

"It cost me too."

"Really?" He pushes off the wall. Walks toward me. Slow. Deliberate. "You look fine, Thompson. Better than fine. Life been good?"

"No."

"You look good."

"Ethan."

"I said don't say my name." He's close now. Three feet. Two. His cologne fills my lungs. "So don't say my name unless you want to feel what happens when I hear it from your mouth."

My breath catches. "What happens?"

"You don't want to find out."

"You don't know what I want."

"Then tell me." His hand lifts. Finger under my chin. Tilts my face up. "Tell me what you want, Ava."

My real name on his lips.

It breaks something inside me.

"I want the interview."

"Liar."

"I want to fix this."

"You can't fix it."

"I want—" I stop.

What do I want?

I want to go back. To the night before the article. To the night I lost everything.

"What?" His thumb traces my jaw. "What do you want?"

"You."

The word falls out.

Honest. Raw. Unforgivable.

His hand freezes.

The air between us turns electric.

"You don't get to want me," he says quietly. "You lost that right."

"I know."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because Mason knew."

His hand drops.

"What?"

"Your best friend. Mason Reed. He knew about the article before it ran."

"That's impossible."

"He approved the sources. He told your father. He set the whole thing up."

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"Then why are you telling me now?"

"Because I'm not your enemy, Ethan. I never was."

His eyes search my face. Looking for the lie. Looking for the tell.

He won't find it.

Because this is the truth.

The only truth I have left.

"Then who is?" His voice cracks. Just a little. Just enough. "Who destroyed us?"

"Your father."

The name hangs between us like a blade.

Darius Hayes. Billionaire. Team owner. Puppet master.

The man who paid for my silence.

The man who took everything.

Ethan's face goes white. "My father?"

"He paid Mason. He paid the sources. He paid my editor."

"Why?"

"Because he wanted you alone. No distractions. No weaknesses."

"Your father—" I stop. Correct myself. "Darius told me if I didn't print the article, he'd destroy my career. He said you'd never love me anyway. That I was just a journalist chasing a story."

"And you believed him?"

"I believed he could hurt me. He already had."

"What do you mean?"

I open my mouth.

The door slams open.

Vanessa Cole steps into the hallway.

Perfect hair. Perfect smile. Perfect body in a perfect red dress. Diamond on her left hand the size of my future.

"Darling?" She looks at me. Looks at the space between us. Too close. Too intimate. "Who is this?"

Ethan steps back.

The cold returns to his eyes.

"Nobody," he says.

Vanessa's smile doesn't waver. "Nobody? You were standing very close to nobody."

"She's a journalist. Asking questions."

"About what?"

"About the past."

"How boring." Vanessa loops her arm through Ethan's. Stakes her claim. "The past is dead, darling. Let it stay buried."

I look at Ethan.

He won't meet my eyes.

"The interview," I say. "We're not done."

"Yes we are."

"The assignment—"

"Is not my problem." He turns away. Toward her. Toward the life he built without me. "Leave. Now. Before I call security."

"Ethan."

His name echoes.

He stops walking.

Vanessa's smile finally cracks. "Darling?"

Ethan doesn't look at her.

Doesn't look at me.

He stares at the wall like it holds all the answers.

"Nine o'clock," he says quietly. "My house. Don't be late."

"What?" Vanessa's voice sharpens. "Ethan, what are you doing?"

"Going home. Alone." He pulls his arm free. "You should leave too, Vanessa."

"But—"

"The interview." His eyes finally meet mine. Dark. Burning. "One hour. You ask your questions. I give my answers. Then you leave my city and never come back."

"One hour isn't enough."

"Then talk faster."

He walks away.

Vanessa glares at me. Pure hatred in her perfect face.

"I don't know what you think you're doing," she says. "But he's mine now."

"Is he?"

"He proposed."

"I saw the ring."

"Then you saw everything you need to see." She steps close. Perfume. Poison. "He doesn't love you. He never did. You were a distraction. A mistake. A story he'll forget."

"Then why are you threatened?"

"I'm not threatened."

"Your hands are shaking."

She looks down. Sees her own tremble.

When she looks up, the mask is back.

"Be at the house at nine," she says. "Get your interview. And then disappear. Because if you hurt him again, I will destroy you."

"How?"

"I'm a billionaire's daughter. I have resources."

"So do I."

"Like what?"

I smile.

No warmth.

"Like the truth."

She walks away.

Her heels click on the tile like gunshots.

I lean against the wall.

My heart won't slow down.

My phone buzzes.

My editor again. "Update?"

"Interview tonight. Nine o'clock."

"GET IT."

I lock the phone.

Close my eyes.

And see his face when I said "your father."

He believed me.

That's the problem.

He believed me.

And now I have to go to his house. Sit in his space. Breathe his air.

Pretend I don't still love him.

Pretend I don't dream about him.

Pretend I don't remember exactly what he feels like inside me.

My phone buzzes one more time.

A text from an unknown number.

"You want the real story, Thompson? Come alone. Wear something that makes him remember. And don't tell Vanessa I texted you. – M"

Mason.

His best friend.

The traitor.

I delete the message.

But my hands shake as I type back three words.

"What should I wear?"

The response comes in three seconds.

"Red. He always liked you in red. And no underwear. He could always tell."

I should be angry.

I should be disgusted.

Instead, I'm already walking to my car.

Already calculating traffic.

Already imagining his hands on my skin.

Three years.

Two months.

Fourteen days.

Tonight, I find out if he still remembers.

And if he does?

God help us both.