Bonfire

SLOANE

The fire started as a hesitant flicker against the black sand—then Chase stacked more driftwood and it roared to life, flames snapping high, throwing heat and gold light across the private stretch of beach. Victoria had spread an old wool blanket wide, ringed the pit with smooth stones, and set a cooler nearby: graham crackers, chocolate bars, marshmallows skewered on long metal sticks, and a bottle of cabernet for the adults.

Dad was already toasting his first marshmallow, turning it slowly over the coals, grinning like this was the most natural Saturday night in the world.

Victoria sat cross-legged in an oversized cardigan, pouring wine into plastic cups. She handed one to Dad, then raised hers in a small, quiet toast.

“To quiet nights,” she said softly. “And to us.”

Dad clinked his cup against hers. “To us.”

Chase sat on the far edge of the blanket—knees drawn up, forearms resting on them, staring into the fire like it owed him answers. He’d pulled on a black hoodie after the pool, hood down, sleeves shoved to his elbows. The flames carved shifting shadows across his face: sharp cheekbones, clenched jaw, eyes reflecting orange and red.

I sat opposite—close enough to feel the warmth on my shins, far enough that our knees didn’t risk brushing.

The blanket wasn’t that big.

The silence between us felt bigger.

Victoria passed the marshmallow bag. “Who wants to start?”

Dad skewered one, held it over the flames. “I’ll go. Remember that camping trip in the Poconos when Sloane was eight? She refused to sleep inside the tent because she wanted to ‘see the stars up close.’”

I groaned. “I was eight. Let it die.”

Victoria laughed—soft, warm. “That’s sweet. I love that you were always a little wild.”

Chase’s gaze flicked to me—quick, unreadable—then back to the fire.

Victoria turned to him. “What about you, Chase? Any childhood fire stories?”

He lifted one shoulder. “We didn’t do campfires often. Mom was always working. But once—maybe twelve?—we rented a cabin upstate. Just us. No phones. No TV. She let me stay up late. Sat by the fire and told me she was proud of me. Even when I was terrible at hockey that year.”

Victoria’s smile softened. “I still am.”

He nodded once—tight—then looked down at the flames.

The moment lingered—quiet, unguarded.

Dad cleared his throat. “Okay, my turn again. Sloane—favorite memory with your mom?”

My stomach dropped like a stone.

I stared into the fire. Logs cracked. Sparks spiraled upward.

“She used to take me to this small rocky beach near our old house,” I said finally. Voice even. “Not like this one. Smaller. Rougher. We’d build sandcastles until the tide came in and destroyed them. Then we’d laugh and start over. She always said… ‘Doesn’t matter if it falls down. You just build it again. Better.’”

Silence settled.

Victoria reached over—squeezed my hand gently.

“That’s beautiful, honey.”

I pulled my hand back—slow—nodded once.

Chase hadn’t looked away the entire time I spoke.

His eyes were dark—steady—something flickering in them I couldn’t name.

Victoria passed the skewers again. “Chase? You want one?”

He took it—skewered two marshmallows—held them over the coals.

They browned slowly.

He stayed quiet.

Dad launched into another story—some disastrous fishing trip that ended with a capsized canoe and a lost wallet. Victoria laughed, refilled her wine.

“Your turn, Chase,” she said. “Tell us something we don’t know about you.”

He chewed the question for a long moment.

The fire popped. The ocean sighed behind us.

“I’m terrified of retirement,” he said finally.

We all looked at him.

“What?” Dad asked gently.

Chase stared at the flames. “Hockey’s all I’ve got. All I’ve ever been good at. One day—ten years, fifteen if I’m lucky—it ends. And then what?” He paused. “Who am I when the skates come off?”

Victoria’s expression softened. “You’re so much more than hockey, baby.”

“Am I?” He met her eyes. “Because I don’t know what that looks like. I’ve been skating since four. Training since six. Every choice, every sacrifice—it’s all been for this. When it’s gone…” He shook his head. “I don’t know who’s left.”

The silence that followed was thick—real.

I stared at him—this arrogant, untouchable hockey god who suddenly looked… small. Exposed.

“You’ll figure it out,” I said quietly.

His gaze cut to mine. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I held his eyes. “People aren’t just one thing. You’re not just hockey.”

“Then what am I?”

The question landed soft. Vulnerable.

I thought about the Chase I’d glimpsed over the last few days—the one who’d admitted fear in the dark last night, the one who’d held me steady during yoga, the one who’d gripped my thighs in the pool like he was afraid to let go.

“You’re someone who cares too much,” I said. “Even when you pretend not to. Someone who’s scared of letting people down. Someone who hides behind sarcasm and cocky grins because being seen—really seen—is terrifying.”

Chase’s jaw tightened.

“Someone,” I finished, “who’s more than he gives himself credit for.”

Firelight danced across his face.

He didn’t look away.

For one heartbeat the mask slipped—raw, unguarded gratitude flickering in his eyes.

Then the smirk slid back into place like armor.

“Wow, Winters,” he drawled, leaning back on his hands. “Didn’t realize you were so obsessed with me.”

The moment cracked.

I blinked. “What?”

“I mean, you just psychoanalyzed me in front of the whole family. That takes dedication.” His eyes glinted—amused, defensive. “Should I be flattered or file a restraining order?”

Heat flooded my cheeks—not the warm kind.

“I was trying to be nice.”

“Were you? Because it sounded like you were trying to fix me.”

“Maybe you need fixing.”

“Maybe you need to stay out of my head.”

Dad cleared his throat. “Kids—”

But I was already on my feet.

“You know what?” My voice came out tight, sharp. “You’re right. You *are* just hockey. Because the second someone tries to see past the jersey, you push them away. You crack jokes. You deflect. You turn everything into a fight so no one gets close enough to hurt you.”

Chase’s smirk faltered. “Sloane—”

“No.” I stepped back. “You wanted honesty? Here it is: you’re terrified of anyone actually knowing you. So you keep everyone at arm’s length. Even the people who are trying.”

I turned—fast—sand kicking up behind me as I walked toward the house.

Behind me, Victoria’s voice cut through the night—sharp, disappointed.

“Chase. What the hell was that?”

I didn’t stop.

I made it to the guest room, shut the door, locked it.

And swore—silently, furiously—that I was done.

Done talking to him.

Done participating in “family” activities.

Done pretending there was anything human under all that armor.

For the rest of the weekend I kept my distance—headphones in during car rides, excuses ready for meals, eyes anywhere but on him.

He didn’t try to bridge the gap.

Not once.

And somewhere between the bonfire and the long drive home Sunday night, the tiny crack of vulnerability I’d seen in him sealed shut again.

To think I’d started to believe he might actually be more than the golden boy with the perfect shot.

What a mistake.

What a stupid, reckless mistake.