Breathe

CHASE

The pillow wall was hilarious in theory.

In practice, it was a joke.

Seven pillows stacked like a soft barricade down the middle of the queen bed—neutral territory in a war nobody had officially declared. I lay on my side staring at the fabric mound, listening to Sloane breathe on the other side. Slow. Steady. Not asleep yet.

Dinner had been good—lobster, corn, bread still warm, wine that went down too easy. Sloane ate like she was proving a point, fork moving with precision. I caught her glancing at me twice. Once when I complimented the garlic butter (genuine). Once when Victoria asked if we were “getting along.” We both answered “fine” at the same time, then glared at each other like it was a personal betrayal.

Now the room was dark except for moonlight slicing through the blinds, painting silver stripes across the duvet. The ocean outside breathed in slow, rhythmic crashes. I could hear her shifting every few minutes, sheets rustling like she was fighting the same restlessness I was.

“Chase?” Her voice was quiet, careful.

“Yeah?”

Pause. Long enough I thought she’d changed her mind.

“Why do you hate reporters so much?”

I should’ve deflected. Cracked a joke. Told her to go to sleep.

Instead the truth slipped out, low and honest.

“They twist shit. Take a quote, cut the context, turn it into a headline that sells. They don’t give a fuck about the game. Just the drama.”

“Not all of them.”

“Enough.”

Another beat of silence.

“I’m not like that,” she said softly.

I knew she wasn’t.

I’d found her blog two days ago—after morning skate, sitting in my Bentley in the rink lot, scrolling through summer-game previews. A comment under an article caught my eye: *Sloane Winters*. Clicked the name. Landed on her site.

She wrote clean. Sharp. No fluff. She broke down plays like she was in the room with the puck. Saw the beauty in the brutality. Called out my hesitant forecheck in the quarterfinals without turning it into a personal attack. Just facts. Observation. Respect for the game.

I wasn’t about to admit I’d read every post she’d written in the last six months.

“You threw hangers at my head,” I said instead. “That’s pretty cruel.”

“You deserved it.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

The waves rolled in again. The house creaked. The pillow wall held.

“Chase?”

“Yeah, Winters?”

“Do you ever get scared? About the draft?”

The question landed like a body check I didn’t see coming.

“Every damn day,” I admitted.

“What scares you most?”

I stared at the dark ceiling. “Not being good enough. Not because of talent. Because I choke. Because the noise gets in my head and I let the pressure win.”

She was quiet so long I thought she’d fallen asleep.

“That’s what I wrote,” she said finally. “In the piece about the quarterfinals. That sometimes you look… scared.”

“I read it.”

Another pause.

“Goodnight, Chase.”

“Goodnight.”

I didn’t sleep for a long time.

---

6:15 a.m.

I slipped out before the sun was fully up. Hit the small gym downstairs—dumbbells, pull-ups, core work until my shoulders burned and sweat dripped onto the mat. Shower. Back to the room by 7:30.

Victoria was already on the beach.

Four yoga mats laid out in a half-circle facing the water. Bluetooth speaker playing soft instrumental. Tablet propped on a stand with some influencer’s thirty-minute sunrise flow ready to go. She wore teal leggings and a cropped tank, hair in a high ponytail, looking annoyingly awake and centered.

Richard stood beside her in board shorts and a loose tee, stretching like he actually believed this would fix his lower back. He probably didn’t.

Sloane arrived next—black leggings, oversized cropped hoodie with sleeves pushed up, hair knotted loosely on top of her head. Bare feet in the sand. She didn’t look at me when she unrolled her mat.

I came last. Gray sweat shorts low on my hips, black tank already sticking to my skin from the humidity. Jaw tight. I dropped my mat right beside hers.

No words.

Just knelt. Sat back on my heels. Stared at the ocean.

Sloane knelt too. Close enough our elbows would brush if either of us shifted even an inch.

Victoria clapped once—bright, enthusiastic. “Okay, family! Mats down, face the water. We’re greeting the sun and connecting. Thirty minutes. Easy flow. Breathe with me.”

Richard groaned as he lowered himself. “My back is gonna hate you for this.”

“You’ll thank me later,” Victoria said sweetly.

The video started. Soft female voice. Slow inhales. Exhales.

“Inhale… arms up… reach for the sky…”

We moved.

Victoria flowed like she was born on a mat—graceful arches, perfect warrior poses. Richard wobbled through downward dog but kept going. Sloane moved with quiet precision—controlled breaths, steady holds, focused. Like she was daring the pose to break her.

Me—I had no issue with the movements. Hockey demanded flexibility, core strength, balance. I could’ve done this blindfolded.

But my brain wouldn’t shut off.

Scouts. Combine numbers. Development camp invites. Mom’s engagement ring. Richard’s easy smile. Sloane’s quiet breathing beside me.

Especially Sloane.

Every time she inhaled, her shoulder rose just enough to graze mine. Every exhale, the space between us felt smaller. Her hoodie slipped up once during a forward fold—strip of skin at her lower back exposed, smooth and sun-kissed. I looked away fast.

We hit warrior II. Arms extended, front knee bent, back leg straight. Gaze over the front hand.

Our mats were so close my extended arm nearly brushed her ribs.

She didn’t flinch.

Neither did I.

The instructor cued a twist. We rotated toward each other—chests open, eyes forward.

For one breath our faces were inches apart.

Her eyes flicked to mine.

Green. Sharp. Curious.

Something electric snapped between us—quiet, private, dangerous.

She looked away first.

We flowed on.

By the end—savasana, lying flat, palms up, eyes closed—the sun was fully up, warming the sand. Waves rolled in steady rhythm.

Victoria’s voice cut through the quiet. “Take a moment. Feel the connection. To the earth. To each other.”

I kept my eyes closed.

Felt Sloane’s breathing beside me—slow, even, matching the tide.

Felt the heat of her arm inches from mine.

Felt the pillow wall we’d built last night already starting to crumble.

And for the first time in months, the noise in my head—the draft, the scouts, the pressure—went quiet.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to breathe.