Peace Offering

CHASE

**Three days later**

Good.

We’re not speaking.

Makes everything cleaner.

No more hallway standoffs. No bathroom ambushes. No kitchen collisions. I can pretend she doesn’t exist—even though she’s literally sleeping ten feet away through a thin wall and we share the same goddamn sink.

Except pretending isn’t working.

Every time I walk past her closed door, I hear the faint click of her keyboard. Every time I grab coffee from the kitchen, her empty mug is still in the sink—lipstick print on the rim even though she swears she doesn’t wear any. Every time I lie in bed at night staring at the ceiling, I replay the bonfire: the way her voice cracked when she talked about her mom, the way my smirk felt like acid in my mouth the second it left my lips, the way she walked away without looking back.

*Did I really hurt you?*

Yeah.

I did.

And the guilt has been gnawing at me like a bad hit to the boards—constant, low-grade pain I can’t shake.

So when I pulled into the rink lot at 5 a.m. Thursday for solo ice time and saw her through the café window across the street—same black hoodie, same messy knot, same focused frown over her laptop—I didn’t walk away.

I went in.

Ordered two coffees.

Black for me.

Vanilla oat milk latte, extra shot, for her.

I don’t even know why I remembered her order.

I just did.

By Friday morning she was back at the same corner table, 9:33 a.m., fingers flying across the keys.

I walked over before I could talk myself out of it.

“Peace offering.”

I set the cup down in front of her laptop—slow, careful.

She looked up.

Death glare.

Then back to the screen.

Ignored.

I cleared my throat. “Vanilla oat milk. Extra shot.”

Nothing.

“Sloane—”

“I’m working,” she said flatly, eyes never leaving the cursor.

“I can see that.”

“Then why are you still standing here?”

I pulled out the chair across from her and sat.

Her fingers froze mid-sentence.

“What are you doing?” she asked, voice dangerously quiet.

“Sitting.”

“I didn’t invite you.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Her eyes finally lifted—sharp, green, arctic. “I’m not interested in whatever this performance is.”

“This isn’t a performance.” I leaned forward, elbows on the table. “This is an apology.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Too bad. You’re getting one.”

She leaned back, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “Fine. Go ahead. Apologize.”

I dragged a hand through my hair—once, hard. “I was a complete dick at the bonfire.”

“That’s not an apology. That’s a fact.”

“I’m getting there.”

“Take your time. I’ve got all morning.” Sarcasm dripped like honey—slow, deliberate.

I exhaled. “You were trying to be real with me. Honest. And I turned it into a joke because… I didn’t know how to handle someone actually seeing past the bullshit.”

Silence.

Her expression didn’t soften, but something flickered behind her eyes—curiosity, maybe. Or wariness.

“You were right,” I said. “About the pushing people away. The sarcasm. The turning everything into a game. It’s easier than letting anyone close enough to—” I stopped. Shook my head. “It’s just easier.”

Sloane studied me for a long beat.

Then she reached for the coffee. Took a slow sip. Set it back down.

“Vanilla oat milk,” she said quietly. “Extra shot.”

“Yeah.”

“How’d you know?”

“You ordered it Thursday. I was behind you in line.”

Her brows lifted—just slightly. “You were paying attention.”

“Apparently.”

Another stretch of quiet.

Then: “Your apology still sucks.”

I huffed a laugh—small, surprised. “I know.”

“You’re still an asshole.”

“I know that too.”

She cradled the cup between both hands like she was warming them, even though the café was already too warm. “I wasn’t trying to fix you at the bonfire. I was just… answering the question you asked. You wanted to know what you were. I told you.”

“I know.”

“And you made me feel stupid for caring enough to say it.”

Guilt knifed through my chest—sharp, immediate.

“Sloane—”

“I’m not asking for pity,” she cut in. “I’m explaining why I walked away. My mom used to do the same thing—ask real questions, then laugh when I answered honestly. Or dismiss it. Or turn it into a punchline. So when you did it…” She trailed off. Looked down at her laptop. “It felt the same.”

Fuck.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. And this time the words felt heavy. Real. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

She met my eyes—searching.

For a long moment neither of us spoke.

Then she nodded. Once. Small. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

“So we’re… good?”

She tilted her head. “We’re not at war anymore. That’s not the same as good.”

“Fair.”

She took another sip, then nodded toward my untouched black coffee. “You gonna drink that or just hold it like a prop?”

I picked it up. Took a swallow. Bitter. Familiar.

We sat in the kind of silence that wasn’t comfortable yet—but wasn’t hostile either.

Just… quiet.

After a minute she spoke again.

“Why are you here so early anyway?”

“Solo ice before the team shows up.”

“For the summer games?”

“Yeah.”

She nodded slowly. “You nervous?”

“Always.”

“You don’t look like someone who gets nervous.”

“That’s the point.”

“Right. The performance.” She paused. “Must be exhausting.”

“It is.”

“Then why keep doing it?”

I stared at the lid of my cup. “Because if I don’t… people see the cracks. And once they see the cracks, they stop believing you can deliver.”

Sloane’s voice came back softer. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. People believe in you *because* of the cracks. Because you’re human. Because you’re real.”

I looked up.

She was watching me—steady, unflinching.

“You’re doing it again,” I said.

“Doing what?”

“Seeing me.”

Her lips curved—just the smallest hint of a smile. “Maybe you should get used to it.”

“Maybe I should.”

We sat a little longer while the café filled—morning rush, clatter of cups, hiss of the espresso machine. The noise felt far away.

Finally Sloane closed her laptop.

“I have to go,” she said. “I’m covering the Titans’ practice this morning for the blog.”

I blinked. “You’re covering us?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“No reason. Just… didn’t realize you were already on assignment.”

She gave me a dry look. “You thought I was bluffing about the sports journalism thing?”

“No. I just—” I stopped. “Never mind.”

She stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “See you on the ice, then.”

“Yeah. See you.”

She started toward the door, then paused. Looked back over her shoulder.

“Chase?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for the coffee.”

I nodded. “Anytime.”

She left.

I sat there another minute—staring at the empty chair, the half-drunk latte, the faint ring of condensation on the table.

Then I drained my coffee, grabbed my bag, and headed to the rink.

---

The locker room was already alive when I walked in—Marcus lacing up, Tyler joking with Jax, Coach Reynolds barking orders from the hallway.

Marcus looked up. “Where the hell were you?”

“Coffee.”

“You hate coffee runs.”

“Needed caffeine.”

He squinted. “You good?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’ve been off the last few days. Quiet. Distracted.”

“I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t buy it, but he dropped it.

We hit the ice.

For the next two hours I drowned in the rhythm—puck snaps, edge work, power-play setups, the cold burn in my lungs. This was simple. This was clean. This was where I knew who I was.

Halfway through scrimmage I glanced up at the press box.

Sloane.

Black hoodie. Messy knot. Laptop open. Phone in hand. Taking notes.

Focused. Professional.

She caught me looking.

Our eyes met across the glass.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t wave.

Just held the gaze—steady, assessing—for three full seconds.

Then went back to her screen.

I turned back to the play.

But my focus was fractured.

Because now I knew she was watching.

And for some stupid, reckless reason—I wanted to give her something worth writing about.

---

After practice I showered fast, changed, and headed to the parking lot.

Sloane was already there—leaning against her car, scrolling her phone.

I walked over.

“Hey.”

She looked up. “Hey.”

“How’d coverage go?”

“Good. Got solid quotes from Coach. Your power play looked sharp.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She pushed off the car. “If you can keep your head in the game tomorrow like you did today, you’ll be fine.”

I smirked. “Doubting my focus?”

“I’m doubting your ability to stay out of your own head.”

“Fair.”

She adjusted her bag. “I should go. Deadline.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Neither of us moved.

“Sloane?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For earlier. For… hearing me out.”

She studied me—quiet, searching.

Then nodded. “Yeah. No problem.”

She got in her car. Started the engine.

I watched her pull away.

Then I climbed into my Bentley and sat there—hands on the wheel, engine off—staring at the empty space where her car had been.

Thinking about the way she’d looked at me in the café.

The way she’d called me out at the bonfire.

The way she saw through every layer of armor I’d spent years building.

Thinking about how I didn’t hate it.

Thinking about how I wanted her to keep seeing.

I started the car.

Tomorrow was game day.

Everything was about to get louder, faster, harder.

And for the first time in a long time—I wasn’t sure I wanted to face it alone.