The Cost of Love

The door bursts open before Coach can finish the play.

We all look up, annoyed until we see who it is.

Not a trainer. Not security.

Victor Hale.

The owner never comes into the locker room during playoffs.

Never.

His expression is calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that means something is already broken.

“We need a minute,” he says.

Coach stiffens. “We’re down by one. The second period starts at four.”

Victor doesn’t glance at the whiteboard. He looks at Damon.

Only Damon.

My stomach drops.

The room goes quiet except for the low hum of the ventilation and the distant roar of the crowd waiting for us to return. Game Five of the conference finals. The series tied 2-2. Win tonight, and we’re one step from the championship.

We’ve bled for this.

Damon rises slowly from the bench. Sweat darkens the collar of his jersey. There’s a bruise forming under his left eye from the hit he took earlier, but he looks steady. Focused.

Like he’s about to go back out there and change the game.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Victor doesn’t waste time.

“You’ve been traded.”

For a second, I think I misheard him.

The room doesn’t react. It’s like the words don’t translate.

“Traded,” Victor repeats, crisp and final. “Effective immediately.”

The world tilts.

“You can’t trade someone mid-playoffs,” I say automatically.

Victor turns to me, unbothered. “I can.”

Damon doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t look at anyone. He just stares at Victor like he’s waiting for the punchline.

“To who?” he asks quietly.

“Boston.”

Our biggest rival.

A cold, hollow laugh bubbles in my throat. “This is a joke.”

“It’s strategic,” Victor replies. “We need cap flexibility. They need leadership. The deal benefits both organizations.”

“Not ours,” Coach snaps.

Victor’s gaze hardens. “This organization is bigger than one player.”

One player.

Like Damon is disposable.

Like he didn’t carry us through half the season when I was out with a torn ligament.

Like he didn’t score the overtime goal that sent us here.

My heart is pounding so hard I feel sick.

“You said we were building something,” Damon says. His voice is steady, but I know him. I hear the fracture beneath it.

“We are,” Victor answers. “Just not with you.”

The room erupts.

“What the hell?”

“This is insane!”

“We’re in the middle of a series!”

Victor raises a hand, and somehow that quiets everyone.

“The paperwork is signed. Transportation is arranged. He leaves tonight.”

Tonight.

As of now.

Damon finally looks at me.

And that’s when it hits.

This is real.

His eyes search mine, and I see everything in them shock, anger, betrayal. And something worse.

Resignation.

“They can’t do this,” I say, stepping toward Victor. “We’re five wins from the Cup.”

“Which is why this hurts now instead of later,” Victor replies. “The board believes internal tensions will cost us in the final.”

Internal tensions.

That’s what they’re calling it.

What we are.

Damon and I.

“You’re gutting the team,” I say.

“I’m protecting its future.”

My hands curl into fists.

Damon moves before I can. He steps between us, not aggressively. Just enough.

“Stop,” he murmurs to me.

“No.”

He gives me a look that says don’t make this worse.

I hate that look.

“You don’t have to agree,” Victor says. “But you will comply.”

Damon lets out a slow breath.

“When do I leave?” he asks.

“Now.”

The word slices through me.

The coach swears under his breath. The guys start arguing again, but it’s all noise. I can’t hear anything over the rush in my ears.

Damon walks back to his stall.

Just like that.

He sits.

He unties his skates.

Each tug of the laces feels like it’s happening to my chest.

“You’re not going,” I say.

He doesn’t look up. “It’s done.”

“Fight it.”

“For what?” His voice is calm. Too calm. “They don’t want me here.”

“I want you here.”

The words slip out.

The room goes still again.

Damon’s hands freeze on the laces.

Slowly, he looks up at me.

There’s too much in his eyes. Too much history. Too many almost-confessions and late-night strategy sessions and bruised knuckles from fights we never finished.

“Don’t,” he says softly.

“Don’t what?”

“Make this harder.”

Harder?

Like it isn’t impossible already?

“You think we can win this without you?” I demand.

“You’ll have to.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

His jaw tightens.

“This isn’t about us.”

“It’s exactly about us!” I snap.

Because everyone in this room knows it. The rivalry. Chemistry. The way we play better when we’re furious at each other. The way we look at each other when no one’s watching.

Victor clears his throat. “We’re wasting time.”

Damon stands.

He steps close enough that I can feel the heat coming off his skin. The locker room, once loud, feels miles away.

“You remember what you told me before the semi-final?” he asks quietly.

I swallow. “Yeah.”

For the team.

He nods. “Then do it again.”

“This is different.”

“Is it?”

He searches my face like he’s trying to memorize it.

“I don’t get a choice,” he says. “But you do.”

“What choice?”

“To lead.”

The word feels like ash in my mouth.

“I don’t want to lead without you.”

A flicker of something breaks through his composure.

“Too bad,” he whispers.

Victor steps forward. “It’s time.”

Damon pulls off his jersey.

The sight of it our crest, our colors

sliding over his head feels obscene.

He folds it carefully and places it in his locker.

Like he might come back for it.

He won’t.

The room feels colder already.

When he turns back to me, the bruise under his eye is darker.

“You’re going to finish this,” he says.

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“They just ripped out half the team.”

He steps closer.

“They ripped me out,” he corrects. “Not you.”

His hand comes up, hesitates, then cups the back of my neck. The touch is brief. Hidden by our bodies.

Electric.

“Win it,” he murmurs.

“For you?”

“For yourself.”

My throat burns.

“I don’t know how.”

A faint, sad smile curves his mouth.

“Take the shot,” he says.

The irony guts me.

The last time we faced elimination, I passed.

Tonight, there’s no one to pass to.

Victor’s assistant appears in the doorway with a garment bag.

Boston colors peek from the zipper.

I want to tear it apart.

Damon drops his hand.

“This isn’t goodbye,” he says, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

“You’re going to be our rival.”

“It’s business.”

“It’s betrayal.”

His eyes flash. “You think I asked for this?”

I don’t.

But I don’t know where to put the anger, so it sits between us like a live wire.

The coach calls my name.

The second period is about to start.

I look at the ice through the tunnel.

Bright.

Waiting.

Then I look back at Damon.

If I walk out there, I'll accept this.

If I refuse, I blow up everything we built.

The championship.

The team.

My career.

Victor watches me like he’s measuring the cost.

Damon picks up the garment bag.

“Go,” he says.

I don’t move.

“Go,” he repeats, firmer now.

The crowd starts chanting.

My name.

They have no idea.

I step toward him instead.

Close enough that our foreheads almost touch.

“This isn’t over,” I whisper.

His breath hitches.

“It might be.”

The words land heavy.

Final separation.

That’s what this feels like.

Like the universe testing how much love can cost before it breaks you.

The coach shouts again.

I turn.

Each step toward the ice feels wrong.

Like I’m walking away from something I won’t get back.

At the mouth of the tunnel, I glance over my shoulder.

Damon stands in the locker room, half-shadowed, Boston’s colors in his hand.

He doesn’t look like my teammate anymore.

He looks like my loss.

The horn sounds.

The puck drops.

And as I skate into the roar of the arena without him for the first time all season, one terrifying thought drowns out everything else

If we win the championship without him…  

What does that make us?