Page 181 of Iced Up Love: Part Two
Walking back into the arena feels wrong in a way I can’t immediately explain.
It should feel familiar. It is familiar. The smell of the ice, the low hum of voices echoing through the halls, the sharp bite of cold air that always hits just before you step out where it matters, it’s all exactly the same as it’s always been, exactly the same as the place I’ve spent years of my life working toward, dreaming about, building everything around.
But none of it lands the way it used to.
It feels like I’ve stepped into something I recognize without belonging to it anymore.
For a second, just inside the doors, I hesitate.
Not long enough for anyone else to notice.
But long enough for it to register.
I’ve left her.
That thought sits heavier than anything else.
Not logically, because I know exactly where she is, I know Elijah is with her, I know there’s security at the building, I know Christian has locked everything down so tightly nothing gets near her without him knowing first, but none of that quiets the instinct that says I shouldn’t be here.
That I should be with her.
Zach slows slightly beside me like he feels it too.
I don’t look at him.
I don’t need to.
We’re both here because she asked us to be.
Because she looked at us and told us she needed life to keep moving. Because she said she wasn’t going to let this break her again.
And neither of us had it in us to tell her no.
The locker room goes quiet when we walk in.
Not completely. Not in a way that makes it obvious. But enough. Enough that I feel it. Enough that I know everyone’s aware of it.
A few of the guys glance up, then back down, like they don’t know how to handle it, like they’ve heard enough to know something happened but not enough to understand what that actually means.
Michael is the first one to move.
He crosses the room without hesitation, his expression serious, grounded in a way that tells me he knows more than the rest of them.
Of course he does.
Killian wouldn’t keep that from him.
“Hey,” he says, stopping in front of me, his voice low. “I’m really sorry, man.”
The words land clean. No awkwardness. No performance. Just… real. I nod once, my throat tighter than I expect.
“She’s home,” I say. “She’s… she’s healing. We’re getting through it.”
His jaw tightens slightly, like he’s holding something back, something darker, something closer to what actually happened.
“I’m glad,” he says. “Really. And… it’s good to have you back.”
I don’t know how to respond to that.
