Breakaway

-- Breakaway I used to think I knew who I was. Then I met someone who disagreed. That was five years ago. Now I'm standing in a hotel lobby in Philadelphia, holding a press credential that says my name, and I have no idea who I am anymore. The email came at 6:17 in the morning. Lena Zhang — you've been reassigned to the Philadelphia Blizzards' championship run. Lead reporter. Depart Friday. Pack for six weeks. I read it seven times. Then I called my editor. "No." "Not negotiable." "I'll quit." "You won't." Marcus Chen has known me for eight years. He knew my father died. He knew I changed my phone number three times in one year. He knew I flinched every time someone said the name Caleb Reeves. He didn't know why. "You're the only one on staff who's ever broken a story on him," Marcus said. "You know his habits. His tells. His..." He paused. "History." History. Such a clean word for what happened between us. "His agent will block me," I said. "His agent is in federal prison. Tax evasion. He fired the old one. New agent signed off on full media access." My stomach dropped. "Why would she agree to that?" "Because he's retiring. They want a legacy piece. Someone who can capture his—" Marcus searched for the word. "Humanity." I almost laughed. Caleb Reeves hadn't shown humanity in years. He was the NHL's most hated player. Leading the league in penalty minutes. Suspended twice for fighting. His interviews were three-word nightmares. "We played hard." "Next question." That was the Caleb the world knew. The Caleb I knew used to bring me coffee in bed. Used to write me notes on napkins. Used to whisper "stay" against my neck like a prayer. That Caleb died the night his agent handed me a check for fifty thousand dollars and a one-way ticket out of his life. "You still there?" Marcus asked. "Yeah." "This is your shot, Lena. Pulitzer nomination." "And if I don't?" "Then you're looking for a new job." He hung up. I stared at my reflection in the dark window. Thirty years old. Still single. Still carrying a flash drive of old interviews I'd never published. Still in love with a man who probably wished I was dead. The worst part is, I saw it coming — and stayed anyway. --- Philadelphia smells like cheesesteaks and desperation. I dressed carefully. Black blazer. Dark jeans. Hair in a low ponytail. No jewelry. No perfume. Nothing he could use to remember me by. The media check-in was chaos. Reporters from everywhere. Cameras. Lights. A woman from ESPN kept elbowing me for no reason. I collected my credentials and found my room on the fourteenth floor. The keycard slot beeped red three times before finally flashing green. Inside, someone had left a gift basket. Champagne. Chocolate-covered strawberries. And a card. Welcome back, Zhang. — S.V. Sloane Vance. His new agent. She knew who I was. She knew what I'd been to him. She'd put me in a room directly across from his. I could hear music through the door. Low. Angry. Something with heavy bass and screaming guitars. His taste hadn't changed. Neither had my pulse. --- The press conference was at two. I sat in the front row. Notebook open. Recording app ready. My hands were steady. They always were. That was my curse — looking calm while my insides burned. Marcus's voice crackled in my earpiece. "Get something spicy." Something spicy. Like I hadn't been avoiding Caleb Reeves for five years. The side door opened. And the room went quiet. He walked in like he owned it. Six-foot-three. Dark hair longer now, curling at his collar. Jaw sharper than I remembered. He wore a navy suit that probably cost more than my car. But it was his eyes that stopped my heart. Those green eyes used to melt when he looked at me. Used to soften. Used to promise forever. Now they swept the room like a searchlight. They landed on me. They did not pause. Did not soften. They moved on. "Questions." His voice was lower. Rougher. Like he'd spent the last five years screaming into empty rooms. Hands shot up. He ignored them. Looked past me to a reporter from Sportsnet. "Yeah. You." "Your plus/minus is down twelve percent. Some analysts say you're playing hurt—" "I'm fine." "Your ice time has dropped—" "Next question." I watched him dismantle the interview piece by piece. Short answers. Flat eyes. Then his gaze slid to me. For one breath. One heartbeat. Then away. But I saw it. The flicker. The crack in the armor. Nobody tells you what to do after you forgive someone. Or before. Or during. I hadn't forgiven him. I didn't know if there was anything to forgive. But I knew he remembered everything. --- After the press conference, I waited in the hallway. Players filtered out in groups. Showered. Dressed. Heading to team dinner. Caleb was the last one out. Gray sweats. Hoodie pulled up. Face half-hidden in shadow. He walked past me like I wasn't there. "Mr. Reeves." He stopped. Didn't turn around. "We have an interview scheduled. Five o'clock. Sloane approved it." "She approves a lot of things." "Then sit down with me. Thirty minutes." He turned. Slowly. Deliberately. When his eyes met mine, the coldness was gone. Replaced by something worse. Heat. "You want thirty minutes?" He stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell him — cedar, ice, and something darker underneath. "Fine. My room. Eleven o'clock. Come alone." "That's not—" "Take it or leave it, Zhang." He walked away. My hands were shaking. --- 11:00 PM. His room. I knocked three times. The door opened before I could knock a fourth. He was shirtless. His chest was a roadmap of scars and tattoos. A fresh bruise bloomed across his ribs. His dark hair was wet from the shower. "You're early," he said. "You're shirtless." "You're staring." I forced my eyes up to his face. "Can I come in?" He stepped aside. The room was identical to mine — same layout, same furniture — but transformed. Sticks leaned against the wall. Game tape played on a loop on his laptop. His own fights. His own mistakes. "You watch your own games at midnight?" I asked. "I study." "You study footage of yourself getting penalized?" "I study what I did wrong." He sat on the edge of the bed. Didn't offer me a seat. "That's how you get better." "That's how you torture yourself." His jaw tightened. "You didn't come here to psychoanalyze me." "No." I pulled out my recorder. Set it on the desk. "I came here to do my job." "Then do it." I clicked record. "Your first season, they called you the next Gretzky. Now you're the most dangerous player in the league. What happened?" He stared at me. "The truth," I pressed. "Not the press conference version." "The truth?" He stood up. Walked toward me. "You want the truth, Lena?" My name in his mouth was a weapon. "The truth is I got my heart broken by a woman who promised she'd never leave. Then she cashed a check and vanished." My throat closed. "That's not—" "Not what? Not fair?" He was inches from me now. "You want to know what happened? You happened. You left. And I stopped caring about being good. I started caring about being dangerous." "So you threw your career away? Because of me?" "I threw my career away because the only person I wanted to impress was gone." I couldn't breathe. "You could have called," I whispered. "I did." "What?" "I called you every day for a year. Every. Single. Day. You changed your number." "I didn't—" "Don't lie to me." His hand slammed against the wall beside my head. Not hitting me. Just holding himself back. "I know you changed it. I know your agent told you to. I know everything, Lena." "Then you know I didn't have a choice." "Everyone has a choice." His face was so close. "You chose money." "I chose survival." "Same thing." He stepped back. The space between us felt like an ocean. --- 2:00 AM. The equipment room. I couldn't sleep. The interview had ended twenty minutes after it started. He'd answered every question with brutal honesty, then thrown me out. "We're done." Now I paced my hotel room. Replaying the recording on my phone. I needed air. The hotel gym was empty. I ran until my lungs burned. Until my legs gave out. Then I heard it. A crash. From the equipment room down the hall. The door was cracked open. Light spilled out. I should have called security. I pushed the door open. --- He stood in the middle of a storage closet. Team gear everywhere. Jerseys. Pucks. Sticks. He'd knocked over a shelf — broken carbon fiber scattered on the concrete floor. He was screaming. Not words. Just sound. Raw. Animal. Then he saw me. And he crumbled. "Get out." His voice cracked. "Get the f**k out." "No." "I said—" "I heard you." I stepped over the broken sticks. "I'm not leaving." He backed against the wall. His chest heaved. Sweat dripped down his temples. The scar above his eyebrow was pink and angry. "You don't get to see me like this," he said. "Like what?" "Weak." "You're not weak. You're hurting. There's a difference." "Don't." His voice broke. "Don't you dare pretend to care about me." "I never stopped caring about you." "Then why did you leave?" The question hung between us like a blade. "Because your agent told me if I stayed, he'd destroy my career. Blacklist me. He said—" "I don't care what he said." Caleb pushed off the wall. Stalked toward me. "You should have come to me. You should have trusted me." "You were twenty-two. You were famous. You were—" "I was yours." He was crying. Caleb Reeves — the man who'd never cried once in eight seasons — was standing in a storage closet at two in the morning, tears streaming down his face. I didn't mean to ruin everything — it just happened slowly. But maybe I hadn't ruined it. Maybe they had. "I called you every night for a year," he said. "Every night. Voicemails. Hundreds. I told you I loved you. I told you I'd give up hockey." I was crying now too. "I never got them." "You didn't listen." "I couldn't. They took my phone. They—" "Who?" "My agent. Your agent. His lawyers." I wiped my face. "They said if I contacted you, they'd sue me. Violating my NDA." "NDA?" His eyes went sharp. "What NDA?" I froze. "The one I signed. For the fifty thousand dollars." Caleb went very still. "I didn't sign anything," he said slowly. "I never authorized any payment. I never—" "You didn't know?" "I didn't know anything." His voice was barely a whisper. "They told me you left because you couldn't handle the fame. Because you met someone else. Because—" "Because they lied." We stared at each other. Five years of anger. Five years of grief. All built on lies. "Lena." He said my name like a prayer. "Lena, I—" He didn't finish. I kissed him. --- It wasn't gentle. It was five years of screaming into pillows. Five years of wondering what if. Five years of grief and rage and desperate, aching want. His hands found my waist. Pulled me against him. His mouth was hungry. "I hate you," he said against my lips. "I hate you for leaving." "I know." "I hate you for making me love you." "I know." "I hate you for still being the only person I want." I pulled back. Looked into his green eyes — red-rimmed, exhausted, but burning. "Then hate me," I whispered. "But don't stop calling." He laughed. It was the first real laugh I'd heard from him in five years. "I never did," he said. "I never stopped." --- 3:00 AM We sat on the floor of the equipment room. Surrounded by broken sticks and scattered pucks. His arm was around my shoulders. My head was on his chest. "I saved them," he said quietly. "Saved what?" "The voicemails." He pulled out his phone. "Every single one." He pressed play. "Hey, Lena. It's me. Call me when you get this. Please." "I don't know if you're listening. I don't know if you care. But I'm not giving up." "I heard you're coming to Philly. I need you to know. I never stopped. I never will." His voice filled the room. Raw. Broken. Hopeful. And for the first time in five years, I let myself believe that maybe — just maybe — we could find our way back. The worst part is, I saw it coming — and I stayed anyway. But this time, staying felt different. This time, it felt like coming home. --- End of Chapter 1 --- 2190