Breakaway

Chapter 2: TheMorning After Isn't Soft

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Breakaway

I woke up before him, which felt wrong somehow.

His arm was still draped over my waist. Heavy. Warm. His face was pressed into the back of my neck, breathing slow and even.

I didn't move.

Not because I was comfortable — my shoulder was screaming, and the floor had turned to concrete sometime around 4 a.m. — but because I was terrified.

Terrified that if I shifted, he'd wake up. And if he woke up, last night would stop being a dream and start being real.

And real meant we had to talk.

About the voicemails. About the NDA. About the five years of silence that wasn't really silence — just two people who'd been fed different lies.

I stared at the wall.

His hoodie smelled like him. Cedar. Ice. Something underneath that I couldn't name.

I should leave.

Get back to my room before the cleaning staff started their rounds. Shower. Pretend I'd slept alone.

I started to slide out from under his arm.

His fingers tightened on my hip.

"You're thinking too loud," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

"I'm not thinking anything."

"You're a terrible liar."

He rolled onto his back, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. His dark hair was a disaster. His lip was still split — dried blood in the corner of his mouth.

He looked terrible.

He looked beautiful.

I hated that I still thought that.

"We should eat," he said.

"We should talk."

"Same thing."

"It's not."

He propped himself up on his elbows. Looked at me. Green eyes — not cold anymore, but not warm either. Just... watching.

"Okay," he said. "Talk."

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

Because what was I supposed to say? I'm sorry I left? I was. I'm sorry I didn't fight harder? I was. I'm still in love with you?

That one scared me most.

He didn't push. Just sat there, waiting, patient in a way he'd never been five years ago.

"I don't know how to do this," I finally said.

"Do what?"

"This. Us. Whatever this is."

"Yeah." He looked down at his hands. "Me neither."

There was a pause.

Not a dramatic one. Just... awkward. The kind where you're not sure if you're supposed to reach out or pull back.

He didn't kiss me right away.

Just breathed. Like he wasn't sure this was real.

Neither was I.

"I should probably warn you," he said quietly. "I'm not... I'm not the same person I was."

"I know."

"I'm angrier. Colder. I fight people for a living now."

"I know, Caleb."

"I don't sleep. I watch my own mistakes on a loop." He looked up. "I'm not easy to be around."

"I didn't come back because it would be easy."

"Then why did you come back?"

I should have had an answer.

I didn't.

---

His phone buzzed on the floor.

Sloane.

He glanced at it, then let it ring.

"You should answer," I said.

"No."

"She's your agent."

"She's my father's spy."

I went still. "What?"

He sat up fully, wincing. His ribs were still bruised — purple and yellow across his side. "I looked into her. After you fell asleep. She used to work for Gordon Shaw. Same firm. Same secrets."

"Gordon Shaw. Your old agent."

"The one in federal prison." He grabbed his phone, scrolled through something, handed it to me. "My mom sent me this."

The text read:

Sloane Vance was Gordon's protégé for seven years. She's not loyal to you — she's loyal to whoever pays her. And right now, your father is paying her a lot.

I read it twice.

"But she gave us the flash drive."

"Because she wants to take my father down. Not because she's on our side." He took the phone back. "We can use her. But we can't trust her."

I stared at the wall.

Nothing was simple.

None of this was simple.

---

The hotel lobby smelled like coffee and anxiety.

I'd left his room at 8 a.m. after promising — promising what? I didn't know. That I'd see him later. That I wouldn't disappear.

Now I stood in line for caffeine, pretending I hadn't spent the night on an equipment room floor.

"You look like hell."

I turned.

Marcus. My editor. Holding two coffees and looking at me like he already knew everything.

"Didn't sleep well," I said.

"Bullshit." He handed me a cup. "You've been avoiding Reeves for five years. Now you're covering his championship run. And you look like someone who spent the night crying."

"I don't—"

"Save it." He sipped his coffee. "I don't care what you do off the clock. I care about the story. You got anything?"

I thought about the voicemails. The NDA. The flash drive sitting in my coat pocket.

"Maybe," I said. "Nothing solid yet."

"Get something solid. Fast." He nodded toward the elevators. "His agent is already sniffing around. Asked about you this morning."

My stomach dropped. "What did you tell her?"

"That you're a professional." He raised an eyebrow. "I hope I wasn't lying."

---

The morning skate was at 10.

I stood behind the glass, notebook in hand, watching the Blizzards run drills. The ice was fresh. The air was cold enough to sting.

Caleb was on the far side of the rink, working with the penalty kill unit.

He moved differently today.

Lighter. Faster. Like someone had unclenched his jaw.

His teammates noticed too. I saw one of them tap his shins with a stick, say something that made Caleb almost smile.

Almost.

Then his head turned.

His eyes found me through the glass.

He didn't wave. Didn't nod. Just looked.

Three seconds.

Then he skated away.

My heart was pounding so loud I was sure the camera operator next to me could hear it.

---

After practice, I waited in the hallway.

Players filtered out in groups. Showered. Dressed. Heading to lunch.

Caleb was the last one out.

Gray sweats. Hoodie up. Wet hair.

He walked past me.

"We need to talk," I said.

"Everyone needs to talk." He kept walking.

"Caleb."

He stopped. Didn't turn around.

"Sloane knows," I said quietly. "She asked Marcus about me."

Now he turned.

His expression was unreadable. "What did he tell her?"

"That I'm professional."

"He's not wrong." He stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell his soap. "You are professional. That's the problem."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're here to write a story. And I'm here to play hockey. And whatever happened last night..." He trailed off. Rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know what that was."

"Neither do I."

"But you're still going to write the piece."

"Yes."

"Even if it ruins me."

"I'm not going to ruin you, Caleb."

"You don't have a choice." His voice was quiet. Tired. "The truth is going to come out. My father. The NDA. The money." He looked at me. "And when it does, everyone's going to know I was the reason you left."

"You weren't the reason."

"I wasn't the reason you stayed either."

That hit.

Right in the chest.

I didn't have an answer.

He nodded, like he'd expected that. "I'll see you at the press conference."

He walked away.

I stood in the hallway, holding my notebook, feeling like I'd just lost something I hadn't even known I was fighting for.

---

Sloane found me an hour later.

I was in the media room, staring at a blank document.

"Ms. Zhang."

I looked up.

She was wearing cream colored silk and a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Ms. Vance."

"Call me Sloane." She sat down across from me. "I wanted to check in. See how you're settling in."

"Settling in fine."

"Good. Good." She tilted her head. "Caleb seems... different today. Lighter. I thought maybe you'd had a productive interview."

"We talked."

"Just talked?"

I didn't answer.

Her smile tightened.

"Be careful, Lena." She leaned forward. "Legacies are fragile things. One wrong word, and everything he's built — everything I've built for him — crumbles."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a promise." She stood up. "From one woman to another."

She walked away.

My hands were shaking.

---

That night, I didn't go to his room.

Not because I didn't want to.

Because I didn't know what I wanted anymore.

I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling. His hoodie was folded on the chair. I'd taken it without thinking. I should give it back.

I didn't.

My phone buzzed.

Caleb: You're not coming?

I stared at the screen for a long time.

Then I typed:

I need to think. Tomorrow.

His reply came immediately.

Okay.

Just okay.

No fight. No argument.

That hurt worse than anything.

---

This wasn't a love story anymore.

It was damage control.

And I wasn't sure we were going to survive it.

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End of Chapter 2

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