When Hearts meet.
969 Words
EPISODE FIVE
"The worst promises are the ones we make before we understand what they'll cost."
---
The shrill whistle sliced through the morning air.
"Again!"
Coach Reynolds' voice echoed across the rink.
Noah Carter bent forward, hands braced against his knees as he fought to steady his breathing. Cold air burned his lungs, but it wasn't the skating that exhausted him.
It was the expectation.
"Reset!" Coach barked.
The team circled back to center ice, blades carving white lines into the freshly resurfaced rink.
The arena was empty except for coaches, trainers, and the handful of early staff setting up for the day. Without the roar of a crowd, every sound became sharper—the scrape of steel against ice, the thud of bodies against the boards, the crack of sticks colliding.
Noah loved this version of hockey.
No cameras.
No reporters.
No chants of his name.
Just the game.
The puck dropped.
Liam won the faceoff and fired it toward Mason on the wing.
Mason carried it into the offensive zone before slipping it back to Noah.
One defender.
A quick deke.
Another defender.
Noah shifted his weight, pulled the puck across his body, and fired.
The shot rang off the crossbar.
Clang.
The sound echoed through the empty rink.
Coach blew his whistle.
"Carter!"
Noah coasted to a stop.
"You hesitated."
"I shot."
"You thought before you shot."
Coach skated closer, arms folded.
"Last season you didn't think."
"You reacted."
"That's why you scored."
Noah nodded once.
"Again."
---
Forty minutes later, practice finally ended.
The locker room exploded into its usual chaos.
Equipment hit the floor.
Someone had stolen Liam's towel.
Again.
"I swear," Liam shouted, standing in nothing but compression shorts, "one day I'm going to catch whoever keeps doing this."
"It's probably you," Mason replied.
"I respect myself too much."
"No," Ben Ortiz laughed. "You definitely don't."
The room erupted with laughter.
Noah sat quietly at his locker, peeling tape from around his wrists.
The familiar sting of adhesive against skin usually calmed him.
Today...
It didn't.
His thoughts wandered.
Cream sweater.
A loose braid.
"Reputations are introductions. They're not biographies."
He frowned.
Why was he still thinking about that?
He'd spent less than ten minutes talking to Jael Morgan.
Ten minutes.
Yet somehow, she'd managed to say more to him than most people had in months.
"You planning to stare at that tape all day?"
Liam dropped onto the bench beside him.
Noah didn't look up.
"I'm taking it off."
"You've been removing the same strip for three minutes."
"I'm being thorough."
"You're overthinking."
Noah pulled the tape free with a sharp tug.
"I've got a lot on my mind."
Liam leaned back against the lockers.
"The draft?"
Noah shrugged.
"My dad."
"Ah."
That single word carried more understanding than an entire conversation could have.
Everyone on the team knew Richard Carter's reputation.
Successful businessman.
Major donor.
The man whose company sponsored half the athletic department.
People admired him.
Noah tolerated him.
At least, that's what it looked like from the outside.
"You talked to him?" Liam asked.
"Last night."
"And?"
Noah let out a humorless laugh.
"He congratulated me on practice before asking why my shooting percentage dropped by three percent."
Liam shook his head.
"Seriously?"
"He had spreadsheets."
"No way."
"I'm serious."
"You mean to tell me your father tracks your statistics like quarterly profits?"
"He tracks everything."
Silence settled between them.
Liam had met Richard Carter only twice.
Twice had been enough.
"You ever think about telling him to back off?"
Noah looked at his friend.
"You make it sound easy."
"It isn't."
"No."
"It isn't."
Noah stared across the locker room.
The laughter.
The teasing.
The ordinary conversations.
Sometimes he envied the simplicity of everyone else's lives.
Not because they were easier.
Because they were their own.
Everything Noah did somehow became part of someone else's plan.
His father.
Sponsors.
Scouts.
Fans.
Sometimes he couldn't remember the last decision he'd made just because he wanted to.
Without warning...
His thoughts drifted back to Friday.
To a hallway lined with children's books.
To a girl who hadn't looked at him like he belonged to everyone else.
---
Across campus, Jael sat cross-legged on the worn sofa in the English Department lounge.
A thick novel rested open on her lap.
Around her, students hurried between lectures, their conversations blending into a steady background hum.
She barely noticed.
Reading had always been her way of slowing the world down.
"You disappeared after the meeting."
Chloe dropped into the chair opposite her, balancing two steaming coffees.
"I went home."
"I noticed."
"You make that sound suspicious."
"It is suspicious."
Jael accepted the coffee with a grateful smile.
"You've been quiet."
"I've been reading."
"You've been thinking."
Jael glanced over the rim of her cup.
"You know those aren't the same thing."
"They are when you're avoiding answering my questions."
"What questions?"
Chloe leaned forward dramatically.
"The hockey captain."
Jael sighed.
"There it is."
"There it is," Chloe repeated.
"I wondered how long you'd last."
"I lasted forty-eight hours."
"You lasted twelve."
"Details."
Jael smiled despite herself.
"There's nothing to tell."
"He helped you carry books."
"Yes."
"You laughed."
"So?"
"You never laugh that quickly around strangers."
Jael looked down at the pages of her book.
"I suppose."
"So?"
"So... he seemed nice."
Chloe's eyebrows shot up.
"Nice?"
"Yes."
"Not arrogant?"
"No."
"Not full of himself?"
"No."
"Handsome?"
Jael looked up.
"I wasn't evaluating him."
"Liar."
"I wasn't."
"You noticed."
Jael hesitated just long enough for Chloe to grin victoriously.
"I noticed he looked tired."
That answer caught Chloe completely off guard.
"Tired?"
"He smiled a lot."
Jael traced her thumb absentmindedly across the edge of the page.
"But it didn't always reach his eyes."
For a moment...
Even Chloe was silent.
---
- Writer
