The Nailers d-men slams me hard into the boards, wrenching control of the puck from my stick. Thankfully, Russo is there to deke it away from him. He swings it wide, passes to Haart. I lose track of it from there.

The d-man starts to skate away. Normally I'd call it good, get him back when the ref isn't watching. Tonight, I'm not ready to let anyone just brush off without a scape.

I shove him hard in the back. "The hell?"

"Legal check." He sneers. "Suck it up, you limp-dicked fuck. If you had any balls, you would have gone after that girl that dumped you."

That does it.

I don't even care about the puck anymore. I wrench him back by his jersey. The d-man barely has time to gain balance on his skates before I yank his number over his shoulder pads, lock his arms and start jabbing blow after blow to the back of his skull.

Whistles blow, but I don't care. Nailers and Cyclones players circle us, ready to jump in if the fight escalates. The crowd roars, people in the front row pounding the glass, egging us on.

A ref finally manages to get between me and the defenseman, shove me off. Haart grips my arm, skates me back from the brawl while the ref leads the Nailers player aside. His teammates helps him right his clothing. I'm a little happy to see him sway on his skates as he heads to the box. He'll be out for a while.

Spencer just growls at me. "The fuck is your problem?"

I shove his glove off. "The fuck is your problem?!"

His dense brows and dark eyes grow concerned. He knows why I'm fighting, lashing out. He's also smart enough to keep his mouth shut about it.

I hate it.

The ref ushers me to the sin bin. I chew on my mouth guard and seethe, barely aware of my team turtling up for the powerplay.

All I can see, all I can feel is Reece. Every hour has been the same since she left, some horrible version of Groundhog Day. Gut-wrenching pain when I wake, grit through morning skates and workouts. I don't feel like I can get a full breath of air in. The few moments I can, it just fuels the intense agony of her departure.

When we started this whole thing, I promised I'd take her pain away. Turns out I did nothing but compound it. Rip apart wounds that were only beginning to heal. That kills me more than anything.

Johnson makes a spectacular save, bellyflopping on and then snapping the puck out of the crease to Bower. The d-man loses it and our goalie has to all but backflip back into the net. He catches the puck on his stick, sends it screaming over the posts as well as the protective netting surrounding the rink. Fans shriek in raucous approval as the disc slams onto the cement of the stands. One of them holds it up victoriously, grin made huge on the jumbotron.

It's an end to the play. Action stops and players reset. Five minutes remain in the third period, thirty seconds on my penalty clock. Cyclones manage a lead of 2-1, but it's been hard fought.

Just like I know Reece fought hard for independence that night. Whatever shackles held her shattered. She was fierce and radiant, facing Asher, facing me. I've never been so proud and so heartbroken.

I slam my stick into the Plexi even as I brace against the pain. She said goodbye. It's over. My conscious states. No it's not. My soul responds.

They've been at war ever since that night, each stabbing me with relentless urges. Part of me wants to go to her, talk to her, hold her again. Except I know I've lost that right.

The city has lost its luster, the game its adrenaline high. Everything here holds her essence. Every time I see a flicker of blonde hair in the audience, I pray she's back to forgive me. Every scent I get of eucalyptus and mint, I turn and search the crowd.

It doesn't matter. The wheezing gets a little harsher, the heartache a little deeper. She's never there. She's gone, and I'm the one who forced her away.

The plexi doors open and I surge out onto the ice. Russo gets flattened by a Nailer's d-man, manages control of the puck against the boards. He catches my opening, swats it to me. The puck meets my stick with a smart crack and I surge it up the ice and beyond the opponent's blue. Haart has an opening to my left, meets the trajectory of the puck. His big frame bowls everyone out of the way, streaking around the Nailer's net and lining up for a pass.

Haart threads the puck through their defense, right into my handle. My eyes meet the goalie's. I shift my bodyweight left, then fire from the right hip. The puck sinks into the upper corner. The lamp lights.

I can't even smile when the crowd roars and my team claps me on the shoulder.

Cyclones' victory: 3-1. Whatever.

**

An incessant rapping on the front door wakes me. Which is a mistake. My head feels like it's in a vice, my mouth like it's been used as a litter box by all the neighborhood alley cats.

Jesus, how much did I drink last night?

The nearly-empty bottle of Crown that tumbles from the bedside table as I hunt for my phone gives a telltale response. I grumble at the ping of empty glass on the luxury carpet, even that soft noise cleaving my skull. I check my texts with bleary-eyed comprehension.

Nothing from Reece.

Of course there isn't.

The rapping comes again, twice as aggressive and just as loud. The pain in my head slings a bolt of nausea through my gut. I stumble around on the bedsheets, – thank fuck nobody is in there with me – manage to yank on a pair of boxer briefs.

Why I bother with decency is beyond me. I showed my ass all over the internet. The video has more hits on hockeybrawls.com than actual in-game fights.

I tried to staunch the hemorrhage in my chest, pack it with booze and women. It's what I did last night after the game. Except no matter how drunk I got, how pretty the girls were, I always felt the same. A few managed to make me smile, but I went home alone. They weren't Reece.

Scrubbing my eyes of sleep grit, I bark into the living room and entry, "It's open!"

I hope against hope it's Reece. Pray she demands I beg her back. I will, too. I have no shame when it comes to that girl. I'll get on my hands and knees, kiss her everywhere, leave no doubt in her mind that I love her, that the past week has been hell.

Instead, I'm met with the lavender hair and tawny skin of my older sister.

I squint pas the pounding headache. "What are you doing here?"

"'Bonjour, C. How was your trip?'" Claude mimics my baritone as she cocks a hand on her hip. "Fine, thanks. Traffic wasn't too bad." Her hazel eyes narrow at me. "You look like shit."

"Thanks." I unscrew and drain the remainder of the Crown in the bottle. Hair of the Dog and all that.

She tosses her carry-on at me. I'm still drunk enough that my reflexes aren't what they're supposed to be, and I nearly get slammed in the face with her duffel bag. It's a miracle I manage to catch it, settle it beside the sofa.

"What the hell?" I growl once I'm sure she's got nothing else to toss at me.

"What the hell yourself!" Claude slams my front door, making me cringe at the noise. She actually sneers as she stalks toward me. "You and Reece. Spill."

I look away, loop my thumbs in my briefs. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Connerie." Claude curls her lip. "I flew all the way from Montreal, so you'd better talk."

"You didn't have to."

"Like hell!" She flings her arms wide. "If you'd even read the messages on the family group chat, you'd see we're all worried about you. Mama's demanding proof of life."

I screw my eyes shut. "Could you keep the volume down? I'm hungover."

"Oh, poor baby." She clucks mockingly. "You and Reece. What. Happened."

"I said there's nothing –" Her hand lashes out, slaps me across the face so hard my alcohol-wizened brain spins. "Ouch! What the fuck?!"

"That hurt?" Claude challenges.

"Yes, you crazy bitch!"

"Good." She sniffs emphatically. "You needed a hard reset. Get up."

"I am up."

"I mean actually up." Claude snatches the now-empty bottle from me, jerks her head toward the kitchen. "Put that fancy espresso machine to work. I'm unpacking."

I grumble but do as she says. The reality of the fact is this: Claude is my closest sibling. The one who hops on a plane helter-skelter to yank a knot in my tail. She's right. I need a reset.

Unpacking doesn't take long. Looks like she brought enough for a weekend, if that. There's not really space in my spare bedroom what with my studio being there and all, but she makes it work. She always does.

"Move," she shoves me out of the way as I start heating up a frying pan.

"My turn to cook," I grumble.

Claude's hazel eyes flash in challenge. "Focus on coffee, Baby Bas."

I do, somehow manage to steam milk and layer it with espresso. I'm not great at foam art, but I can at least make a decent cup of coffee. Claude fries up eggs and potatoes like a boss, plates them and shoves one serving then another my way.

"What about you?" I protest feebly, even as I shovel the food into my mouth. My head is already starting to feel better with something other than liquor in my system.

"I'll get the last portion." She glances to me sharply as she sips her coffee. "You clearly need it more than me."

I eat the first and second rations, feeling a lot less nauseated and steadier on my feet as Claude plates her own helping. She follows me to the sofa with her plate and cup of espresso while I continue to nurse mine. Her gaze flickers up to my wall art, snags on the dark, viny piece.

"Look." I clear my throat. "I'm happy you're here. But why?"

"Reece won't answer mine or the family's texts." She offers simply. "Neither will you, for that matter."

I shrug noncommittally. "I assume everyone saw the video."

"Yeah." Claude nods. "Looks like you gave that prick what he deserved."

A weird zing goes through my stomach. For a long time, I thought I wanted to smash Asher's face. Now that I have, there's none of the vindication I hoped for.

Just the pain of losing Reece.

Her small hand covers mine. "Asher came after her."

I glance from where she links our fingers, meet her gaze. Those prismatic eyes promise me she knows the truth. Reece told her so I wouldn't have to.

That breaks me. More than facing Reece in the cold and sleet and snow. Worse than watching her walking away from me. Claude knows. She understands. And yet it's her here and not Reece.

The sob escapes before I can stop it. I clamp my hand down on my mouth, try and shove the ache back. A ragged breath hisses through my nose. My shoulders shake and I suddenly regret eating so much food.

Claude wraps her arm around me, silent while I work to control my emotions. Everything I've held back this past week splinters, like a dam against a river's torrent. All the hurtful things I've tried to drown in alcohol suddenly emerge, beat me all over again.

"Bas," Claude squeezes my arm. "What happened that night? After the video ended?"

I explain everything – the blood and tears on Reece's face, the words she'd slain me with. I've replayed it over and over, swearing to myself it was an accident, that I'd never hurt her.

"You need to tell her." Claude's voice hums gently against my trembling.

"How?" I manage to choke down another sob. "She won't talk to me."

"Bas­–"

"I'm no better than him." I echo Reece's words. The ones that pierced sure as if I'd been shot.

"Bastien," Claude forces my gaze to her face. "You and that man are different as night and day."

"I bloodied her."

"You protected her."

"I hurt her."

"It was an accident." Claude argues. "There's proof in that video, proof in the healing cuts on your shoulders. She got caught in the crossfire and that sucks. Deep down, she knows that."

I shudder, turn away from her. Facing the dark vines of my painting, I manage, "That was her favorite. When she came here, she couldn't stop looking at it."

"Bas." Claude's voice grows haunted. "You're talking like this is the end."

I take my sister's hand in mine. "Will you give it to her for me? Let her know I love her."

Claude scowls. "No."

"But –"

"You can tell her yourself." My sister shoves me away, regards me levelly. "Have you made a press statement?"

I grimace. I'm lucky I didn't get barred from the league.

When the video launched, Alan called me in for a meeting. At least the clip he showed me ended when Spencer pulled me off Asher. No one heard the threats that came after, the way the team backed me up, backed her up.

Then there's the fact that Asher hit me first. It was self-defense. The prick even tried to go for Reece long after I'd been taken out of the fight.

No charges were ever pressed. If they had, both of us might have ended up in jail. Thankfully, he'd taken Spencer's threats to heart and skipped town. Also, Alan had done some digging and discovered Asher's visa had expired and he wasn't really looking to push his luck.

Alan had me sit in front of a script, apologize for disturbing the peace. Something I read off a teleprompter, nothing I felt. Anything to get people out of my face.

Jolet Montai has been begging for an exclusive with me, an intimate view on what went down that night. Alan wanted me to take it, but I'd refused. No use ripping open such newly-healed scars.

"Take the interview," Claude presses. "Tell her, tell Reece everything."

I shake my head. "What if she never watches?"

Because it's my sister, she hits me with an inspirational quote. "Don't be afraid to fail. Be afraid not to try."

I roll my eyes. "That life-guru shit actually work?"

Claude smiles. "Sometimes."

I chuckle despite myself. Then I pull out my phone and make a call.