Chapter 1 — The Fallout

Blake

The Icebox Sports Bar was alive with the kind of energy that could almost—almost—distract Blake Carter from the ache settling deep in his chest. Laughter spilled from crowded booths, glasses clinked in rhythmic punctuation to bursts of conversation, and the faint scent of grilled burgers mingled with the tang of spilled beer. Above the bar, TVs flickered with the movement of a hockey game, the sharp sound of skates cutting against ice audible even over the din.

Blake sat hunched over his drink, his fingers idly tracing patterns in the condensation pooling around the base of the glass. The cold press against his fingertips grounded him, a small, physical reminder that he was here, not in some distant corner of his mind replaying the events of the past week. Not that it helped much. The headlines still screamed at him, splashed across his thoughts like graffiti he couldn’t scrub away.

“C’mon, Blake. You’ve got the look of a guy trying to fix a three-goal deficit in the last two minutes.” Ryan Matthews leaned casually against the bar beside him, his beer untouched and his smirk faint but familiar. “What’s the deal? You’re supposed to be the comeback king.”

Blake let out a short, humorless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I’m not coming back from this one. You’ve seen the tabloids, Ry. Charlotte didn’t just kick me while I was down—she sent the replay to the press.”

“And they’ll move on,” Ryan said, shifting his weight to his elbows on the counter. “They always do. Someone else will screw up worse next week. Trust me, you’re old news in about five seconds.”

Blake exhaled, his fingers tightening around his glass. “I don’t know, man. It’s not just the media. Feels like every time I step on the ice, I can feel them watching, waiting for me to mess up. Like they’re all in on the joke, and I’m the punchline.”

Ryan shrugged, but his tone softened. “You’re Blake freakin’ Carter. Fans love you. Hell, half the people in this bar would give their left skate to be you right now.”

Blake shook his head, dragging a hand through his mess of wavy brown hair. It wasn’t exactly the look of a franchise golden boy, but it felt fitting for someone whose public life had just been flayed open for scrutiny. “Thanks for the pep talk. Maybe we should get you a whistle.”

“Don’t need one.” Ryan clapped him on the back, the sound solid and reassuring. “But seriously, man. Don’t let her win by letting this eat you alive. Focus on what you can control—the game, the team, your next move. Forget her. Forget the noise.”

Blake didn’t respond right away. His gaze drifted to his hockey stick propped near the wall, the team logo catching the neon lights in a faint glow. It felt like a relic of someone else’s life, a reminder of the version of him he was supposed to be—confident, untouchable, the guy who delivered on the ice no matter what. Right now, he just felt hollow.

Ryan nudged him again, motioning toward the group of teammates gathered at a high table nearby. Their laughter cut through the bar’s din, a sharp contrast to the static in Blake’s head. “Come on, Carter. At least pretend to have fun. Or don’t. But sitting here sulking isn’t doing you any favors.”

“I’ll catch up,” Blake said, forcing a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Ryan gave him a lingering look, as if weighing whether to push further, but he finally nodded and stepped away. For a moment, Blake let the noise of the bar wash over him, sinking into the anonymity of the crowd. The weight on his chest pressed harder, but at least here, no one expected him to perform. Here, he could just sit, unnoticed.

Until he noticed her.

She was sitting alone at a small table near the far wall, her shoulders slightly hunched over a sketchpad. A leather jacket hung over the back of her chair, and her dark ponytail spilled over one shoulder, catching the dim light. Her brow furrowed as her pencil moved across the page, her focus so complete that she seemed immune to the chaos around her. A faint smudge of pencil streaked her fingers, a quiet, human detail that made her feel oddly real in this crowded room of blurred faces.

Blake blinked, his heart giving a faint, unexpected lurch. He tore his gaze away, feeling the heat rise up his neck. What was he doing? Staring at some stranger like a lovesick teenager? It wasn’t like him—this sudden pull, this inexplicable need to know who she was. Normally, he’d let the moment pass, bury it under the weight of everything else.

But something about her made him hesitate.

His fingers drummed lightly against his glass, torn between staying put and giving in to the faint spark of curiosity tugging at him. Maybe it was the way she seemed so at ease, so oblivious to the noise. Or maybe it was the smile that tugged at her lips every now and then, like she was in on a joke the rest of the world hadn’t caught up to.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he slid off the stool, leaving his drink behind as he weaved through the crowd toward her table.

“Hey,” he said, stopping a few feet away. Up close, he noticed the faint freckles dusting her nose and the way her gold-brown eyes flicked up at him, assessing. “Mind if I sit?”

She tilted her head slightly, her pencil pausing mid-sketch. “Depends. Are you about to try and charm me?”

Blake laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Not a chance. You’d see right through me.”

Her lips quirked into a faint smirk, though her gaze stayed sharp. After a moment, she gestured toward the chair across from her. “Go ahead.”

He slid into the seat, feeling the din of the bar fade into the background. For a moment, neither of them spoke, her pencil poised in her hand like she was debating whether to finish her sketch or close it altogether. Then, with deliberate slowness, she shut the sketchpad and leaned back in her chair.

“You’re that hockey player, right?” she said finally, her tone neutral.

Blake winced, leaning back slightly. “Depends. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Jury’s still out,” she replied, resting her chin in her hand. “You’re not what I expected, though.”

“And what did you expect?”

“Someone more polished. You know, the kind of guy who wouldn’t look like he’s been through a blender.”

Blake chuckled, shaking his head. “Rough week.”

“Clearly.” Her eyes flicked briefly to his hand, where he was absentmindedly fiddling with the edge of a napkin. “So, what brings you over here? Trying to avoid your fan club?”

“Something like that.” He tilted his head toward her sketchpad. “What about you? Working on anything interesting?”

She hesitated, her expression flickering for just a moment before she shook her head. “More like killing time. It’s nothing special.”

Blake raised an eyebrow. “From where I was sitting, it looked pretty special.”

Her smirk softened, just a fraction, and she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe I’ll let you see it someday. If you’re lucky.”

“Here’s hoping,” Blake said, his grin coming more easily now.

They talked for a while after that—about nothing, and yet everything. Her name was Katherine, though most people called her Kat. She was a hairstylist, and her stories about eccentric clients and botched dye jobs were enough to make him laugh for the first time in days. He avoided mentioning Charlotte or the breakup, focusing instead on hockey and the lighter parts of his life. Katherine’s humor was quick and sharp, but there was warmth beneath it, a quiet kind of honesty that made it easy to forget the weight he’d been carrying.

For the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel like the guy everyone was watching, waiting to see if he’d crack. With her, he just felt... normal.

Eventually, the crowd began to thin, the night winding down. Katherine stood, slipping her sketchpad into a worn leather bag. “Well, this has been fun. Thanks for the distraction.”

“Anytime,” Blake said, rising to his feet. He hesitated, then added, “Maybe I could return the favor sometime? Grab coffee or something?”

She studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a small, enigmatic smile, she said, “Maybe.”

And just like that, she was gone, disappearing into the night with a wave over her shoulder. Blake watched her go, his chest feeling lighter than it had in weeks. For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight wasn’t crushing him.

Maybe, just maybe, things were starting to look up.