The text burned into my mind long after I dropped her phone back on the nightstand.

Can’t stop thinking about last week. When can I see you again?

Anderson. My rival.

The man who smiled for cameras while plotting to take me down every chance he got on the ice. And now he’d taken her, too.

I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor.

Water hissed from the shower. Steam curled from the bathroom door. She was in there, humming like she hadn’t just detonated my entire life.

Part of me wanted to storm in, confront her right then. But another part—a colder, more calculating part—held me still.

If I accused her, she’d deny it. She’d twist it, gaslight me, make me doubt what I’d seen. I needed proof I couldn’t ignore. Proof that would drown her excuses before she could even speak them.

The next day, I found it. She told me she was meeting Cara for lunch. She dressed carefully, hair curled, lips painted red. She kissed my cheek before leaving, soft and sweet.

“Don’t wait up. We might shop after.”

I nodded, biting down on the words in my throat. The second the elevator doors closed behind her, I grabbed my keys.

--

Following her felt dirty, like I’d already lost some part of myself. But the sick certainty in my gut told me I was right. I trailed her cab through the city, my grip on the wheel white-knuckled.

She didn’t go to the café where Cara always posted her latte art.

She didn’t go near the mall either.

Instead, her cab stopped in front of a sleek hotel near the river.

My pulse spiked. I parked down the block and watched from a distance.

Heiley stepped out, glancing around once before heading inside.

Minutes later, another cab pulled up. And out stepped Anderson. He wore sunglasses, hood pulled low, but I’d know his stride anywhere. The same confident arrogance he carried on the ice. He barely looked around before striding into the hotel like he owned it.

Something inside me snapped.

--

I was in the lobby before I even knew I’d moved. The desk clerk smiled at me, recognition flashing in her eyes.

“Mr. Hiltons—”

“Did a brunette woman just check in?” My voice was sharp, harsher than I meant.

The clerk faltered. “I—I can’t disclose—”

But I was already moving past her, toward the elevators.

My blood pounded in my ears. The ride up was a blur. When the doors opened, I stepped into a quiet hallway lined with identical doors.

I didn’t know which one was theirs, but then I heard it—her laugh. Soft, familiar, intimate. And his voice, low, answering. My body moved before my mind caught up. I strode down the hall, stopped at the door where the voices came from.

My fist hovered, trembling.

Then I heard the sound of a zipper. A gasp.

My vision tunneled. I slammed my hand against the door.

“Heiley!”

Silence.

Then scrambling, hurried whispers.

The lock clicked once, twice.

Then the door cracked open just enough for Heiley’s face to appear, eyes wide, hair tumbling around her flushed cheeks.

“Drake—what are you doing here?”

Behind her, Anderson’s voice: “Shit.”

My chest hollowed out. It was real. I hadn’t been paranoid.

I hadn’t imagined it. I shoved the door wide.

Anderson stood by the bed, shirt half undone, eyes flashing with annoyance instead of guilt.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Heiley blurted, stepping in front of me, hands on my chest.

“Don’t,” I growled. My voice was so raw it startled even me.

“Don’t insult me with that line.”

Anderson smirked, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Guess the golden boy finally figured it out.”

Rage surged, hot and blinding. I lunged, fist connecting with his jaw before Heiley’s scream even registered.

Anderson staggered back, then swung at me. The two of us crashed into the nightstand, lamp shattering to the floor.

“Stop it!” Heiley shrieked, pulling at my arm.

“Drakel, stop!”

But I couldn’t. Years of rivalry, of biting back, of watching him gloat every time he scored—it all poured out now. Every punch was for the lies she’d told, the nights I thought she loved me, the future I thought we had.

Security burst in before I could finish what I started. They yanked us apart,

Anderson spitting blood, me breathing like a bull ready to charge again.

“You need to leave, sir,” one guard barked at me.

I wrenched free, pointing a shaking hand at Heiley.

“We’re done. Do you hear me? Done.”

Her face crumpled, tears streaking down her cheeks. “Drake, please—”

But I was already gone.

I don’t remember driving home. I don’t remember climbing into the penthouse, the city lights blurring outside.

All I remember is standing in our bedroom, staring at the ring box on the dresser. I opened it one last time. The diamond gleamed, beautiful, mocking. I hurled it across the room. It hit the wall and clattered to the floor, forgotten.

The press got hold of it within hours.

Photos leaked of me storming out of the hotel, face bruised, shirt torn.

Headlines screamed betrayal, scandal, broken engagement.

Sports commentators debated how it would affect my career.

Some said it would fuel me.

Others said it would destroy me.

But none of them knew what it felt like.

None of them knew how it felt to love someone so blindly, only to watch her slip into the arms of the one man you hated most.

--- That night, I sat alone on the balcony, staring out at the skyline.

My phone buzzed nonstop—Tyler, teammates, my coach, even sponsors. I ignored them all.

Finally, one message from Tyler cut through:

You need to get out of here, Drake. Before this kills you.

For once, I agreed.

I didn’t know where I’d go yet, but I knew one thing: the ice wasn’t enough anymore.

The rink, the trophies, the cheers—they couldn’t patch this hole in my chest.

I needed distance.

Silence.

Somewhere nobody cared about hockey, or about Drake Hiltons, MVP.

Somewhere I could breathe again.

--

As dawn broke, I made the call.

Booked the flight. Somewhere far, warm, and quiet.

The Philippines.

I didn’t know what I was running toward. Only what I was running from.

And in that uncertainty, for the first time in years,

I felt the faintest spark of freedom.

Morning sunlight poured across the city skyline, but inside my penthouse the world was gray.

I hadn’t slept. My knuckles were swollen from the fight, split raw where Anderson’s jaw had caught me.

The phone hadn’t stopped buzzing. It had started as a trickle the night before, but now it was a flood.

Missed calls stacked on the screen: Coach Meyer, Tyler, my agent, even my mother.

Texts from teammates. And Heiley—dozens, pleading, apologizing, explaining, begging.

I couldn’t look at them. Couldn’t answer.

The weight of it all sat heavy in my chest.

The television I’d left on low filled the room with voices. Sports anchors leaned across glossy desks, photos of me and Heiley plastered over their shoulders. One shot showed her smiling at my side at the Awards Gala just last week, my hand resting proudly on her waist.

The next shot cut to grainy images from last night—me storming out of the hotel, blood on my lip, rage written across my face. The anchor’s voice dripped with satisfaction:

“This morning, a shocking scandal rocks the NHL. Drake Hiltons, three-time MVP, was spotted leaving the Riverfront Hotel after a reported altercation with rival captain Anderson Cole. Sources confirm Hiltons’ longtime fiancée, Heiley Mason, was also present. What this means for Hiltons’ career—and his reputation—remains to be seen.”

The clip cut to fans outside an arena. Some shook their heads in disappointment. Others looked into the camera, furious.

He doesn’t deserve this. He deserves better. I can’t believe she’d cheat on him—especially with Anderson.

I shut it off, bile rising in my throat.

--

By noon, Tyler let himself into my penthouse with the spare key. He dropped a grocery bag on the counter and gave me a long look. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, sinking onto the couch.

He didn’t sugarcoat it.

“This thing’s everywhere, Drake. Trending on every platform. Sponsors are panicking. Coach is panicking. Hell, even my mom called me to ask if you’re okay.”

“Am I?”

I asked bitterly. “I’m not sure I even know.”

He sat across from me, serious for once.

“You have two options. You face this head-on, hold a press conference, spin it before the league does. Or…” He hesitated. “You get out of town. Fast. Let it blow over without you feeding the flames.”

“Running away.”

“Taking space,” he corrected.

“There’s a difference. Right now, you’re bleeding in shark-infested waters. They’re going to keep circling until you’re gone.”

--

That afternoon, my agent called. I didn’t want to answer, but Tyler shoved the phone into my hand.

“Drake” Martin’s clipped voice came through. “We have a crisis. Wilson Energy is threatening to pull your endorsement. They don’t want your name associated with—” he lowered his voice like the word was dirty—“domestic scandals.”

I laughed, sharp and humorless. “I’m the victim here, Martin. You know that, right?”

“Doesn’t matter. Public perception is everything. You need to get in front of this. Right now.”

I hung up without answering.

---

By evening, a crowd had gathered outside the building. Reporters, cameras, microphones shoved into the air whenever a resident stepped out.

My phone lit up again—Tyler this time, sending a photo from Twitter.

It was me. Not even twenty-four hours old, the shot already had thousands of shares. I was standing in the hotel doorway, fury etched across my face, fists clenched, security holding me back.

The caption read: MVP or ticking time bomb?

The comments were worse.

Guess he’s not such a golden boy after all.

No wonder she cheated—look at his temper.

Protect Anderson. Suspend Hiltons.

I slammed the phone down so hard it cracked the coffee table glass. -

-- At midnight, Heiley showed up.

The doorman called to warn me, but she pushed past anyway, hair in a messy bun, eyes swollen from crying. She looked small in her hoodie and jeans, nothing like the polished woman who’d stood beside me at every gala, every postgame celebration.

“Drake, please—” she started. I didn’t let her finish.

“Get out.”

Tears welled.

“I made a mistake. A horrible mistake. But I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

I barked a laugh. “You loved me so much you ended up in bed with him?”

Her chin trembled. “It didn’t mean anything—”

“Don’t.” My voice cracked sharp as glass. “Don’t cheapen us more than you already have.”

She reached for me, but I stepped back. “Drake, please. Don’t throw us away. We can fix this. I swear—”

I met her eyes, and for a moment I almost faltered. Almost.

Because once, her eyes were home.

But now they were just mirrors reflecting back the wreckage she’d caused.

“Leave, Heiley,” I said quietly.

“Before I forget every good memory we ever had.”

She cried harder, but this time, she obeyed.

--

The next morning, I couldn’t breathe.

The air in the penthouse was heavy, suffocating.

The city outside my window felt hostile. Every honk, every camera flash below was a reminder: I was trapped in a cage built from betrayal and fame.

I grabbed my phone.

Pulled up flight schedules. My hands shook as I scrolled, but I didn’t stop until I found it: Manila, Philippines.

Tyler walked in just as I hit Book.

He froze.

“Where the hell is that?”

“Far enough.” My voice was calm, steady in a way it hadn’t been in days.

“You serious?” I looked at him, jaw tight.

“If I don’t leave, this will kill me. Hockey, Heiley, the press—everything. I need to get out before there’s nothing left of me.”

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

“Then go. Hell, I’ll cover practice excuses for you. Just… promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“Don’t shut down completely. Find something out there worth waking up for.”

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t believe that was possible. Not yet.

--

That night, as I packed a single bag, the news anchor’s voice drifted from the TV again: “Sources confirm Drake Hiltons is under investigation by the league for violent conduct following last night’s altercation. Disciplinary action may be announced soon. Is this the fall of hockey’s golden boy?”

I zipped my bag closed and shut off the TV.

Let them speculate.

Let them feast.

By the time the headlines hit tomorrow,

I’d be gone.

I have booked my escape. I'm at the lowest point of my life—betrayed, vilified, losing sponsors, hounded by the press. The only option left is to run.

The locker room smelled like sweat, chlorine, and the faint hint of cologne that lingered from post-practice showers. I was slouched against the bench, towel around my neck, earbuds in, pretending I was listening to music—but really, I was scrolling aimlessly through my phone, avoiding texts, notifications, anything that demanded thought.

“You look like death warmed over,” Kairo’s voice cut through my haze. I yanked the earbuds out, blinking at him. He was perched on the bench across from me, legs wide, grin too smug for this hour of the morning.

“Morning, too,” I muttered, giving him a half-hearted glare.

“K, seriously,” he said, throwing his hands up. “You’ve been running yourself into the ground for the last month. When was the last time you took a proper break? Huh? I’m talking no games, no press, no fake smiles for cameras.”

I scowled. “I’m fine. Really.”

“Yeah, fine as a hurricane,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Drake, you’re not fine. You’re exhausted, tense, and honestly—if you don’t slow down, I’m going to have to drag you kicking and screaming to somewhere you actually deserve.”

I snorted. “And where’s that supposed to be? Some spa with overpriced smoothies and yoga mats?”

“Kinda,” he said, grinning. “Except no, not just that. I’m talking a retreat. A proper one. Sun, sand, no obligations, no paparazzi, no nonsense. Just… you, the waves, and maybe a couple of fresh coconut drinks. Trust me, man. You need it.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re saying this because you want me out of your hair for a week.”

“Partly,” he admitted, leaning back and stretching his arms overhead. “But mostly because you look like a zombie who’s been living on caffeine and ego. And if I have to drag you into another half-hearted practice while you’re operating on empty, I swear I’ll—”

“—do what? Kick me?” I smirked, though my chest tightened in a way I didn’t care to analyze.

“Nope. Better,” he said, eyes glinting. “I’ll make you disappear for seven days. Completely off-grid. And yes, that includes your phone. Your agent. Your fans. You’ll thank me when you come back not smelling like stress and self-doubt.”

I ran a hand through my hair, staring at him as if I’d suddenly discovered a foreign planet in the locker room. Seven days. Off-grid. No press. No Instagram, no notifications, no obligations. It sounded… terrifying. And yet, also kind of perfect.

“Fine,” I said finally, letting a small sigh escape. “You win. But if I come back and it’s some amateur retreat that smells like sunscreen and despair, you’re paying for my therapy.”

Kairo clapped me on the shoulder with a grin. “Deal. But first, you have to pack. And no, jeans and sneakers don’t count as ‘retreat attire.’ I want lightweight, breezy, sun-ready Drake.”

I groaned, imagining myself in some flowy linen shirt while pretending I was okay with it. “You’ve clearly lost your mind.”

“You’ll thank me when you’re not snapping at everyone for no reason,” he said. “Plus, trust me, I already booked the place. La Union. Private Airbnb. Oceanfront. You won’t even know what hit you.”

I blinked. “La Union? That’s… actually… not terrible.”

“Not terrible?” he said, mock-offended. “Drake, it’s paradise. It’s where surfers go, where the coffee’s strong, the sun is perfect, and there’s zero chance of a paparazzi ambush. You’ll sleep, eat, swim, and maybe—if I’m feeling generous—you’ll find yourself enjoying it.”

I smirked at that last part. “Generous, huh?”

“Hey, don’t get used to it,” he said, elbowing me lightly. “Now get packing before I start making a list of everything you’re allowed to bring.”

Packing for a retreat I didn’t want to admit I needed felt like a strange mix of excitement and dread. I shoved t-shirts into my bag, jeans folded in a corner just in case I had some delusions of city life practicality, and tossed in swim trunks like a maniac. I even, begrudgingly, threw in a pair of sunglasses that made me look less like a sleep-deprived wreck and more like… well, the version of me I didn’t mind existing in public.

By the time Kairo showed up at my door with the rental car, I was more or less ready. He had that smug look on his face again, the one that said I told you this would happen.

“You packed?” he asked, leaning casually against the car.

“Barely,” I muttered, dragging my bag.

“Knew it,” he said, tossing my bag into the trunk like it weighed nothing. “You’re lucky I’ve got superhuman strength today. Ready to go?”

“Do I have a choice?” I asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

“Nope. And don’t even think about trying to sneak your phone.” He snatched it from me before I could protest, tossing it into the backseat. “For the next seven days, Drake, it’s you and the waves. That’s it.”

I stared at him. He was terrifyingly serious. And then… I felt the first flicker of something I hadn’t anticipated. Relief.

The drive to La Union was long but mercifully traffic-free, the city gradually giving way to rolling hills, coconut trees, and the smell of salt in the air. I watched the scenery in silence, the rhythmic motion of the car almost hypnotic. Tyler hummed along to some playlist I didn’t recognize, occasionally throwing side glances at me with a grin that was equal parts mischief and satisfaction.

“You’re too quiet,” he finally said, breaking the silence. “Thinking about how much you hate me for dragging you here?”

I snorted. “I hate myself more for agreeing.”

“Progress,” he said, mock-cheerful. “Just admit it—you’re also kind of excited.”

I scowled at him. “Kind of?”

“K, fine,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Totally excited. Admit it.”

I shot him a look, but the corner of my mouth twitched. Maybe… just a little.

By the time we arrived, the sun was low, casting golden streaks across the ocean. The Airbnb was exactly as he had promised: perched on a small cliff, the waves crashing gently below, a private stretch of sand that looked untouched by the world. I stepped out of the car, letting the sea breeze hit me, salty and liberating, and I felt… lighter.

Kairo grinned, clearly reading the subtle shift in me. “See? Told you. Paradise, baby.”

I let myself take it in. The sound of the waves, the tang of the ocean, the endless horizon—it was all surreal. Too surreal to feel entirely real, yet painfully necessary.

“You actually look… relaxed,” Kairo said, squinting at me. “That’s terrifying.”

“I’ll allow it,” I muttered, smirking.

He led me inside, throwing open doors to reveal a spacious living area, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a balcony that overlooked the endless sea. It smelled faintly of coconut oil and fresh wood, the kind of space that whispered stay, rest, breathe.

“Okay, man,” Kairo said, clapping me on the shoulder. “I’m leaving you here. My job is done. You’ll call me in seven days if you’re still alive and sane—or if you fall in love with the ocean. Either works.”

I watched him leave, his car disappearing down the winding road. And then I was alone.

Alone with nothing but the sound of waves, the golden glow of the setting sun, and the startling, undeniable realization that this retreat might not just be about rest.

I sank onto the balcony, letting the wind whip through my hair, and for the first time in months, I felt a crack in the armor I wore for everyone else. Out here, with no cameras, no obligations, no expectations, I could feel… something.

Something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in a long time: peace.

And maybe, just maybe, the beginnings of something else—something dangerous, intoxicating, and impossible to ignore.