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.

Retreat Urged by His Best Friend

The first night at the villa was quiet—almost painfully so. No city noise, no blaring ads, no distant honking of impatient traffic. Just the waves, rhythmic and relentless, lapping at the shore below. I wandered through the house, tracing my fingers along the polished wood of the railings, marveling at the way sunlight had faded into gold and deep purple across the living space.

The kitchen was small but functional, with a coffee maker that smelled faintly like roasted beans and a fruit basket that looked too perfect to eat. I poured myself a glass of water, realizing how little I had drunk today in the chaos of practices, calls, and appearances.

I carried it to the balcony, leaning against the railing, staring at the ocean as the waves glistened under the last light of the sun. My chest felt strangely tight, and not from exertion. From stress, from years of never stopping, of always performing, always being… seen. Out here, there was no one to see. No one to measure me by, no one to judge. Just me. And the ocean.

I closed my eyes, letting the sound of the waves fill the space around me. My shoulders loosened. My hands unclenched. And for a moment, I didn’t think about Instagram posts, contracts, or expectations. I thought about nothing, and it was… terrifyingly peaceful.

By the second day, I was already settling into a rhythm I didn’t expect. Kairo had left me with a short list of “recommended activities” that were vague enough to let me decide but structured enough to force me out of my own head. Surf lessons, yoga, cooking with local ingredients, exploring the coastal paths.

I started small, walking down to the private stretch of sand below the villa. My feet sank into the warm, coarse sand, the waves curling around my ankles. It felt absurdly luxurious—like the kind of thing I only ever saw in travel magazines. Yet here I was, alone, and… enjoying it.

As I wandered, I noticed the horizon beginning to glow. The sun rose in shades of tangerine and rose, and I caught myself thinking, I haven’t seen a sunrise this beautiful in years. My chest tightened with an unfamiliar ache—nostalgia, maybe, or just longing for a life less dictated by schedules and cameras.

And then I heard it—a soft voice from behind me.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

I spun around, heart thumping, half expecting a local tourist or someone else at the villa. But there she was. A woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, strong but graceful, standing with her arms folded casually, eyes shaded by a wide-brimmed hat. Her hair was dark and pulled back, and she had a quiet confidence about her that made the sun at her back look like it was merely highlighting her presence.

“Uh… yeah,” I said, voice rougher than I intended. “Incredible.”

She smiled faintly, not in a way that demanded attention, but in a way that made me want to study her face, memorize the curve of her lips, the tilt of her head. “It’s mornings like these that make you forget about everything else. Even if just for a moment.”

I nodded, unsure why I was suddenly aware of how tense my shoulders were. Or how fast my heart had been beating since I first noticed her. “I… yeah. I get that.”

She tilted her head, her eyes meeting mine directly now. There was no judgment, no forced charm—just presence. “You’re here on retreat?” she asked casually.

“I am,” I said, though I didn’t elaborate. “My… friend dragged me here. Kairo.” I felt an unexpected blush creeping up my neck. “He promised it would be good for me.”

She laughed softly, like a melody I didn’t know I needed. “Good for you, huh? Sounds like someone who knows what they’re doing.”

I couldn’t help but grin, the tension in my chest loosening slightly. “He’s… persistent.”

“Good,” she said simply. “Sometimes people need that push.”

Her name was Rosalie, she told me after a brief, easy exchange. And I realized something instantly: she had that rare ability to make you want to talk, to reveal yourself, but without pressuring you to do so. I didn’t know why, but I wanted to tell her everything—my exhaustion, my constant need to perform, my fear of slowing down. But I didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, we stood together in silence, watching the sun climb higher, the ocean sparkling like shards of broken glass in the early morning light. And somewhere deep inside, I felt a stir—a dangerous pull toward something I couldn’t yet name.

Later that day, after a lunch of fresh seafood and tropical fruits delivered by a local vendor Kairo had recommended, I explored the villa further. There was a small meditation deck overlooking the cliffs, a hammock strung between two coconut trees, and a spiral staircase leading down to a hidden path that led straight to the beach.

I found myself drawn to that path, walking barefoot, feeling the sand and the heat beneath my feet. Every step loosened the knots I hadn’t realized I’d carried—tension in my shoulders, the tightness in my jaw, the constant weight of expectation. I realized I hadn’t even noticed how heavy it all had been until now.

By the time I reached the beach, the sun was high, the waves louder, more insistent. And I understood, with a clarity that startled me, how much of my body and mind were coiled in defense, ready for stress, ready for performance, ready for… everything.

I let myself sit, legs stretched out, hands digging into the warm sand, and just… breathed. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

The ocean seemed to breathe with me, its rhythm steady and unwavering. And with each inhale, the tension drained out of me, carried away by the tide.

I didn’t notice Rosalie approaching until she was nearly beside me, her bare feet leaving small prints in the sand.

“You look like you needed this,” she said softly, settling down a few feet away without breaking my space.

“I didn’t know I did,” I admitted, voice low. “I didn’t know I could… feel like this again. Without thinking, without worrying.”

She nodded, her eyes on the waves. “Most people don’t. They get used to carrying it, thinking it’s normal. But it’s not. Not really.”

Her words struck something deep in me, and I felt an odd mixture of vulnerability and longing. The kind of longing that scared me because it was… not for fame, not for validation, not even for distraction—but for peace. And maybe, I realized with a jolt, for connection.

The conversation shifted then—small talk at first, about the village, the waves, the local food—but there was a subtle undercurrent, an electric hum in the air that made my chest tighten in a way I hadn’t expected. She laughed at something I said, and it was like sunlight breaking through clouds, warming the cold edges I hadn’t known existed.

And I noticed my gaze lingering longer than necessary, the way her hair caught the light, the way her eyes reflected the water, the way her smile made my chest ache in that familiar, dangerous way.

I was supposed to be on a retreat, learning to let go. But I realized something: sometimes, letting go didn’t just mean being alone. Sometimes, letting go meant opening yourself to someone else, even if only a little.

And maybe—just maybe—I was ready to try.

By the end of the second day, I was completely hooked on the rhythm of the place. The ocean, the sun, the solitude, the occasional appearance of Rosalie. Even the air tasted different here—lighter, freer.

When I lay on the hammock that evening, the sky a canvas of purples and oranges, I thought about how rare this felt. To feel alive without the constant pressure of perfection, without the weight of expectations.

And then I thought about her. Rosalie. Strong, mysterious, utterly grounding. She had no idea of the chaos I carried beneath the surface—or maybe she did, and that was why she was here, without judgment, without demand.

I let myself drift to sleep that night with the sound of waves crashing below, and a single thought looping in my mind: Seven days. Just seven days. Maybe by the end, I’ll be ready to see more than just the ocean… maybe I’ll be ready to see her too.

-