Chapter 2: I Was Never a Canary

Aurora's POV

I hugged Erik back. "I wish I could get back on the ice too."

At that, Erik let go of me and looked over at Julia.

Julia shrugged, a little helpless. "I mean, with the two of us recommending you, all you have to do is get past the head coach and you're in the club. But… but the head coach is the hard part."

I hesitated. "Do I know him?"

Julia shook her head. "He's the former captain of KNL. They poached him two months ago."

"Word is the investors paid a fortune to bring him over. By the time Erik heard about it, the man had already signed on."

"Would you believe that since he took over as head coach, our club has gone through several batches of players?"

Julia sighed. "He's harsh to the point of being sick about it. Anyone who can't meet his demands, or can't keep up with his pace, gets cut."

I looked up at Erik. The last person who had been this harsh, this perfect, was him.

Erik shook his head in self-mockery. "Compared to Vincent Sterling, I'm practically gentle."

My heart skipped. That bad?

If full-fledged players couldn't satisfy him, how was a housewife who had been off the ice for ten years supposed to catch his eye? Even as a substitute.

I started to backpedal. "Then maybe I—"

Julia gripped my hand. "Don't lose heart. I really do think you two would click. Under his pressure, who knows — you might be playing as a full member before long."

I eyed her with amusement and called her bluff. "You say that to everyone, don't you?"

Julia laughed awkwardly. "Of course not. I just have a feeling. You'll get along. You know a woman's sixth sense is never wrong."

She turned to Erik. "Don't you think so, Erik?"

Erik nodded, his deep eyes drifting into memory.

"Vincent was a rising star in hockey back then. If he hadn't lost that bet, he wouldn't have been able to stay in the country and keep playing — I think he'd have had a real shot at standing on the top of the podium, instead of being forced off to Canada…"

"You were the youngest prodigy on the team, standing on that top podium at twenty. It's just a shame you chose the road back to your family. Now that you've decided to return to the ice, you must have thought a lot of things through. So… I think the two of you will have plenty to talk about."

Plenty to talk about?

I didn't think Vincent and I would have anything to talk about.

After all, one of us chose it. The other gave it up because she had no choice.

To a man like him, a "coward" like me, who threw the ice away for love — that was probably the kind he'd despise most.

But I couldn't give up before I had even tried.

This was my only chance to get back on the ice.

I nodded at Erik. "I'll do my best."

The afternoon interview was suddenly cancelled. Some players had gotten into a fight at the training rink and were badly hurt; Vincent, as head coach, had taken them to the hospital right away.

Julia hung up and blew up in front of Erik.

"I cannot deal with these people. Hockey is all about working together — every position is the coach's call, based on the whole picture."

"Those two brats are about evenly matched, and they had to fight over the center spot. If we had any decent prospects right now, I'd cut them both on the spot."

Julia looked at me. "I suddenly really miss the days when you were on the team. Absolute dominance. Nobody dared argue when the center spot went to you."

Back then…

I lowered my eyes in self-mockery. I had betrayed the person I used to be.

On the way home, the car broke down halfway.

The first thing I did was call Liam. It took him a long time to pick up.

He sounded exhausted, his voice thick with fatigue. "What is it?"

"My car broke down halfway. I'm at—"

Liam cut me off with a sneer. "Aurora, you really know how to find trouble!"

"If you'd just stayed quietly at home where you belong, nothing would have broken down, and you wouldn't be bothering me when I'm this tired."

"I told you clearly yesterday. If you're set on going back to the ice, then don't come to me for anything. I mean anything."

Then he hung up without an ounce of mercy.

I stared at the dead phone, a dull, tight feeling swelling in my chest.

The Liam of ten years ago, who would drive two thousand kilometers overnight just because I said I felt unwell, was gone.

This Liam was an empty shell wearing the title of husband. Inside, he no longer loved me.

Outside the window, the rain suddenly came down in sheets.

I hid in the car, scrolling through my phone for a tow truck number.

Pathetic, really. In ten years, I had never once dialed a single one of those numbers.

Maybe Liam's proposal ten years ago had been a way of shutting me in a cage.

The first three years of pretend freedom let my guard down, and the next seven he could simmer me like a frog in warm water until I became a canary content to sit in its cage.

But I was never a canary. I was the queen of the ice.

A queen of the ice who could spread her wings and fly.

I found the housekeeper's number and was just about to dial when lightning flashed across the sky and a thunderclap crashed down with a deafening roar.

I screamed in terror. Thunder was what I feared most.

Especially when I was alone.

So on stormy days I almost never went out — and if I did, someone had to be with me.

The person beside me used to be Liam.

But now all I could do was huddle in my seat, my face as pale as a ghost's.

The thunder outside stopped. I couldn't stand another minute in that car — I shoved the door open with clumsy, panicked hands and ran out.

The freezing rain soaked through my absorbent cardigan and wide-leg pants.

The weight of the water dragged my clothes down, and the shirt under my cardigan clung tight to my body, tracing every line of it.

But I couldn't think about any of that. I just wanted to get away from this place, to get somewhere safe.

I stood at the roadside waving at every taxi that passed, and not one would stop.

Just when I was in utter despair, I looked up at the bus stop across the way.

A man stood there under a black umbrella.

The umbrella hid his face — I couldn't make out his features — but the striking height and the expensive clothes seemed to tell me he wasn't a bad man.

I ran up to him, out of breath, stopped in front of him and gulped down air to steady myself, and finally managed, my voice shaking, "Sir, could you help me?"

The umbrella above him slowly tilted away, revealing broad shoulders and a narrow waist.

His hair was combed back without a strand out of place, baring a full forehead. His eyes were deep amber, his nose high, and beneath it a thin mouth. On the web of the right hand holding the umbrella was a gash that looked bone-deep, still seeping blood.

While I sized up the man, he was sizing me up too. "What do you want me to help you with?"