12. Fault Lines

Waiting, Early May 2010

My blades cut the ice in steady rhythm, the sound hollow in the empty arena. The season is over, the guys are home, but I’m still here. Yost feels different without their noise, without the slap of tape on shin pads or the ribbing before drills. The boards don’t rattle with the boom of bodies. The glass doesn’t vibrate with the roar of the Children of Yost. It’s just me and the hiss of steel on ice, the rhythmic scrape of my edges as I push through another sprint, lungs burning.

I circle back to the blue line and pull up hard, blades biting with that sharp, percussive stop that echoes off the empty rafters. The cold air tastes like ozone and fresh shavings, familiar as breathing. I couldn’t let the team find out about the NCAA suspension secondhand. Not from reporters. Not from whispers in the hallway or texts from guys who heard it from someone who heard it from someone else. The captains deserved to hear it from me.

I remember gripping the phone hard, staring at headlines I couldn’t erase. “You’ve seen it,” I told them. “The suspension. The NCAA’s circling. I’m working on the issue.” The line stayed quiet a second too long. That kind of pause that says they trust you but don’t know what to say. The kind of silence that weighs more than words.

Carl’s and Matt’s voices came low, even, like they knew I was one bad push from snapping. “We’ve got you, Mike. This isn’t on you.”

I tighten my grip on the stick and rip a shot into the net. The puck slams iron with that high-pitched cling that echoes like a hammer on an anvil, then drops, clattering back to the crease. The sound hangs in the empty arena for a long moment before fading into nothing. Maybe they believe me. Maybe they don’t. But I had to make the call. Had to show them I’m not folding. One shift at a time. Clean it up and move forward.

I skate another lap, pushing harder than I need to, feeling the burn spread through my legs and into my core. The wound in my side pulls with each stride, that deep internal ache that never fully leaves anymore. My body guards it without conscious thought, adjusting my posture, limiting my rotation. I ignore it and keep skating.

Kiyomi doesn’t argue. She never does. Instead she simply folds her hands, studies me with those calm, fathomless eyes, and says the words that tilt my week on its axis.

“Michael, London will help. Molly wants to see you.”

It isn’t a command. Not exactly. But the certainty in her tone is stronger than any order. There’s something in the way she says it, measured and precise, that tells me she’s already run the calculations. Already weighed the variables and determined the optimal path forward.

By the time I realize she’s already messaged Molly, confirmed tickets, and arranged for Hanna to stay with Mitsy, it’s too late to mount resistance. That’s how Kiyomi operates. She doesn’t push. She simply arranges the world until the only sensible choice is the one she intended all along.

The NCAA hearings are pending. Reporters stake out the condo like it’s a crime scene, cameras ready to catch any moment of weakness they can spin into a headline. The dojo is a test I keep failing, my body still learning to compensate for what the blade took from me in Tokyo. Sensei Ogata’s corrections come faster than I can process them, and Rika’s eyes hold that patient disappointment that cuts deeper than any critique.

Distance might give me something I haven’t had in weeks. Space to breathe. Room to think without the weight of institutional pressure bearing down on every decision.

At the curb, Hanna hugs me fiercely. Her small arms cinch tight around my midsection, and I brace instinctively against the pressure on my left side. She doesn’t notice, or pretends not to. She holds on like she can anchor me to the pavement, keep me here where she can see me, where she knows I’m safe.

“I’ll be fine,” she insists, even though her voice trembles. “Mitsy promised we’ll cook together. And Kiyomi said she’ll take me shopping.”

I look down at her, this kid who’s been through more than anyone her age should have to endure. She’s stronger than she knows. Stronger than she gives herself credit for. The blonde hair catches the afternoon light, and for a moment she looks so young it makes my chest tight.

“You’re going to have fun,” I tell her, kissing the crown of her head. The words come out steady, confident, the way she needs to hear them. And maybe this time apart will let her feel normal, even for a week. Let her remember what it’s like to be a college kid without the weight of my world pressing down on her shoulders.

She smiles bravely, that fierce little expression she wears when she’s determined not to cry. Then she releases me and steps back, waving until I vanish through the sliding doors.

London

By the time I clear customs and enter the arrivals hall, I’m ready to see Molly, and then one sound cuts through everything: “Michael!” She barrels toward me, navy coat flaring, hair catching the light like fire. There’s no model’s poise in her sprint, no choreographed entrance, just raw joy. She collides with me, arms around my neck, laughter muffled against my collar. I hold her close, feel the thud of her heart, and for the first time in weeks the knot between my ribs loosens.

The driver takes our bags, and Molly chatters through the ride into London. She outlines plans the way some people sketch dreams: an intimate dinner at home, tomorrow a walk along the Thames, an afternoon wandering galleries where no one cares if she’s recognized. I nod, listening more to the cadence of her voice than the words. It’s enough to know she’s planning for joy and celebration.

The Buckingham Gate Street townhouse rises like a memory as we pull up—brick and white trim, windows glinting in soft spring light. Inside, it smells faintly of cedar and polish. My spare skates sit where I left them, books rest neatly on shelves, and yet I notice other signs almost immediately. Willow’s hair scrunchies on the guest bathroom’s counter, bright pink against porcelain. A strip of white tape marking a square on the gym’s floor. The expensive wine bottles in the pantry, the kind Elizabeth favors.

Molly notes my gaze catching on each relic, but she doesn’t flinch. Instead, she draws me to the sofa, curls one leg beneath her, and explains softly: “Willow and Asuka wanted to see you, but Willow needed to be in Spain for her next concert...” She trails off. I wait for Elizabeth’s name, but it never comes. They haunt the house in my absence, and strangely I find it comforting. Molly leans close. “This week is ours, Michael. Just ours.” Her voice leaves no room for doubt.

We celebrate quietly, not with champagne or noise, but with the rhythm of knives against the cutting board and the comfort of garlic sautéing in warm olive oil. Molly moves around the kitchen like she’s memorized its narrow aisles. I help chop while she stirs the sauce, and the space fills with an easy rhythm. Music hums low from the speaker, more pulse than melody, and when her laugh breaks, it slips between spoons and soft flame. Pasta flour dusts her cheek. I brush it away with my thumb before I can think better of it. She doesn’t pull back.

Dinner lingers between us—the smell of bolognaise, wine, and garlic bread heavy in the air. Candlelight flickers across the table, catching gold in Molly’s hair and deepening the steel-blue of her eyes as she pushes her plate away. Breadcrumbs cling to the linen, red wine pooling at the edge of her glass.

“Tignanello Antinori, a Super Tuscan,” she says, swirling what’s left of her drink, lips curving into a small, wicked smile. “Think Elizabeth will mind that I drank the last of her wine?”

A momentary stab of pain and then it’s gone.

As we clear the table, she playfully tickles my ribs—a deliberate contact that makes my pulse quicken and my body reflexively flinch. Molly notices the reaction.

“Are you hurt?”

Instinct says to cover the bruises, to hide the weakness, but Molly’s gaze doesn’t flinch. She sees what I’ve earned, not what I’ve lost—and I trust her enough to let her see them. I pull my shirt over my head, cool air hitting my skin. Her gaze drifts over the marks—the deep purple bruise along my right ribcage, the small constellations of yellow fading near my side. Mementos from the last scrimmage.

She approaches, bare feet whispering against polished wood, circling behind me like she’s studying a painting. Her fingertips brush the edge of the bruise—cool at first, careful. Then firmer, probing tender muscle. A sharp breath escapes before I can stop it.

“Hurts?” she murmurs near my ear. Her voice and breath mix, warm and soft, and suddenly the scent of her—vanilla, clean linen, faint sunlight—overtakes everything else.

“Only when you poke it,” I manage.

Her palm finds my chest, right over my heart, hammering. My lips part slightly, and that’s all the permission she needs. Her fingers glide down the hard plane of my stomach, tracing the defined ridges, skimming the waistband of my jeans. Her other hand rests lightly on my shoulder, her thumb rubbing slow circles near my collarbone. Her gaze locks onto mine, holding it captive. The unspoken pulse that’s always between us erupts into a deafening roar in my ears.

I surge up, my hand tangling in the silk of her hair, pulling our mouths together. It’s not gentle. It’s a claiming. Months of separation, the simmering tension of dinner, the sheer magnetic pull—it erupts. Her lips yield instantly, then push back, demanding equal force. Her arms snake around my neck, fingers digging into the muscles of my back, pulling me flush against her. The feel of her body, slender yet strong beneath the thin linen shirt, pressed tight against my bare chest, sends wildfire through my veins. My other hand finds her waist, fingers splaying possessively over the curve of her hip. She tastes like rich wine and something uniquely, devastatingly her.

The trip upstairs is a blur of tangled limbs, urgent kisses, and stumbling steps on the creaking wood. She turns within the doorway, facing me. The oversized shirt hangs open now, revealing the delicate black lace bra, the smooth expanse of her stomach, the sharp angles of her hips. My breath catches. She is luminous, fierce, utterly captivating.

I step into her space, my thumb brushing the high curve of her cheekbone. Her eyes flutter closed for a heartbeat, a soft sigh escaping her lips. When they open again, the look she gives me strips away every pretense, every carefully maintained boundary. It’s raw, open, terrifyingly feral.

The kiss, this time, is different. Still hungry, a little desperate, and laced with a profound tenderness that cracks something open inside my chest. My hands slide under the open shirt, pushing it off her shoulders. It pools at her feet. Molly’s fingers make quick work of my jeans. Cool air hits my heated skin, then the searing heat of her palms as they glide up my bare back, tracing the landscape of muscle she knows intimately.

We move toward the bed, a slow, deliberate dance now. The soft duvet yields beneath us. There’s no frantic rush, only the deep, aching need to reconnect. My mouth finds the sensitive hollow beneath her ear, tasting salt and sweetness. Molly gasps, arching her neck, offering more. My lips travel lower, tracing the elegant line of her collarbone, the swell of her breast, the hard peak beneath lace. Her hands roam my back, fingertips skating over old bruises, the familiar ridge of the childhood scar on my shoulder blade. She pauses there, her lips pressing against the faded mark—a kiss so gentle, so unexpected, it sends a wave of warmth through me that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with being seen.

The intimacy builds, slow and devastating. Every touch resonates deeper. Her legs part as I settle between them. The world narrows to this moment, this connection. Her pupils are wide, dark pools reflecting the faint glow and something infinitely deeper. With a shared breath, I sink into her. She rises to meet me, a low moan vibrating against my lips as I kiss her. A perfect, familiar fit that somehow feels entirely new. There’s a raw vulnerability beneath the physical joining, a silent acknowledgment passing between us in that locked gaze.

We move together, finding a rhythm that’s less about friction and more about communion. Slow, deep strokes that draw gasps from her lips, that coil tension deep in my core. Her hands clutch my back, urging me closer, deeper. Her head tips back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of her throat. The sight unravels me.

The pace builds, driven by an urgency that echoes in our ragged breathing, the slick heat between us, the unbearable pressure coiling tighter and tighter. Her body tightens around me, her inner muscles clenching rhythmically. A silent cry catches in her throat as her back arches sharply off the bed, her eyes squeezing shut in pure, shattering release. The sight, the feel of her coming undone beneath me, triggers my own downfall. My control shatters and I bury my face in the curve of her neck, breathing her in—vanilla, sweat, her—as my own climax crashes over me. A wave of blinding, white-hot sensation that leaves me trembling, utterly spent, anchored only by the feel of her body trembling beneath mine.

The room hums with the aftermath. Sweat cools on our skin and the scent of sex and shared warmth hangs heavy. I roll onto my back, pulling her with me, settling her against my side. Her head finds its familiar place on my chest, her arm draped across my stomach. My arm wraps around her shoulders, holding her close. Her breathing slows, deepens, matching mine. The frantic energy has dissolved into a bone-deep languor, a heavy, perfect stillness. It’s quiet, profoundly quiet, the kind of quiet that usually makes me itch for movement, for distraction. Here, now, wrapped around Molly, smelling her hair, feeling the soft rise and fall of her breath against my skin ... it just feels like a deep, anchoring calm I rarely find anywhere else but on the ice.

I press my lips to the top of her head. She doesn’t say anything. Neither do I. Words feel meaningless. The silence speaks volumes—exhaustion, contentment, a shared vulnerability laid bare in the aftermath. Her breathing evens out further, becoming slow and rhythmic against my side. Sleep pulls her under. I feel its tug on me too, the adrenaline crash and the sheer physical release dragging me down into the warmth of the bed, the warmth of her body pressed along mine. My arm tightens around her instinctively, holding her closer as my own eyelids grow impossibly heavy. The last thought before the darkness pulls me under is simple: the quiet isn’t empty. It’s full of her. And for once, that thought doesn’t scare me. It just ... is.