Iced Heart Found Love Beneath The Waves

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.