My hands grip the steering wheel. Every muscle in my body screams to go to her. Walk across this parking lot, take the boxes from her hands, tell her I'm sorry. Tell her I was wrong. Tell her I love her and I'll do whatever it takes to fix this.
But fear roots me to the seat. What if she won't listen? What if I make it worse? What if the best thing I can do for her is stay away?
Lucy bends to pick up a poster that fell. The wind catches her hair and she tucks it behind her ear with hands I've held. Kissed. Watched grip my sheets when I was making her come.
My chest physically aches. Like someone reached in and squeezed. I've had injuries that hurt less than this.
She straightens. Turns slightly toward where I'm parked. For one terrible second, I think she sees me. But her gaze slides past without recognition, and somehow that's worse.
Natalie touches her arm. Lucy nods. They go back inside.
I sit in my truck for another twenty minutes. Engine running. Heat blasting. Hands still gripping the wheel like it's the only thing keeping me upright.
This is the moment something breaks.
Not dramatic. Not like in movies. Just a quiet crack in the foundation I've been standing on since I was eighteen and my father told me greatness required sacrifice.
I can't watch her from a distance anymore. Can't hide in this inn room pretending I need space. Can't keep running.
I drive back and the room feels smaller. Suffocating. I pour whiskey I don't drink. Stare at the album I shouldn't open. Do it anyway.
My phone rings at four in the afternoon. Greg's name flashes.
I answer this time. "Yeah."
"Finally." He sounds equal parts relieved and irritated. "Three days, Ryder. We need to talk about Boston."
I press my palm against my eyes. "Not now."
"Yes, now. They need an answer by January second. Five-year contract, guaranteed money, first-line minutes. Everything you've worked for."
Everything I've worked for.
This should be the moment I've been waiting for. The dream. Security. Proof that the sacrifice was worth it. Proof that I'm good enough.
But all I can think is: that's three plus hours from Lucy.
"What if I don't sign?" The words come out before I can stop them.
Silence. Then Greg laughs, sharp and humorless. "Don't sign with Boston? Are you serious?"
"What happens if I explore other options?"
"Other options?" His voice climbs. "You're talking about turning down one of the best contracts I've seen in a decade. For what? You're twenty-eight. You have maybe five good years left if your shoulder holds. Where else are you going to get a deal like this?"
"I don't know."
"Jesus, Ryder." He exhales hard. "Is this about the girl?"
I don't answer.
"Look," Greg says, softer now. "I get it. You've made connections there. But this is your career. What you've sacrificed everything for. Don't let one person derail that. Your father wouldn't have—"
"Don't." The word comes out harder than I intend. "Don't bring him into this."
Pause. "I'm just saying, he taught you better than this. He taught you that greatness requires focus. Dedication. Not getting sidetracked by—"
"He died alone." My voice is flat. "My father died alone in a hospital room because everyone who loved him gave up trying. My mother left. My sister barely spoke to him. I was in playoffs, too important to visit. He'd have understood, I told myself."
