He nods slowly. “You want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. “Not really.”
He leans back, the wood groaning under his weight. “All right. Then I’ll talk, and you can listen.”
I look up, half-expecting a lecture. Instead, his tone softens. “You know, Todd… I’ve been around a long time. Seen a lot of players, a lot of noise. The world likes to get worked up about things that don’t matter.”
I frown, unsure where he’s going.
He meets my eyes. “Loving boys isn’t a big deal. Not here. Not to me. You play hard, you lead your team, you show up. That’s what matters. Everything else? It’s just background. Hell the NHL understands that it doesn’t impact the way you play. You’ll still be scouted with that picture out there.”
For a second, I can’t speak. The words feel like they sink into my bones.
He continues, voice steady. “You’re one of the best damn defensemen I’ve ever coached. And you’ve got a good heart—even if you let it get in your head sometimes.” He gestures toward the ice. “Don’t let anyone make you think the two can’t exist together and still be successful.”
Something cracks open in my chest, sharp and sudden. I blink hard, staring at the floor as tears gather behind my eyes. “My dad doesn’t see it that way.”
Coach exhales through his nose. “Yeah, well. Dads screw up sometimes. Doesn’t mean you gotta carry it like it’s gospel.”
I let out a shaky breath. “You really think it doesn’t matter?”
“I think you’re the same kid you were before that photo hit the internet,” he says. “Only difference is now people know you’re brave enough to stop hiding who you are. Being honest about who you are will make you a better player, because you won’t be carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders anymore.”
That one lands soul deep. I look up, and for the first time since everything fell apart, I actually believe someone might mean it.
Coach pushes to his feet, resting a hand briefly on my shoulder. “Lock up when you’re done sitting in the dark, Shaw. And go fix things with Brooks. The rink’s big enough for both your egos.”
A quiet laugh slips out before I can stop it. “Yes, Coach.”
He nods once, then heads for the door, leaving me alone with his words echoing in my head.
When the door clicks shut, the silence feels different—less like a punishment, more like space to breathe. I know I missed my first class of the day, probably my second too. But none of it seems important.
Time blurs. I shower eventually—mechanical, numb. Eat something I can’t taste. Pretend to study. Pretend to sleep.
None of it sticks.
Every time I close my eyes, I see him turning away. Thehollow look in his eyes when I saidI just can’t do this right now.
The thing is, I didn’t mean I didn’t want him. I meant I didn’t knowhowto want him when everything else feels like it’s collapsing around me.
By late afternoon, the guilt starts to outweigh the fear. I pull my phone out for the tenth time, open his messages, stare at the blinking cursor.I’m sorrylooks pathetic.Can we talklooks worse.
I start typing, delete it. Try again. Delete that too. It’s all wrong. Too small for what I need to say.
Finally, I drop the phone on the bed and stand. I can’t fix this through a screen. Not this time.
I grab my jacket, shove my keys in my pocket, and head for his apartment before I can talk myself out of it.
The walk feels longer than it should. My stomach twists with every step, nerves and regret tangling into something akin to fear. I practice the words under my breath, over and over—what I’ll say, how I’ll explain.
When I reach his door, I pause, hand hovering just above it. My pulse is loud in my ears.
Then the door swings open before I can knock.
Logan stands there, jacket on, keys in hand, eyes going wide when he sees me.
For a second, neither of us says anything. Just the sound of someone down the hallway going into their apartment and the uneven rhythm of our breathing.
