I stiffened. "No."
"Bull." Coach crossed his arms. "I've seen how you get when he's around. Like you're carrying the weight of the world."
I stared at the floor, unwilling to meet his eyes. Coach Kincaid was perceptive, I'd give him that. But he had no idea how heavy that particular weight truly was.
"Go home," he said finally. "Get some sleep. Clear your head. I need you at a hundred percent tomorrow." He hesitated. Looked like he was going to say something else, but he ended up just nodding.
I headed for the showers, stripping off gear that suddenly felt too confining. The hot water pounded against my back, but I couldn't wash away the memory of Phoenix's words.
"This is aguilt project, isn't it? Makes you sleep better with your millions, saving a broken homeless guy."
The worst part was, I wasn't sure he was wrong. What had driven me to help him? Guilt over throwing him out? Some savior complex my father had always accused me of having? Or something deeper I wasn't ready to name?
I shut off the water and toweled dry, my movements mechanical. The locker room was empty, the rest of the team still on the ice getting thrashed by Coach. I dressed quickly in jeans and a hoodie, avoiding my reflection in the mirror.
My phone buzzed with a text from Nancy:How's the patient?
I stared at it for a long moment before typing:Gone. Walked out this morning.
Her response was immediate:Stubborn ass.
I didn't bother asking which of us she meant. It applied equally well to us both. The drive home was a blur of traffic and my own circling thoughts. I kept replaying our argument, wondering what I could have said differently, what I should have done. The truth was, I hadn't expected Phoenix to still be there when I got back. Part of me had known he would run the moment he could stand.
The question was why I cared so much.
My building's underground garage felt cavernous and empty as I parked. I sat in the car for a moment, reluctant to go upstairs and face the empty apartment. The silence would be worse now, knowing what it had been like with someone else there, even for just four days.
My phone buzzed. The building's doorman, and I answered it.
"Mr. Armstrong, there's someone in the lobby asking for you. Says his name is Phoenix? Pretty banged up. Wouldn't give a last name. Security protocol says I can't let him up without your approval."
My heart stuttered. "How long has he been there?"
"Couple of hours. Been sitting on one of the lobby benches. Management's getting antsy."
"I'll be right up."
The elevator ride to the lobby felt endless. When the doors finally opened, I saw him—hunched on a bench near the security desk, knees drawn to his chest, face still a messof bruises. He looked up; at least he could see out of both eyes now.
"Hi," he said quietly.
I stopped a few feet away, uncertain. "You came back."
He nodded, wincing slightly at the movement. "I didn't get very far."
"You could have called," I said, gesturing for the doorman to let him through the security gate.
"I didn't exactly have you on speed dial."
Right. Another wave of guilt washed over me.
"Why did you come back?" I asked as we waited for the elevator.
Phoenix looked away, something flickering across his face I couldn't read. "Because you were right," he said finally. "I was too proud to accept help. And too scared to believe it was real."
The honesty in his voice caught me off guard. I'd expected excuses, maybe another fight. Not this raw vulnerability.
"Let's go up," I said as the doors opened. "Before management decides you're loitering."
