I got it. I’d spent years staring at blank walls, wishing for the exact same thing. After a while, I broke the silence. “You want to talk about the game?”
He shook his head.
“Fine. You want to sleep?”
He nodded, just once.
I gestured at the couch. “You want the bed, or…?”
He shook his head again. “Here’s fine. I don’t want to move.”
I almost laughed, but it came out tired. “All right. Stay there. I’ll get you a blanket.”
I grabbed the softest one I could find, the one from the foot of my bed. I brought it back and draped it over his shoulders, careful not to touch him too much, but he jerked anyway. Not away from me, but toward me. Like he wanted to crawl into the fabric and never come out.
But then he just sat there, wrapped in my blanket, eyes half-shut.
I made myself a cup of tea, because I couldn’t think what else to do. I sat across from him, sipping it, watching the way his hair fell over his forehead. He looked younger like this. Softer. I wanted to reach out and touch him, but I didn’t. Instead, I said, “You played well. Even if the score didn’t show it.”
He glanced up at me, surprised. “Did you watch?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
His mouth twisted, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to smile or cry. “You saw the penalty?”
“I saw Marchand baiting you,” I said. “He’s an asshole."
He didn't even blink. "So am I."
It almost made me smile, even though I could see he didn't mean it. Not really. Cole Armstrong, who played through pain and let himself get hammered by a guy like Marchand just because he thought it was his job to take all the hits. He was the least like an asshole of anyone I'd met, but if he wanted to hide behind that, I could let him.
He finished the last of the water and pressed his fingers into his eyes, like he could grind the exhaustion out through sheer will. I slid the plate away and rinsed it, careful not to make too much noise. The urge to fix things for him was so strong it felt stupid, but I couldn't help it. I wanted—I didn't know what I wanted. To make it so he didn't look so hollowed out? To make it so he knew someone cared if he came home or not? So I did what I would have wanted someone to do for me.
"You should go sleep," I said. "I'll clean up here."
He didn't move. Just sat there, head in his hands, letting the silence get heavy. I couldn't stand it. I walked around the counter and, without thinking, touched his shoulder. For a second, I thought he'd flinch away, but he just...leaned into it. Not a lot, just enough to let me know it was okay.
"You did everything you could," I said, voice quiet because sometimes that was all you could do. "You can't make the puck go in by force of will, you know."
He snorted. It was barely a sound, but it was something. "You'd be surprised."
I didn't let go of his shoulder. "You want to sleep, or shower first?"
He looked up at me, and something in his eyes made my chest ache. "I don't want to be alone," he whispered.
There it was. Raw and soft and terrifying, because I knew exactly what that felt like. The way every empty room could swallow you up. The way guilt didn't let you sleep, but exhaustion made you want to curl up anyway.
"You don't have to be," I said, and this time my hand slid down his arm, right to his palm. He let me, fingers trembling. For a long moment, neither of us said anything. The city was gray outside the windows, and it felt like the whole world had shrunk to just this: two guys at a kitchen counter, both pretending not to be broken.
"I should shower," he said, but didn't move to stand.
I squeezed his hand. "Come on," I said. "I'll help."
He let me lead him down the hallway, and I tried not to think about how ridiculous this was, him with shoulders like a rugby forward, me a pale imitation, but him with eyes that looked like he hadn't slept in a year. In the bathroom, I turned on the water, made sure it was warm but not scalding. For a second, I hesitated. Was this too much? Was I crossing a line?
But when I turned, he was just standing there, looking at me, and I realized maybe he needed the help as much as I needed to give it. I didn’t ask if he wanted me to stay. I just did.
He looked so tired. Just stood there in the center of the bathroom, shoulders hunched, like he was bracing for something bad to happen. Maybe he was. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I ran the water, checked the temperature, and then turned to look at him. He watched me, eyes unreadable. His hair was a mess and there were shadows under his eyes deep enough to get lost in.
