Whatever.
“Pushing someone away because you’re scared doesn’t protect you. It just makes you alone.” His voice is steady, sure, the voice of someone who’s been there. “And being alone because you’re terrified of being hurt? That’s not strength. That’s just fear wearing a different jersey.”
The words hit like an elbow to my face.
“She deserves better,” I say quietly, “than someone who’s a mess. Who comes with baggage.”
“Maybe. But that’s her choice to make, not yours.”
My jaw pulses, and I take another sip of my Coke.
Conrad sighs. It’s a big sigh, like I’m thick in the head. Maybe I am. “Look, I can’t tell you what to do. But I can tell you that running away because you’re scared is a coward’s move. And you’re not a coward, Kane. You block shots with your face. You fight guys twice your size. You’re just scared of something you can’t punch.”
I almost smile. Almost.
“Make up with her,” Conrad says. “Before you lose something real.”
Ha. If he only knew. Except, “How?”
“Be real. Admit you’re wrong. Ask how you can fix it.” He shrugs, the gesture simple, like he’s explaining how to tie skates. “It’s not complicated. It’s just hard.”
I think about her texts. The ones I haven’t answered. The way she still reached out even when I was pulling away, asking if I was okay after the Seattle game.
Conrad stands, the stool scraping against the floor. He claps me on the shoulder—carefully, avoiding my bruised areas. “For what it’s worth?” He’s got this half smile. “I think you two are good together. It’s been a long time since I saw a glimpse of the old Brody. Whatever you did, whatever fight you had? Fix it.”
He leaves, weaving between the scattered tables toward the elevators.
And I’m left sitting there with a truth I can’t avoid anymore.
I might be in love with her. And I’m terrified of losing her.
The bartender comes back over, wiping down the section of bar Conrad vacated. “Another drink?”
“No. I’m good.” I stand, leaving a twenty on the bar. I head toward the elevators, doors sliding open with a mechanical hum. I step inside and press the button for the seventh floor. My reflection stares back at me from the mirrored walls—bruised, tired, looking every bit as wrecked as I feel.
I unlock my room with the key card—it takes two tries, the light blinking red before finally turning green. The door clicks open.
Beige walls, two queen beds with burgundy comforters that match every other hotel room I’ve stayed in this season. Curtains drawn against the Seattle skyline—just distant lights and darkness beyond the window. Standard hotel art on the walls, abstract prints that mean nothing.
Tyler’s bed is empty. He’s out with some of the other guys, probably at a bar that’s not attached to the hotel. His duffel bag is thrown on the luggage rack, clothes spilling out in organized chaos.
I should sleep. We have an early flight to Vancouver tomorrow. A five a.m. wake-up call. Another city. Another game. But I sit on my bed and stare at my phone.
Three unread texts from Chloe over the past week.
Monday:
Chloe
Hope the road trip is going well! Saw highlights from Denver - that assist was beautiful. Stay safe out there.
Wednesday:
Chloe
Watched the Seattle game. Are you okay? That looked rough.
Friday:
