“Van Doren—number ninety-one—looks like he’s got something to prove tonight,” one of the announcers says. “He’s usually more composed than this. Whatever’s fueling that fire feels personal.”
The camera cuts to him again as he lays a clean but punishing hit on an opposing player before stealing the puck with ruthless ease.
My fingers curl around the edge of the couch as he charges down the ice, every stride smooth and powerful. He skates like a man possessed. Fast, focused, and desperate to outrun something only he can see. The crowd roars, the sound vibrating through the speakers and filling the otherwise quiet room.
As I watch him, it occurs to me that I’ve been doing the same thing in my own way. I’m trying to outrun the fear of what it means to love him.
In one fluid motion, his stick flashes and the puck rockets toward the goal. It hits the pipe at the back of the net with a ringing clang that sends a shiver up my spine.
Fans surge to their feet, a thunderous roar growing as sticks pound the boards in celebration. The noise grows, swelling through the arena like a wave.
But Oliver doesn’t crack a smile. He simply glides to a stop, chest rising and falling, sweat glinting under the rink’s bright lights. His eyes lift, scanning upward, searching the suite I’ve occupied every game for the past four years.
I can almost feel the weight of his gaze, as if he’s looking straight through the camera and crowd.
Through everything standing between us.
A moment passes.
Then another.
His shoulders drop a fraction before he turns toward the nearest camera and points once before tapping his heart twice and skating away.
The announcers chuckle.
“Looks like that goal might’ve been for someone watching at home,” one says.
“Guess we’ll have to wait for the postgame interview to find out who,” the other replies.
But I already know.
Every bone in my body knows.
The realization hits hard as my throat burns and my eyes sting. I blink, refusing to let the tears fall. If I start crying now, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.
Mom sits beside me, silent at first. When she finally speaks, her tone is gentle. “You look like me after your father walked out. As if you’re terrified of needing anyone.”
The comment drops like a stone into calm water, the ripples spreading until I can’t ignore them.
The difference is, she was brave enough to stop running from what she wanted.
And I’m still halfway out the door.
After a few beats of silence, she asks the one thing I’ve been trying so hard to avoid. “Do you love him?”
The question lands like a whisper and a challenge all at once.
With my throat tight, I nod. “I do. But is it enough?”
She glances toward the television before answering. “I think it’s a pretty good start.”
For the first time since I ran away, the panic in me loosens its grip.
Maybe this isn’t about being sure.
Maybe it’s about being willing to risk the fall.
Long after the game ends, a muted replay flashes across the screen. Oliver in the locker room, helmet off, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. His eyes are steady and unreadable, heart on full display even when he tries to hide it. I see it in the way he stands and the tension that brackets his mouth.
