“I know.”
“And I don't forgive you for benching me.”
“I'm not asking you to.”
“Then what are you asking?”
Grant was quiet for a moment. “I'm asking you to let me stay. We have a week before we need to be back. Let me make sure you're okay. And then we'll figure out the rest.”
I stared at him, jaw tight, heart pounding too fast in my chest. “You want to stay here? With me?”
“Yeah.”
“For a week.”
“If you'll let me.”
“Fine,” I said. “But I'm still mad at you.”
“I know.”
“And this doesn't fix anything.”
“I know that too.”
I turned away before he could see my face and limped toward the kitchen to find something resembling hospitality. “You hungry?”
“Not really.”
“Good. Because all I have is beer and questionable leftovers.” I pulled two bottles from the fridge and held one out to him. He took it, fingers brushing mine, and the contact sent a jolt through me that I tried to ignore.
We stood there in the kitchen, drinking in silence, the fire crackling behind us.
“How's the shoulder?” he asked finally.
“Fine.”
“Jace.”
“It hurts. It's going to hurt for weeks. Are you satisfied?” I took another drink, too fast, and felt the carbonation burn. “How about you? How's coaching without your star player?”
“Harder than I'd like.”
I looked at him then, caught off guard by the honesty. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Grant set his beer down on the counter. “The team's adjusting. But it's not the same.”
“Good. I hope it's fucking miserable.”
“It is.” He stepped closer, and I felt my breath catch. “But not because of hockey.”
“Then why?”
“Because I can't stop thinking about you.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “Because I wake up and check my phone hoping you've texted. Because I replay that drive back to Toronto and hate myself for not saying what I should've said.”
My throat tightened. “What should you have said?”
“That I'm sorry. Not for benching you—I'd do that again. But for making you feel like you don't matter to me.” Grant's eyes were too steady, too honest. “You do. More than you should.”
