Rage rushes through me, hot and sudden. My fists clench so tight my knuckles crack. I spin, looking for something—anything—to release this pressure building in my chest. A garbage can to kick, a wall to punch, but there’s nothing. Just that bench, bolted down and immovable, mocking me with its permanence.
The anger drains as quickly as it came, leaving only self-disgust in its wake. Of course this is my fault. Of course she’d be hesitant about starting something with me again. Why wouldn’t she be? I abandoned her when she needed me most, chose hockey over her health, her needs, her everything. And tonight, what do I do? Jump her in an alley like some hormone-driven teenager, like I have any right to her body just because she kissed me.
Another roar erupts from inside the bar. The game continues, oblivious to my personal catastrophe. Jeff and my friends are in there waiting for me, but walking back into the crowded restaurant is the last thing I want to do. Unfortunately, the first thing I want is also off the list.
I pull out my phone, my fingers clumsy on the screen as I type out messages to Jeff and Niall.Splitting headache. Had to bail. Sorry.
Almost immediately, Niall responds with a string of eggplant and peach emojis followed by a winking face. Jeff adds his own laughing emoji. They think I left with Devin for an entirely different reason. The irony tastes bitter.
I shove the phone back in my pocket without correcting them and stumble out of the alley. The main street is busier thanexpected tonight. Couples hand in hand enjoying the night, groups of friends laugh as they walk by. Everyone else’s life continuing normally while mine implodes.
My eyes scan everywhere for any sign of Devin, but she’s vanished. The walk to my car feels endless. Each step replays the disaster in my head. The way her body felt pressed against mine. The desperation in my touch. Her face when she pulled away—not angry, but something worse. Disappointed? Afraid?
I fumble with my keys, drop them, curse as I bend to retrieve them from a puddle of slush. Finally behind the wheel, I start the engine and pull out into traffic, driving on autopilot while my mind churns.
Bailey showing up threw me off balance. That’s what I tell myself, but it’s a weak excuse. The truth is simpler and uglier—I wanted her too much to think clearly. Years of fantasizing about what it would be like to touch her again, to kiss her again, and when the opportunity presented itself, I grabbed it with both hands like a drowning man clutching at driftwood.
Will she ever even talk to me again after this? Or have I ruined the only opportunity I had to see if we could start over, be what we should have been before?
At home, I climb the stairs to my apartment, each step heavier than the last. The space feels suffocating the moment I cross the threshold. The walls press in, the air too thick, too still. The silence screams at me.
I can’t stay here.
My running shoes are by the door where I kicked them off this morning—a lifetime ago when today still held promise. I lace them up with shaking fingers, swap my heavy winter coat for a lighter running jacket. The door slams behind me with more force than necessary.
The neighborhood spreads out before me, houses glowing with warm yellow light against the darkness. Through windows, I catch glimpses of other lives—a family gathered around adining table, someone curled up on a couch with a book, a couple washing dishes together, laughing at something on the small TV mounted on their kitchen wall.
Every scene is a reminder of what I don’t have. What I threw away once and managed to destroy again in the span of five minutes.
My feet pound against the pavement, finding a rhythm that does nothing to quiet my thoughts. What was I thinking? The question loops endlessly. I should have been patient, careful. Should have let the kiss end naturally instead of escalating like my life depended on it. But no—I was greedy. Weak. Thinking with my dick instead of my brain like some rookie who’s never been around a beautiful woman before.
The nausea hits suddenly, violently. I barely make it to the gutter before my stomach empties itself onto the ice-slicked street. Beer and bile burn my throat as my body heaves with the force of it. When there’s nothing left, I collapse onto the curb, not caring that the ice immediately soaks through my pants.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, the taste still acidic and wrong. My stomach continues to churn, but I can’t tell anymore what’s physical and what’s emotional. How did I become this person? This pathetic shadow of someone who used to have his life together, who used to know how to be with someone without destroying everything he touched?
If I’d just controlled myself, we might be sitting in that pizzeria right now. Sharing stories about our days, laughing at something silly one of my players did. Her hand might be resting on the table where I could reach for it, tentative but welcome. Instead, I’m sitting in the gutter—literally—with vomit on my shoes and the taste of regret in my mouth.
I push myself to my feet, legs unsteady. Niall’s house sits at the corner, porch light on, living room window flickering with TV light. For a moment, I consider knocking, spilling everything to my friend. But what would I say? That I ruined the best thingthat happened to me in years because I couldn’t keep my hands to myself?
No. This shame is mine to carry.
I turn away from the warm lights of inhabited homes and head back out into the darkness for another mile.
Chapter Seventeen
Devin
Lying on the couch, I scroll past another line of recommended movies, none of them catching my attention. The remote feels heavier than it should in my hand, and even the simple motion of pressing buttons sends little aches through my fingers. Action movies blur past—too loud. Rom-coms slide by—too cheerful. Documentaries linger for a moment before I dismiss them—too much thinking required. This is the worst part about flares: being bored but also too tired to do anything about it.
There are other letdowns, too—not being able to scrub the kitchen counters that definitely need it, or make that butternut squash soup I’d been planning all week. The ingredients sit in my fridge, probably wondering why I bought them if I wasn’t going to use them. Having to call in sick to the clinic weighs heaviest of all.
I have systems in place—the freezer stocked with meals I batch-cooked last month, and staff that can back me up withoutcomplaint—but I hate letting the clinic down. And especially the patients I had on the schedule for today.
Sighing, I give up on finding anything interesting to watch and put the remote down on the coffee table. The glass surface shows my reflection—pale, drawn, shadows under my eyes that weren’t there yesterday. The Chronic Pain Crafters meeting is in an hour, and for the first time, I’m debating not going. My spine feels like it’s made of broken glass, and sitting up straight for more than five minutes sounds about as achievable as running a marathon.
I’m also lonely. The house feels too quiet, too still, like even the walls know something’s wrong. And spiraling—God, am I spiraling.
With no work to do, no patients to focus on, I’ve had plenty of time to lay here and think about last night’s kiss. The way Oliver’s lips felt against mine, familiar yet different. The heat of his hands on my waist. The panic that crashed over me like ice water. I shouldn’t have made a move like that. My fingers unconsciously touch my lips. If only I’d listened better to myself, to that little voice that whispered warnings, instead of convincing myself that I was a hundred percent in. I let myself get swept up in the hope of things being perfect between me and Oliver, and it wasn’t until we were kissing, until his hands were pulling me closer and my heart was racing for all the wrong reasons, that I realized how terribly wrong all of this could go.
