Knowing his family, I can—his mother’s perpetual frown, his father’s crossed arms—but I keep my mouth shut, biting the inside of my cheek.
“I called them from a hospital bed, my career over, my wrist possibly unusable for the rest of my life… And they acted like it had all been my fault. Like I’d thrown away everything they’d invested in me. I wanted some sympathy, you know? A little bit of human decency. Instead, I felt so… alone.”
My chest constricts, ribs squeezing around my heart. “I’m sorry. I wish I had been there for you.”
His eyes soften, the hard edges melting away. “It’s okay. We hadn’t even talked in years.”
Having the time we lost spoken out loud makes me feel mournful. All those seasons passing, birthdays uncelebrated, moments unshared. If we’d done things just a little differently, I might have been there that night. He might be able to look back on the injury and at least have the silver lining of knowing that someone loves him no matter what.
“There’s something else, too,” he says, voice dropping even lower. “Something I haven’t told anyone.”
“What?” I ask, my breath lingering in my throat, caught between heartbeats.
“For a while there, that night, I hoped that it was a career-ending injury. I was so over playing hockey at that point. The early morning practices, the constant travel, my body screaming at me after every game. I just wanted out.”
I stare at him, trying to reconcile this confession with the boy I knew. “That’s not the Oliver I knew.”
His lips draw thin, almost disappearing. “The Oliver you knew worked himself into the ground, and for nothing in the end. I mean, sure, I have a nice nest egg. I thought hockey would give me more, though. Some meaning in life. Purpose beyond the next goal, the next win. But by the end I was tired of myself. Sick of the person the game made me.”
“The game made you that way, or you made yourself that way?”
He smirks, but it’s gentle, self-aware. “You’re right. I made myself that way.”
“You’re more than your hockey career. I hope that you know that now. You mean something to a lot of people. To Richie, to your team. You… mean something to me.”
He searches my face, eyes tracking over my features like he’s memorizing them. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I rasp, finding his hand across the bed and gently squeezing it. His fingers are warm, callused from years of gripping a hockey stick.
“Devin?” He says, vulnerability threading through every syllable.
“Yeah?” I say again.
“Do you think it’s my fault if Richie never plays again? Could I have done something different to prevent the injury?”
My eyebrows shoot up and I look him in the eye, holding his gaze steady. “Absolutely not, Oliver! You did everything right.These things happen, and Richie will play again after he recovers. Why would you think it’s your fault?”
He sighs, the sound heavy with exhaustion. “I just got this text from a random number when we were at the hospital that said something to that effect.”
“Well, I don’t know who would say something like that, but they’re wrong,” I say confidently, squeezing his hand tighter.
“Thank you, Devin,” he whispers, thumb brushing across my knuckles.
“You’re welcome.” I yawn, my eyelids growing tired, weighted with the day’s events. I fight sleep, though, wanting to enjoy this time together. The warmth of him so close, the steady sound of his breathing.
“I’m going to jump in the shower really quick. I’ll be back.” He whispers. “Sleep.”
“Mm hmm.” I try to open my eyes, acknowledge his words, but it’s useless. Soon enough, I can’t keep my eyes open at all. I vaguely hear the water running, the shower door open and close. It feels like I’m in that space in between awake and asleep. Maybe I’m already dreaming.
A short time later, I feel the bed slightly dip. Covers rustle. A warm body pressed against mine. As I slip away into unconsciousness, I realize that my head is on his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat under my ear, just like how we would sleep when we first got together. His arm curls around me, holding me close.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Oliver
My eyes snap open, and I freeze in bed, listening for whatever it was that woke me up. The room is dark, shadows from the streetlight outside painting unfamiliar shapes on the walls. My heart pounds as I orient myself—the scent of vanilla candles, the weight of a quilt I don’t own, the warmth radiating from the body beside me.
It takes a moment before I remember that I’m not in my apartment. I’m in Devin’s bed.
