“I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet,” I admit quietly.
His thumb brushes slowly across my back. “Okay,” he says gently. “Will you still watch it on TV?”
The question settles somewhere deep, somewhere broken. He’s giving me an out. Making it easier for me without pushing.
Cooper showed up for me today. He stayed with me in the aftermath when I didn’t even know what I needed. This… this is him asking for the same thing back.
Silence stretches between us.
“I’ll be there,” I finally whisper.
His brows lift slightly. “You sure?”
I close my eyes, letting the steadiness of him anchor me.
“Yes,” I say, stronger this time. “I want to go. For you.”
Relief softens his expression when I finally open them again. He pulls me closer, resting his forehead against mine.
I’m almost asleep when his voice breaks through.
“You don’t have to tell me everything tonight,” he murmurs. “But when you’re ready… I’m here. I’ll always be here.”
I nod so he knows I heard him, but I won’t lie and pretend I’m not scared.
But this time, I’m choosing where I stand.
And when I fall asleep in his arms, it isn’t because the hurt is gone.
It’s because the next time he steps onto the ice, he wants to look up and see me there.
And I want to be too.
Chapter Twenty
Brinley
The arena feels nothing like the times I slipped in during practice.
Back then, it was quiet in a way that made me feel like I didn’t really belong there. Every sound carried—skates on the ice, pucks hitting the boards, the whistle cutting through it. With no one in the stands, it all felt louder.
I sat near the top row, keeping to myself, like if I stayed still enough, no one would notice I was there.
Tonight, there’s no chance of that.
People are still filtering in, stepping over rows and apologizing as they balance drinks and buckets of popcorn. Music blares through the speakers, low but steady, and the sections that once sat empty during practice are packed with students in Rixton gear. A couple of guys a few rows down are already shirtless, WOLVES painted across their chests in uneven black letters.
I imagine them painting them on in the parking lot after slamming a few beers.
Atlee leads the way down the stairs, waving at someone a few rows down. She nudges my arms when she catches me staring at the ice.
“You good?” she asks.
“Yeah… just taking it all in.”
We find our seats near the glass, close enough that I can actually see their faces during warm-ups. Players take the ice, firing pucks, tapping their sticks along the boards.
And then I see him.
