Something akin to pain flickers across his face—or maybe it’s the ghost of it. “It was a long time ago, Ryan.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
“Can I tell you something?”
I nod, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“When you left…” He pauses to run a wet hand through his hair. “I was messed up for a while. I’m talking, really messed up. You were my best friend, Ryan. The other kids thought I was too intense about hockey, too focused. But you never made me feel weird about it. You cared about everything that I did.”
A memory I’d all but forgotten hits me. Me, sitting in his basement for hours, watching him practice stick handling while I read astronomy books. I remember quizzing him on player statswhile he helped me memorize constellation names. We were an unlikely pair—the future hockey star and the quiet nerd—but somehow, it worked.
“And then one day, the moving trucks came, and you were gone.”
“I wanted to tell you. I begged my dad for more time. Even just a day. But he said the government doesn’t wait.”
“I’m not telling you this to make you feel guilty, you know that, right? I’m telling you because…” He trails off, searching for words. “Because I want you to know it mattered. Thatyoumattered. And losing you without warning fucked me up.”
“What do you mean?”
His smile fades slightly. “I got angry at everything. My parents, the world, myself for not somehow knowing you were leaving.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Stupid, right? As if I could’ve done anything about military orders.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“It felt stupid. Especially when I couldn’t shake it.” Oliver’s gaze drops to the water. “I was depressed for about a year. Maybe longer. I didn’t really have words for it back then; I just knew that everything felt heavy and pointless.”
I had no idea. While I was adjusting to a new base, a new school, a new life, Oliver was suffering. Because of me. Because I vanished without a trace.
“What helped?” I ask quietly.
“Hockey.” He says it like it’s obvious, because to him, it probably is. “I channeled everything into hockey. Every practice, every game, every drill, I poured all that anger and sadness into getting better. Faster. Stronger.” A wry smile crosses his face. “My coaches thought I was dedicated, when really, I was just trying to outskate my feelings.”
“Did it work?”
“Eh. I think it just made me exhausted enough to sleep without thinking too much.” Oliver shrugs. “Eventually, the sharp edges dulled. I made friends on the team and found a newnormal. But I never stopped wondering what happened to you.”
My fingers have begun to prune, but I don’t want to get out. I don’t want to break whatever fragile thing is forming between us.
“For what it’s worth,” I say finally, “I fought my dad. I screamed at him for hours.”
Oliver’s eyebrows pinch upward as his eyes widen slightly. “You screamed?”
“I know. Shocking.” A bitter laugh escapes me. “I told him he was ruining my life. That I hated him. That I’d never forgive him for taking me away from—” I stop, the words catching in my throat.
“From?”
“From you.” I force myself to say it. “I told him he was taking me away from my best friend.”
Oliver’s face softens, his eyes widening just enough to reveal a vulnerability I haven’t seen since we were kids building forts out of blankets and couch cushions. “Did you?”
I consider the question. My relationship with my father has always been complicated—military discipline clashing with my quiet nature, his expectations colliding with my reality. The resentment I’d carried for years has dulled into something more like weary acceptance.
“Eventually,” I admit. “It took a long time. And honestly, having lost my mom at such a young age helped put things in perspective. Hard to stay angry about a move when you’re eternally grieving something so much bigger.”
Oliver’s hands skitter down my side, leaving trails of warmth against my water-cooled skin. His thick fingers settle at my waist, and my toes curl.
“I’m proud of you for being here.” His grip tightens slightly, thumbs pressing into the soft skin above my hipbones. A smile tugs at his lips. “For stripping down when I know that’s about as far from your comfort zone as humanly possible.”
My brain short-circuits. Oliver’s proud of me. Oliver’s handsare on my waist. Oliver’s thick fingers are approximately three inches from my ass. My crotch, despite being hidden beneath a layer of cotton, is dangerously close to his flat, hard stomach.
