Grey was still talking to Max over by the team box, so I could really look at him. Now that she’s said it, his right hockey glove did look weird, like it wasn’t on all the way.
“Is it a bad break?” I asked her, internally cringing and wishing I could give him a hug.
She shrugged, “if he does what the doctor says it’ll heal up fine, but if he moves it, like breaking the cast with a hammer as he threatened, then he’ll probably need surgery.”
“Jeez,” I paused then. “So, he really didn’t dump me?” I mulled over this question all night. The breakup texts were there on my phone.
“Jules,” she looked at me sternly. “He did not dump you. He was a wreck. I think he’s been a wreck ever since that summer. Hockey was his anger outlet. The real and raw emotions he’s shown over the last couple weeks have been more than he’s shown in the past decade.”
I didn’t know how to feel about that information. Shock that a strange miscommunication seemed to stray both of our fates away from each other. And sadness, that he’d felt so empty the past nine years. He was such a happy guy, always the one to look on the bright side of things. I knew in my heart that if he had felt the same way after the breakup as I had, he had the worse end of it because Canyon had brightened my life.
“I still feel like I’m missing something,” I told her. “We were in that accident together?”
Paige grimaced, “Yes, 100%. That’s how he got that scar, Jules,” she traced a finger down her jawline where Grey’s skin was affected.
“Girl,” Paige looked at me seriously, “that boy would still walk through fire for you.”
I turned my attention back to the ice. That was a lot to take in. Could it be true? All these years I told myself that part of my life was done. He had thrown away what we had. I held a grudge against him because I still couldn’t look at other guys. I compared everyone to him and how I felt with him, and no one could ever match up to that. A lot of times I wondered if the passing of time and the way Kevin treated me had just made me romanticize what I had with Greyson; That I had put him on some kind of misplaced pedestal in my mind and the love we shared had actually just been all me and one-sided. But sifting through my memories, I knew that wasn’t true. He had wanted and loved me too.
I caught his eye then. He was looking up in the stands directly at me. There was no guessing about it. Neither of us showed emotion. We just studied each other in the new light.
Chapter Thirty: Jules- Present
“Hey bud, great work out there!” I tousled my son’s sweaty hair as he walked up to me struggling under the weight of his bag.
“Thanks, my shot’s gettin better, right?” He asked hopefully.
“100 percent better,” I assured him. “I have a surprise destination in mind though so let’s get out of here. You sure you don’t want me to take your bag?” I asked him.
He smirked up at me, “no way, Mom. And I’m almost as big as you anyways.”
“Ha!” I exclaimed. I had about three to four more years of being taller than him. “Not by a long shot, kid,” I joked. “Let’s go.”
Canyon’s eyes lit up at the sight of the fresh donuts. He got two sprinkled and some chocolate milk, claiming he was a growing boy, and I got a crawler and a vanilla iced coffee, my all-time favorites.
At the table, Canyon happily munched on his donuts and relayed everything from practice.
“So what was up with Coach Grey’s hand?” I asked him.
“Ohh, Coach Smitty said he got in a fight with a wall!” He exclaimed like it was the craziest thing he’d heard in his eight years.
“Yikes, you better not go all psycho on my walls,” I told him.
Canyon shook his head in disbelief and shoved some more donut in his mouth.
Right then, the door chimed welcoming a new customer. I looked up and was surprised to see Grey.
But he had, after all, been part of the crew that would steal away from the rink for donuts between morning practices. In the back of my mind, I had been wondering if he remembered the tradition; the fact that he did punched me with a bittersweet nostalgia.
He looked comfortable wearing a light grey sweatshirt with the hood pulled up and soft, baggy sweatpants, and Nike sliders. I stifled a laugh at the idea that he still dressed like a 17-year-old boy.
His face faltered when he saw us, which caused a wave of disappointment I wish I could’ve ignored, and he noticeably moved quick to tuck his right hand into his hoody pocket.
He nodded with a tight-lipped smile and then walked briskly up to the counter with his long and steady strides.
Canyon had been studying him the whole time as well.
“Think he has anyone to eat with?” He asked me with concerned little eyes.
