The second whiskey arrived. I took a long pull from it, letting the burn settle in my chest where the ache was building.
Of course he'd made it. Of course he was exactly where he was supposed to be, doing exactly what he'd been built to do. Rook had always moved like he had a map in his head that the rest of us couldn't see, like he knew where he was going even when the rest of the world was chaos. Even back in high school when we were just kids on a team that could barely afford new equipment, he'd played like he was already in the big leagues.
I'd always known he'd end up here. I just kept forgetting how much it still hurt to watch it happen without me.
My knee was bouncing under the counter in a rhythm I couldn't control, and my free hand was gripping the bar hard enough to make my knuckles go white.
The game kept playing. The Wolves scored on a power play, and the camera cut to Rook on the bench, grinning at one of his teammates with that look of pure satisfaction I remembered so clearly. He'd always grinned like that after a good play—wide and unguarded, like he'd forgotten for a second that he was supposed to be serious and focused. It was the grin that said he was exactly where he belonged, doing exactly what he loved, and nothing in the world could touch him.
I used to be able to make him grin like that. Used to be the reason he looked that happy, back when we were just kids who didn't know how badly things could fall apart.
The memory came flooding back before I could shove it down—me and Rook on the ice after practice, staying late because neither of us wanted to go home yet. The rink had been empty except for us, the lights dimmed but still bright enough to skate by, and we'd been running drills we'd made up ourselves. Stupid stuff, mostly. Seeing who could land the most impossible shot, who could fake the other one out first. He'd laughed every time I'd managed to score on him, that same grin splitting his face wide open, and I'd felt like I could fly.
That was before everything went to hell. Before my parents started tearing themselves and us apart, before I stopped sleeping, before the weight of keeping everyone together crushed me into a person I didn't recognize. Before I disappeared and left him standing in a parking lot with no explanation, no goodbye, nothing except silence that must've felt like abandonment.
The guy at the end of the bar said to the bartender, loud enough for me to hear, “That's the Wolves captain, right? Guy's a beast. Bet he's got recruiters lining up for when his contract's up.”
The bartender nodded, refilling the guy's glass without looking at the screen. “Heard he's staying put. Doesn't wanna leave Toronto.”
“Smart. Team's got a real shot this year with him running it.”
I wanted to leave. But my legs weren't working, and my eyes wouldn't move off the screen, and all I could think about was how Rook had always said he wanted to stay in Toronto. How he'd talked about playing for a team here someday, about building a life that didn't require him to abandon everything he knew.
He'd done it. He'd built exactly the life he wanted, and I wasn't anywhere in it.
I drained the rest of the second whiskey and seriously considered ordering a third one. The buzz was starting to settle in now, making everything feel softer around the edges but not actually fixing anything.
The game wound down to the final buzzer—a Wolves win, three to two. I'd already known the outcome because I'd watched it live three weeks ago, but seeing it again still made my chest tighten with a mess of feelings I didn't want to name. The highlights reel started looping back to the beginning, showing the same clips I'd already seen twice tonight, and I finally managed to tear my eyes away.
My hands were shaking when I reached for my wallet, fumbling with the bills until I could drop enough cash on the bar to cover the drinks. The bartender didn't say anything when I grabbed my bag and headed for the door, and I was grateful for that. I didn't think I could've held a conversation without my voice cracking.
Outside, the cold air hit me hard enough to sting, cutting through the whiskey haze but not clearing my head the way I needed it to. I walked back to my apartment on autopilot, replaying the footage in my mind even though I didn't want to. The way Rook had moved on the ice. The way he'd looked at his teammates. The way he'd grinned like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
I didn't sleep that night. Just lay in bed staring at the ceiling, touching the bracelet on my wrist and feeling the old ache settle back into my chest like it had never left.
Dr. Lin'soffice smelled like lavender and old books, which should've been calming but mostly just made me feel trapped.I'd been coming here for a few months now—long enough to know which chair was mine, which tea she'd offer me before we started, and what questions she was going to ask before she opened her mouth. Long enough to get decent at deflecting, even if I wasn't great at it yet.
I dropped into the chair across from her and tried to look like I hadn't spent the last two days feeling like my skin was on backwards. She was already watching me with that expression therapists always had—the one that said she could see straight through whatever bullshit I was about to throw at her.
“Rough week?” she asked, setting her notebook on her lap.
I shrugged, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile. “No worse than usual.”
“You look tired.”
“Yeah, well. Gigs run late. Hard to sleep after.”
She didn't buy it. I could tell by the way her eyes narrowed just slightly, the way she tilted her head like she was deciding which thread to pull first. “How many hours did you sleep last night?”
“I don't know. A few.”
“How many is a few?”
I shifted in the chair, already feeling cornered. “Maybe two. Three, if I'm being generous.”
“And the night before?”
“About the same.”
