Page 120 of Puck Me Back to Life

I stare down at him. “You've been crying for six hours and you're still critiquing gap control?”

He shrugs one shoulder against me. “Bad defense annoys me.”

I can't help it. A laugh escapes before I can stop it.

His attention drifts back to the television as though he hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud.

I look back at the game, but I'm not really watching hockey anymore. I'm thinking about the man lying on my chest. Something is very wrong. Far worse than I'd understood.

I don't know how deep it goes yet.

I don't know how long he's been carrying it by himself.

But I do know one thing.

I'm not letting him carry it alone anymore.

The thought settles quietly inside me, less like a decision and more like a promise I didn't realize I'd already made.

Kai continues quietly criticizing the Raiders' defensive pairings through intermittent sniffles, explaining why Jameson keeps losing inside positioning and why their penalty kill has looked terrible since the All-Star break.

I argue with him just enough to keep the conversation alive. He insists Jameson has no business playing the top pairing. I tell him he's being dramatic.

By the time the intermission starts, he's sitting a little easier against me. The tears haven't disappeared. Neither has the grief.

But for the first time since I'd found him asleep in that dark bedroom, he's talking about something other than the weight he's been carrying.

For tonight, that's enough.

13

Kai

The next morning finds me standing on my balcony with a cup of coffee in my hand and the distinct suspicion that my life has become ridiculous. The city is still waking up beneath me. Morning traffic crawls along the street below, horns occasionally rising through the cool air. Somewhere nearby, a dog barks with the kind of confidence usually reserved for people who own property. The sky is pale gray, the kind of washed-out color that makes everything feel quieter than it actually is.

Ash is still asleep in my bedroom.

That thought alone is strange enough that I take a long drink of coffee and pretend it doesn't do anything inconvenient to my chest. He stayed. I don't know why that keeps surprising me.

Maybe because people don't usually stay when things get ugly. They say the right things, offer the right condolences, tell you to call if you need anything, and then quietly return to their lives because grief is uncomfortable and guilt is contagious. I don't blame them. I wouldn't want to sit with me either.

Ash did.

He sat on my couch for hours with Cleveland asleep on his chest and let me fall apart all over his shirt like that was a perfectly reasonable way to spend an evening. Then he stayed the night without making a big deal out of it, like my breakdown was not an inconvenience but a problem he had quietly decided to stand beside. I'm still trying to figure out what to do with that.

The sliding door on Angela's side of the balcony opens. She steps out carrying a travel mug, dressed for work in black slacks and a cream blouse, her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. Cleveland immediately follows her outside, slips through the little gap near the divider, and winds around my ankles like he owns both apartments.

Which, to be fair, he kinda does.

Angela takes one look at me and smiles. “Morning.”

“Morning.”

Her gaze drifts toward my apartment, then back to me. “That Ash guy seems nice.”

I slowly turn my head.

Angela sips her coffee like she hasn't just admitted to accessory involvement.