Page 118 of In Your Wake

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve wasted so much time being angry. But with the wrong person.”

She stands up and walks in my direction, and the floor creaks under her weight. Her fingertips brush against mine.

“Same goes for me.”

I take her hand, bring it to my lips, and kiss her knuckles.

“I’m sorry,” she adds. “I should have tried harder.”

“No, don’t do that,” I insist. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I should have stuck around.”

“You didn’t have a choice. Nothing’s more important than hockey, right?” she says, but without ill will. The corner of her mouth quirks. I can’t fault her for repeating my words back to me. I used to say them so often, they were practically my mantra.

“I put hockey above all else, didn’t I?”

She slips her hand away from mine and steps back. “Everyone needs that one true passion to follow. And hey, you’re lucky. You found yours and chased it. I never held that against you.” She looks up and to the left. “Well, not entirely.”

I stare at her, mesmerized by her gorgeous curls framing her face and falling over her delicate shoulders. I take her hands in mine. A levee bursts open between us, and I’m overcome by a rush of need to be close to her and to release it all.

“I love hockey. And sure, it’s one of my passions, but it’s not my everything. I see that now.”

She runs her thumb along the curve of my hand. I notice her hard swallow, but she doesn’t speak.

“And let’s face it,” I continue. “I’m pretty much useless to them now.”

“You’re not useless.”

“I am. They think I’m an old man. I’m thirty-one, Max. Thirty-fucking-one and all I feel like is some washed-up, broken old fart.”

Her soft chuckle is the unexpected relief I didn’t realize I was desperate for. “You’re not an old fart. And who cares what they say?”

I tilt my head. “The more I hear it, the more I believe it’s true. Maybe they’re right to give up on me.”

“Mitch,” she starts, her eyes dancing over my face as she cups my cheek with her hand. “You’re not any of those things.”

I knock my hip and grimace, my expression saying, are you sure?

“Does it hurt?”

“All the time,” I admit, dropping my gaze to our joined hands and noting how well they fit together. “There are good and bad days. Today’s a bad one. Must be all the dancing,” I kid.

“You’ve hidden it pretty well.”

“I couldn’t let anyone know. Even my agent has no idea how bad it is. The league definitely doesn’t.”

“But you can’t play on it if it’s that painful. You need to get it checked.”

“I’ve had it checked. The docs warned me long-term pain was a possible side effect of the surgery. And let’s be honest, I haven’t been kind to my body,” I add, arching my eyebrow.

The concern that fills her soft smile reminds me of when we were kids. The stunts I’d pull—jumping off cliffs into the sea, taking spills over the handlebars of my mountain bike, smacking ribs-first into trees. She’s seen me treat my body like a punching bag and hated when I did, but she was always there to make it better.

“It’s amazing you made it out alive,” she jokes, but I don’t miss the dark shadow that floats through her eyes.

The silence between us stretches, but our hands keep us tethered. “Have you considered a second opinion? About your hip?”

“You mean a fourth?” I reply. “I’ve seen all the experts. The league doctor kept it quiet because he’s a friend and owes me a couple of favors. But he’s warned me, if I push myself too hard, it won’t end well.”