to puck drop.
Every minute that passes is a new heartache, like watching a clock slowly tick down to the end of our relationship.
I still believe Nash will do the right thing, but he’s running out of time to do it. And if he doesn’t, I will—even if it means he never forgives me. I’d rather he live to be angry with me than end up in a hospital bed with permanent brain damage, or worse.
My mind races as I pace in small circles in front of the Grizzlies’ locker room entrance, making lap after lap. Team members filter by, greeting me as they pass, but none of them are the one I’m looking for. Where’s Nash?
Turning, I start lap number forty-one. And that’s when I see his large figure standing at the other end of the hall. My breath catches, and I swallow a sob of relief. He’s wearing street clothes, with his puffy black winter jacket and a beanie on his head.
Cautious hope blooms within me as I rush over to him. When I draw closer, I see that his cheeks and nose are red and chapped-looking, like he’s been outside. He looks positively frozen. Where was he?
We step to the side, partially sheltered by a wall. Early evening sun pours through the windows beside us, highlighting his tired-looking features. Dark circles line his eyes, and he looks as if he hasn’t slept in several days.
“You’re not dressed,” I whisper.
He rubs his forehead, tension stretching across his face. “Just talked to Coach. I pulled myself.”
Tears spring to my eyes, and I blink rapidly, trying to hold them back. It takes every shred of self-control I have not to wrap him in an enormous hug. I knew he’d do the right thing, and I’m so thankful I was right.
“Don’t worry,” he adds. “I made sure you won’t get any blowback from it.”
I’d been so concerned about him, that had been the last thing on my mind.
My throat clogs with emotion. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” His gaze drops to the floor. “I mean, it obviously fucking sucks, but I know it was the correct call.”
When he glances back up, sadness gleams in his green eyes. I knew he’d be disappointed, but he’s taking it harder than I thought. Probably because of the Chicago factor, although I’d hope a professional team would commend him for doing the right thing, not punish him for it.
“How are you feeling?” I ask carefully.
He blows out a breath. “Fine, right now. It’s only when I get my heart rate up.”
“Like in dryland,” I murmur. “I could tell you were struggling.”
His lips press into a grim line. “Yeah. Coach and Christina said we can meet on Monday to discuss a return-to-sport plan.”
A weight lifts off my shoulders. Having this out in the open means one less secret to keep.
“I’m glad you decided not to play.”
“Me, too. You were right. I wasn’t thinking clearly, and it would have been a stupid risk to take. I’m sorry, Vi.” Stepping forward, he reaches for me and catches himself, stuffing his hands in his pockets instead because we’re in public. “Can we talk at my place after the game?”
“Sure. Are you staying to watch?”
Nash shakes his head. “Too hard when I can’t be out there. Makes me feel frustrated as hell. Think I’m gonna go hang out with Biscuit for a while.”
His gaze darts over to the doors, and he blanches. I follow his line of sight, but I can’t make out what he’s looking at. Maybe he spotted Chicago’s AGM. With the way he’s acting, I’m afraid to ask. I don’t want to rub salt in a fresh wound.
“I don’t want to make you late,” he says, shooting another nervous glance in that direction. “Come by after?”
“I’ll come over as soon as it’s done.”
We linger for a few more seconds. I desperately wish I could close the distance between us. Put us back together. Be in his arms for a brief, blessed moment.
“I’m proud of you for doing the right thing,” I tell him. “I know it can’t have been easy.”
He takes a small step closer, pushing the envelope with respect to what a platonic buffer between us would be. “If I’m being honest, I’m not sure I would have done it without you.” Our gazes meet, and he pauses. “If there’s one thing this week taught me, it’s that I need you. More than you know.”
My heart cracks open. “You shouldn’t say things like that when I can’t kiss you,” I whisper.
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Save it for later, so we can make up properly.”
***
Nash isn’t responding to my texts.
Logically, I’m sure he’s okay. I saw him less than half an hour ago. But after seeing how crestfallen he was about pulling himself from the lineup, I need confirmation. A response. Something to tell me he got home safely and that he’s all right.
Like he always says, I’m a worrier.
A few minutes into the first period, I excuse myself from the game under the guise of needing to use the bathroom. As soon as I step into the hall, I check my phone for the millionth time in the past twenty minutes, but Nash still hasn’t replied.
Something compels me to go check the parking lot for his car, and my worry skyrockets when I spot it parked off to the side. If his vehicle is still here and he’s not watching the game with the team, then where is he? Is he okay?
I’m composing another text to him when voices echo in the distance, startling me. Not just voices—raised voices, clearly in the midst of a confrontation. They’re both male, albeit too muffled for me to discern whether one of them belongs to Nash. Heart in my throat, I creep down the hall, following the direction of the commotion. Down at the end, the black-painted door to one of the meeting rooms is half-open, an argument tumbling out.
“. . . if you’re going to choke when it counts?” the first guy snarls.
This voice, I don’t recognize.
“You think I don’t want to be out there? It’s killing me not to play.”
My breath seizes in my lungs, because this one, I do. It’s Nash. It’s definitely Nash.
“Russell is sitting out there in the stands as we speak, along with Graham, Benson, and Smyth. I vouched for you. I put my reputation on the line to get them out here tonight, and you didn’t even have the courtesy to let me know you weren’t in the fucking lineup.”
Defensiveness threads through me. Pulling himself was one of the hardest decisions Nash has ever made, and even if it was last minute, it was the right call.
“I’m sorry, okay? I wanted to, but I knew you’d be disappointed in me.”
“That’s the least of my issues. You’re an embarrassment.”
“Dad.” Nash sounds choked up.
My gut wrenches, and everything comes together in a blink.
I get it. I finally get it now.
His father continues to berate him, laying into his supposed lack of work ethic and a million other alleged shortcomings that are patently false. My hands tremble as I stay frozen to the spot, wracked with rage and indecision.
Leaving feels wrong, but so does intervening. Nash obviously didn’t want me to know, and I don’t want to make things worse. But how could I ever pretend I never overheard this? If it hurts for me to hear, I can only imagine what it feels like for him.
I want to rush in there and tell his dad to go to hell, but I’m sure that would only exacerbate things.
“This is a critical time in your career, and you’re slacking off now?”
Red-hot anger blooms in my stomach, flooding the rest of my body. There is no one—literally no one—I know who’s more dedicated to hockey than Nash. To the point where he’s been hell-bent on risking his health and safety because of it. And clearly, that traces back to his upbringing. He’s been brainwashed into not taking his own needs seriously. Into not trusting himself. Into not valuing himself. I’m sure that’s a difficult pattern to break, which is why he felt pressured to play.
“It’s a good thing your mother isn’t here to see what a disappointment you’ve become,” his father adds.
I gasp and clamp my hand over my mouth. If I thought my heart was broken before, it shatters when I hear this. What parent says that to their child?
My phone slips through my fingers and lands on the floor with a clatter, echoing in the empty hall.
Everything falls silent.
Nash and his father both turn to look at me standing in the doorway.
