Chapter 32
The duffel lay open on my bed, half-packed. A couple of shirts, my shaving kit, a pair of jeans I wasn’t even sure were clean. I kept tossing things in, pulling them out, folding and refolding like maybe if I moved slow enough, I’d figure out what the hell I was doing.
Truth was, I was stalling.
Last night had been… heavy. Harper had trusted me with something I knew wasn’t easy for her to say. She’d sat there, vulnerable, telling me about Reid. About what he’d done.
And me? I’d had the perfect chance to be honest with her too. To tell her about the weight I carry, the parts of me I keep locked down so tight I’m not sure who I’d be without them.
But I didn’t.
I told myself it was because it wasn’t the time. Because it would’ve made it about me when it was her moment to be heard. She didn’t need my baggage piled on top of hers. She needed someone to listen, not someone to turn it into a competition of scars.
That’s what I kept telling myself. The truth? I chickened out.
Because once I told her, there’d be no taking it back. She’d know what kind of man I really was. And maybe she’d decide that was too much–that I wasn’t good enough for her.
My jaw tightened. I crossed to the dresser, grabbed a hoodie, and shoved it into the bag. My hand lingered on the fabric, gripping hard enough for my knuckles to ache.
The silence in the room pressed in, heavy. My phone sat face down on the nightstand. I didn’t dare flip it over, didn’t want to see her name on the screen. Didn’t want to see nothing even more.
I paced from one end of the room to the other, the floor creaking under my feet. Picked up my wallet, set it back down. Adjusted the strap on the duffel even though it didn’t need adjusting.
She’d open a door last night. I’d stood on the threshold and walked the other way.
And now, I was leaving town again, hoping that by the time I got back, I’d know how to step through it.
I could’ve just hit the road. Should’ve. But before I knew it, I was turning in the opposite direction, tires crunching over frost as I headed toward Harper’s.
She answered the door in leggings and a loose sweatshirt, her hair piled up in a messy knot. Surprise flickered in her eyes, quickly chased by a smile that warmed something in my chest.
“Hey,” she said, leaning in the doorframe. “You forget something?”
“Just thought I’d stop by on my way out,” I said, shoving my hands in my jacket pockets. “Didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”
Before she could respond, Connor’s voice rang out from somewhere inside. “Ryan?”
He barrelled toward me, socks sliding on the hardwood, and skidded to a stop just short of the doorway. “You’re leaving now?”
“Yeah, buddy. Just for a few days.”
He frowned for half a second, then brightened. “Have fun. I’m glad you didn’t forget your hat this time.”
I laughed, ruffling his hair. “I got it packed, bud. Thanks.”
Harper’s smile softened, but there was something behind it–something careful. She stayed close to the door, like she wasn’t sure whether to step out or keep that space between us.
Connor launched into a quick hug around my middle. “I’m gonna go finish my cereal.” He darted back inside, the sound of his socked feet fading toward the kitchen.
I met Harper’s gaze. “I’ll text when I get there.”
She hesitated, her fingers tightening on the edge of the door. Her gaze flicked past me, to the truck, then back again. She drew in a breath like she was about to speak, but let it out instead.
“Ryan…” Her voice was quiet, uncertain. Another pause. “Are you…” She shook her head, as if she might drop it, then tried again, slower this time. “Are you leaving because of what I told you last night?”
Her words hit like a punch. “No.” I stepped closer, my voice sharp. “God, no.”
Before she could look away, I caught her gently by the shoulders and tipped her chin up so she had to meet my eyes.
“This is something I’ve been doing for a while–helping a friend with a project a couple times a month.
He’s had other things going on the past while, so I haven’t needed to go.
He needs my help again, now. That’s all. ”
Some of the tension bled from her posture, but not all. I could see it in the way her eyes searched mine, still holding onto a sliver of doubt.
I reached past her and closed the door softly so Connor couldn’t see us. Her breath caught as my hand slid back to her side, drawing her closer.
Then I kissed her–slow yet certain, my thumb brushing her jaw as if I could anchor her there with me for just a little longer.
When I finally pulled back, my forehead rested against hers. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
The drive to Oakville was uneventful, the quiet hum of the highway giving me too much time to think. By the time I reached the city, a mix of anticipation and apprehension curled in my gut.
A few hours later, I pulled into the arena parking lot. The building wasn’t much to look at—weathered brick, fading signs, and a cracked asphalt lot–but the sight of it always brought a rush of conflicting emotions.
I sat in the truck for a moment, tapping out a quick text to Harper.
Ryan: Made it. Miss you already.
Her reply came almost instantly.
Harper: Miss you too. Be safe and have fun, whatever it is you’re up to.
I stared at her message for a second, that single line twisting something deep in my chest. She knew something was off. Maybe she wasn’t sure what, but she felt it. And I hated that I was making her question things.
Shoving my phone into my pocket, I took a deep breath, grabbed my duffel bag, and headed inside.
“Ryan!”
A familiar voice called out, and I turned just in time to see Kyle wheeling toward me, his ever-present grin splitting his face.
Kyle was built like an athlete–broad shoulders, toned arms, and the kind of confidence that made people forget about the chair entirely.
His dirty blond hair was styled to perfection, not a strand out of place, and his green eyes gleamed with the unshakable energy that had always defined him.
Dressed in a zip-up athletic jacket and track pants, he looked like he could have stepped straight off the cover of a sports magazine.
His chair, sleek and modern, moved like an extension of his body.
“Missed you around here,” he said, clapping me on the arm.
“Yeah,” I said with a grin. “Christmas break, then you guys were away. It’s been a while.”
Kyle waved it off like it was nothing. “Just happy you’re back! The guys are gonna be stoked to see you.”
He led the way to the dressing room, chatting about the latest drills he’d been running with the team.
The second we stepped inside, the energy in the room was electric.
Kids ranging from fourteen to eighteen were scattered throughout, pulling on their gear, laughing, and chirping each other between helmet straps and elbow pads.
Sledge hockey equipment was sprawled everywhere, and I had to sidestep a rogue helmet rolling across the floor.
“Coach Ryan!”
I turned to see Ethan, one of the younger players, grinning as he called my name.
“Hey, guys,” I said, raising a hand in greeting.
The room erupted with voices–some welcoming me back, others chirping me for being late.
I chuckled, shaking my head as I helped a couple of the newer kids adjust their gear.
This was why I was here. This team, this program–these kids had poured everything into it, and in return, they’d built something extraordinary.
Two of them had even made the national sledge hockey team for the Paralympics earlier in the season–a feat that still left me in awe.
As the kids filed out toward the ice, their laughter echoing through the rink, Kyle leaned against the doorway, watching me with that same easy grin.
“Told you they missed you,” he said quietly.
I swallowed past the tightness in my throat. “I missed this.”
And I had.
But as I watched them skate out, their sleds gliding effortlessly over the ice, the weight in my chest didn’t lift. No matter how much joy this place brought me, it would never erase the reason it existed–or the guilt that settled like a stone in my gut every time I looked at Kyle.
When I finally stepped onto the ice, the cool air hit me, and that familiar rush flooded through me–the kind that only this place could bring.
The kids were already zipping around in their sledges, their laughter echoing off the arena walls. Energy buzzed through the rink, an undeniable force that made it impossible not to smile.
“Alright, team,” I called out over the noise. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
A chorus of cheers rang out as they moved into drills, pushing themselves with the same fire that had gotten two of them on the national team. Watching them skate, seeing how far they’d come, I couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride.
The scrimmage was Kyle’s idea, as always.
“Come on, get in a sledge,” he said, tapping his own with a grin. “You’ve been coaching all practice–time to get in the game.”
I rolled my eyes, though I didn’t argue. Kyle never let me sit on the sidelines for long.
Grabbing one of the sledges, I slid into it, adjusting the straps and gripping the sticks. A round of cheers erupted as I joined the rotation, the kids already hyping each other up for the game. Their energy was contagious, the kind that made you forget everything else.
The game started fast and chaotic, just the way they liked it.
I raced down the ice, maneuvering as best I could, but they had the edge on me–they always did.
Kyle was right in the mix, his sharp instincts and raw skill proving exactly why he’d been one of the best before the accident. He made it look effortless.