Chapter 29 #2
Roman nodded once. “I see it.”
I had to look away.
That was the thing. Not everyone did. A lot of people only saw the times I failed after trying and decided the trying hadn’t happened.
Roman picked up his stick again. “Practice first. Phone stays in your bag.”
“I know.”
“If there’s a message, it’ll still exist after.”
“I know.”
“And if there isn’t, staring won’t create one.”
“I hate when you’re logical.”
“You love it. Gives you something to resist.”
I huffed a laugh, barely.
Across the room Benny yelled, “Holloway, are you crying because Roman finally admitted he’s your dad?”
“Shut up,” I called back automatically.
Roman didn’t miss a beat. “Eat vegetables and make better life choices, son.”
Milo lost it laughing. Benny threw a sock at him.
Normal noise rushed back in around us. It helped and didn’t.
Practice was brutal because my body wanted the ice and my brain wanted my phone.
The first ten minutes, I was sharp from pure panic.
Too sharp. Every pass came off my stick like I was trying to put a hole through someone’s blade.
I over-skated one drill, circled too low on a regroup, then got annoyed at myself for being annoyed, which was a stupid loop that nearly made me miss the next whistle.
Declan was on the ice.
Coach Reid was on the ice.
Black jacket, whistle, cap pulled low. Controlled. Focused. He corrected Milo. Spoke to Grant. Drew something on the board with gloved fingers. He did not look destroyed.
He also did not look at me unless he had to.
I should have been grateful.
Instead, my brain tried to murder me with interpretations.
If he looked normal, maybe nothing happened.
If he looked normal, maybe everything happened and he was just that good at locking it away.
If he didn’t look at me, maybe he regretted it.
If he didn’t look at me, maybe he was protecting me.
If, if, if.
I missed a pass from Benny because I was busy having a courtroom drama in my skull.
The puck clipped my blade and skittered away.
“Jace,” Declan called.
Not harsh. Just enough.
I snapped back so fast it almost hurt.
He pointed his stick toward the lane. “First read. Not third.”
Right. Hockey. Structure. Here was the thing in front of me.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
Roman, from the crease, tapped his stick twice on the ice. Not obvious. Not a big heroic friend gesture. Just a sound. A cue.
First read.
The next rep, I forced myself to track only what mattered. Puck carrier. Weak-side D. Benny’s hips opening for the pass. My feet under me. Breath in on the turn, out when I released.
Clean.
Then again.
By the second half of practice, I was sweating hard enough that the anxiety had less room to run. Not gone. Never gone like that. But quieter under the physical work, pinned down by drills and whistles and the simple fact that if I didn’t pay attention, a puck could take out my teeth.
At one water break, I made the mistake of glancing toward the bench where my bag sat in the tunnel.
My phone was in there.
Maybe there was a message.
Maybe there wasn’t.
Roman glided past and bumped my shoulder with his.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You thought loudly.”
“Your face is loud.”
“Your entire existence is loud.”
Declan blew the whistle before I could respond.
After practice, I lasted four minutes.
Four.
I got into the locker room, stripped off gloves and helmet, sat down, and stared at my bag like it contained explosives.
Guys moved around me. Someone turned music on.
Someone else yelled that the aux privileges should require league approval.
My hands shook a little from exertion and leftover adrenaline.
I unzipped the side pocket.
Roman appeared in front of me.
“No,” he said.
I glared up at him. “Move.”
“Shower.”
“I’m checking one thing.”
“Shower first.”
“You’re not my coach.”
“No, I’m worse. I care about you for free.”
That shut me up for half a second.
He softened, but only a little. “Give yourself ten minutes where you’re not feeding the beast.”
“The beast?”
“Your brain. It’s currently chewing on drywall.”
“That’s weirdly accurate.”
“I’ve known you a long time.”
I shoved the bag back under the stall with unnecessary force and went to shower.
The water helped. So did the routine. Shampoo. Rinse. Forget whether I’d rinsed conditioner, rinse again. Towel. Clothes. Deodorant. Backtrack for socks. Find socks in hand. Do not spiral about socks. Normal.
When I got back, Roman was gone, probably doing whatever goalies did after practice, which I assumed involved stretching and communing with darkness.
My phone waited in my bag.
I sat down.
For a second, I didn’t touch it.
The room had thinned out. Benny and Milo were arguing near the door about lunch. A trainer called someone into the hall. The music had dropped lower.
I took the phone out.
No message from Declan.
My stomach dropped so fast I felt stupid for being surprised by gravity.
There were other notifications. Harper had sent me a picture of a campus squirrel eating something that looked like a nacho. Vanessa’s name sat in my recent calls from two days ago, no new contact. Three team group chat messages. One email from my agent I refused to open on principle.
Nothing from him.
I locked the screen and put the phone face down on my thigh.
Okay.
That was okay.
It was barely noon. He had work. He had Olivia. He had a life currently being taken apart piece by piece, and I was not entitled to updates like a delivery tracker.
I changed. Packed. Lost my keys, found them in the pocket I’d already checked twice. Signed a stick for a kid waiting near the restricted area because his dad knew someone in equipment. Smiled in a way that felt almost normal. Made it to my car.
Then I sat there with the engine off, phone in the cup holder, and watched my breath fog the windshield.
Do not go to him.
Do not text him.
Do not become a problem he has to manage today.
I drove home with the radio off because every sound felt like a thumb pressing on a bruise.
At my apartment, I put my gear where it belonged for once, mostly because if I didn’t move I’d start pacing holes into the floor.
I ate leftover pasta cold from the container because heating it required steps and steps were currently suspicious.
I answered Harper with, That squirrel has seen war.
She replied instantly, So have your eyebrows in every postgame interview.
I laughed.
It came out small, but it counted.
Then I put my phone on the kitchen counter and walked away from it.
Made it three minutes.
Came back.
Nothing.
I tried a nap and instead stared at the wall while replaying every possible version of last night.
Olivia asking his name. Declan refusing.
Olivia guessing anyway. Declan packing a bag.
Declan not packing a bag. Declan deciding the cost was too high.
Declan sitting alone because I wasn’t there and shouldn’t be.
At four-thirty, I gave up and cleaned the apartment badly.
At five-ten, I realized I’d put dish soap in the dishwasher by mistake and had to spend twenty minutes dealing with foam like I was being punished by a sitcom.
At six, Roman texted.
Roman: Alive?
Me: Unfortunately. Dishwasher tried to kill me.
Roman: User error.
Me: Betrayal.
Roman: Eat real food.
Me: Stop parenting me.
Roman: Stop needing it.
I stared at that one for a while, then typed and deleted three things before sending: Thanks for earlier.
His reply took longer.
Roman: Yeah.
Then another.
Roman: Don’t handle tonight alone if it goes bad.
My throat tightened.
Me: I know.
I didn’t know if that was true. But I wanted it to be.
By seven, the apartment had gone dim and cold around the edges.
I turned on lights, then turned one off because it buzzed.
I changed shirts for no reason. Changed back because the new one felt wrong at the collar.
Checked the time. Checked again. Time did that thing where it stretched and snapped, five minutes taking an hour and an hour disappearing while I stood in the kitchen holding an unopened protein bar.
At seven-forty-three, my phone lit up.
I saw his name and everything in me stopped trying to pretend.
Declan.
I didn’t grab it right away. I made myself breathe once first, because if I opened it too fast I might answer too fast, and if I answered too fast I might say too much.
Then I picked it up.
Can you come over tonight? We need to talk.