Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
rook and roll
ROOK
Iwas standing in the middle of Coach Grant Sutherland's living room holding up a button-down shirt that I was ninety percent sure made me look like I was about to give a PowerPoint presentation on quarterly earnings, and Jace Hartley was laughing so hard he'd collapsed onto the couch.
“That's the one,” Jace managed between gasps. “Definitely wear that. Nothing says 'I've been searching for you for over a decade' like business casual.”
“Shut up.” I threw the shirt at him and it landed on his face, which only made him laugh harder. “You said to bring options.”
“I said bring options, not your entire wardrobe from a donor dinner.” Jace pulled the shirt off his face and tossed it onto the growing pile of rejected clothing on the coffee table. “Rook, you're going to a rock show in a dive bar, not a shareholders meeting.”
Coach looked up from where he was sitting in the armchair with his reading glasses on and a book in his lap, the picture of domestic calm despite the chaos happening three feet away from him.
He'd been mostly quiet through the first twenty minutes of this disaster, occasionally glancing up to assess whatever I was holding and then going back to his book without comment.
But now he was watching with that particular expression that meant he was about to say absolutely ridiculous and it was going to land harder than anything Jace had thrown at me.
“The gray sweater made you look like a divorced dad picking his kid up from soccer practice,” Coach said calmly, turning a page. “The black blazer was too formal. The blue shirt looked like you were applying for a mortgage. And that thing you just threw at Jace should be burned.”
Jace pointed at Coach in agreement. “See? Even my boyfriend and our coach thinks you're a fashion disaster.”
“I hate both of you.” I sat down on the arm of the couch and stared at the pile of clothes I'd brought over, feeling increasingly ridiculous about this entire situation. “I don't know why I thought this was a good idea.”
“Because you're panicking,” Jace said, and his voice went softer, losing the teasing edge. “Which is fair. This is a big deal.”
It was a big deal. Too big, maybe, which was why I'd shown up at their door an hour ago with a duffel bag full of clothes and a request that I'd tried to make sound casual but had probably come out closer to desperate.
Jace had taken one look at my face and immediately ushered me inside, and Coach had glanced up from his book with that quiet understanding that made it clear he knew exactly what kind of crisis I was having.
Jace was the only person on the team who knew about Soren. I'd told him about a year ago, late one night after a game when we'd both been too wired to sleep and had ended up at some all-night diner talking about everything except hockey.
Jace had listened without judgment. We'd bonded over it in that specific way people did when they realized they weren't alone in their particular brand of heartbreak.
So when I'd called him this morning and told him the PI had found Soren, that he was playing a show tonight and I didn't know what the hell I was supposed to wear or do or say, Jace had immediately told me to come over.
And now here I was, having a wardrobe crisis in their living room while Coach provided color commentary and Jace tried to save me from myself.
“I'm happy you found him,” Jace said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I really am. But are you sure you want to do this? You don't have to go tonight. You could wait, reach out some other way, give yourself more time to figure out what you want to say.”
“I've had over a decade to figure out what I want to say.” I rubbed my hands over my face and tried to breathe through the anxiety that had been sitting on my chest since yesterday.
“And I still don't know. But if I don't go tonight, I'm just going to keep putting it off until I talk myself out of it completely.”
“What do you expect to happen when you see him?” Coach asked, and it wasn't a challenge, just a genuine question from someone who knew what it felt like to fight for something that mattered.
“I don't know.” I looked down at my hands, at the calluses from years of holding a hockey stick, and tried to find words for the mess in my head. “I just need to see him. Need to know that he's real and not just a picture on my phone. After that, I'll figure out the rest.”
Coach closed his book and set it on the side table, giving me his full attention for the first time since I'd arrived. “Don't go in there expecting the boy you lost. You're going to meet the man who's there now, and he might not be who you remember.”
“I know,” I said quietly. “But I still have to go.”
“Then let's make sure you don't look like a idiot when you do.” Jace stood up and started digging through the pile of clothes again, tossing aside the button-downs and sweaters with ruthless efficiency.
“Where's that dark green henley you wore to Dmitri's birthday thing? That one looked good on you.”
“I didn't bring it.”
“Of course you didn't.” Jace threw his hands up in exasperation.
“Okay, new plan. You're wearing jeans, not slacks, because again, rock show, not a corporate retreat.
And we're going with this.” He pulled a plain black t-shirt out of the pile and held it up.
“Simple, doesn't try too hard, shows off the fact that you spend half your life in the gym without being obnoxious about it.”
“It's just a black t-shirt.”
“Exactly. You're going to a concert, not a job interview. Sometimes simple is better.” Jace tossed the shirt at me and then grabbed my leather jacket off the back of the couch. “This, jeans, boots. Done. You'll look hot without looking like you're trying to be someone you're not.”
I caught the shirt and stared at it for a second, trying to figure out if Jace was right or if I was just too far gone to have an opinion anymore.
But when I looked up, Coach was nodding in agreement, and I figured if both of them thought it worked, I should probably just trust them and stop overthinking.
“Fine.” I stood up and pulled off the sweater I'd been wearing, replacing it with the black t-shirt. It fit well, not too tight but not baggy either, and when I shrugged into the jacket Jace held out, I had to admit it looked better than anything else I'd tried on tonight. “This works?”
“This works.” Jace walked around me in a slow circle, assessing, and then nodded in satisfaction. “Yeah. You look like yourself, which is what matters. Now go before you lose your nerve.”
I grabbed my keys off the coffee table and shoved them into my pocket, already feeling the anxiety starting to build again now that I was out of excuses to delay. Jace walked me to the door, and when I turned to say goodbye, he pulled me into a hug that was tight enough to ground me for a second.
“You've got this,” he said into my shoulder. “And if it goes badly, call me. I'll bring beer and we'll talk through it.”
“Thanks.” I pulled back and punched him lightly on the arm, the same way I'd been doing since we became linemates. “I'll let you know how it goes.”
Coach appeared in the doorway behind Jace, still holding his book but looking at me with that steady expression that had probably calmed down a hundred panicking players over the years. “Good luck, Rook. And remember what I said.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything else, and then I was out the door and walking toward my car with my heart already racing faster than it should have been.
The drive into the city felt longer than it actually was, probably because my brain wouldn't shut up long enough to let me focus on the road.
I kept running through scenarios in my head, trying to figure out what I was supposed to do when I got there.
Walk up to Soren after the show? Wait until he came offstage?
Pretend I just happened to be at this specific concert on this specific night and act surprised to see him?
Every option felt ridiculous. Every option felt like too much or not enough, and I had no idea how to navigate the space between showing up and talking to him.
I thought about the photograph again, the one Leroy had given me that I'd already looked at about fifty times since.
Part of me wondered if this was a terrible idea.
If seeing him in person was going to make everything worse instead of better, if I was setting myself up for another kind of heartbreak by walking into a room where he might not even want to see me.
But turning back wasn't an option anymore.
I'd spent too long looking for him, and now that I knew where he was, I couldn't just walk away.
The venue came into view as I turned onto the main strip, a mid-sized club wedged between a record store and a tattoo shop with a neon sign that flickered in the early evening dark.
There was a line of people outside waiting to get in, all dressed in black and leather and the kind of effortlessly cool aesthetic that made me feel like an outsider before I'd even parked the car.
I found a spot two blocks down and sat there for a minute with the engine off, trying to steady my breathing and failing.
My hands were shaking slightly when I pulled the keys out of the ignition, and I had to remind myself that I was a professional hockey captain who'd played in front of thousands of people and faced down opponents twice my size without flinching. This shouldn't be harder than that.
Except it was. Because this was Soren, and Soren had always been different.