Chapter 8
Chapter eight
The Crease - The blue-painted area in front of the goal where the goalie operates.
Cinder
Nancy's office smelled like coffee and antiseptic, a combination I'd learned to associate with safety over the years.
She'd been my mentor at Denver General when I was newly qualified—the kind of nurse who could intimidate a surgeon with a single raised eyebrow and comfort a terrified parent with the same steady hands.
I sat across from her now, my own hands wrapped around a mug of tea I hadn't touched, watching steam curl toward the ceiling while I tried to find the words.
"I saw the article," she said quietly.
Of course she had. Everyone had. "I'm sorry," I managed. "If I'd known this would happen, I never would have—"
"Stop." Her voice was firm but not unkind. "You saved a man's life. That's not something to apologize for."
"But the team—"
"The team is fine. Coach Kinkaid already released a statement supporting you. Said you demonstrated exactly the kind of competency and quick thinking they want in their staff." She leaned forward, her gaze sharp. "The real question is whether you're okay."
I laughed, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "Define okay."
Nancy didn't smile. She just waited, the way she always had when she knew I was holding something back. That patient silence that made confession feel inevitable.
"Gavin called me again last night," I admitted. "I assume wanting to warn me about this morning, or maybe just twist the knife. Left me a voicemail wanting to explain." My voice shook. "He said he still loves me."
"And did you call him back?"
"I deleted it." I stared into my tea, watching my own distorted reflection. I was mad at myself for listening. "But for a second—just a second—I wanted to believe him. How pathetic is that?"
"It's not pathetic." Nancy's voice softened. "It's human. We want to believe the people we loved aren't capable of hurting us on purpose. It's easier than accepting the truth."
"The truth being that he used me."
"The truth being that he made a choice," she corrected. "A selfish, cruel choice that prioritized his career over your wellbeing. That's not a reflection of your worth, Cinder. That's a reflection of his character."
I nodded, but the words felt distant, like they were meant for someone else. Someone who hadn't spent the last five months questioning every decision, every relationship, every moment of vulnerability that had led to that article destroying my life.
"There's something else," I said, because apparently today was the day for confessions. "Someone else."
Nancy's eyebrow rose—that familiar expression that said she already knew and was just waiting for me to catch up.
"Taranis Rees. Taz."
"The goaltender."
"He—" I stopped, trying to figure out how to explain something I didn't fully understand myself. "You saw him. He warned me. This morning. About the article. He was waiting in the parking lot when I got here, and he told me before I could walk in and get blindsided."
"That was thoughtful of him."
"It was more than thoughtful." I set down the mug, my hands still trembling slightly. "He held me, Nancy. When I fell apart. He just... held me. And he said things—" My throat tightened. "He said I deserved kindness. That someone sees me."
Nancy was quiet for a long moment. Then, gently: "And how did that make you feel?"
"Terrified." The admission came out before I could stop it. "Because I wanted to believe him. And the last time I believed someone who said things like that—"
"He's not Gavin."
"I know that." I dragged both hands through my hair, frustrated.
"I know he's not. But how am I supposed to trust my own judgment anymore?
I thought Gavin loved me. I thought I could tell him anything.
And look where that got me." Although if I was honest, Gavin had been gaslighting me for years. Shame burned in me.
Nancy reached across the desk and took my hand. Her grip was warm, steady—the same hands that had guided mine through my first central line, my first code, my first loss.
"You made a mistake," she said. "You trusted someone who didn't deserve it. That's painful, and it's going to take time to heal. But it doesn't mean you're broken. It doesn't mean you'll never be able to trust again."
"What if I can't?" I whispered. "What if I push away everyone who tries to get close because I'm too scared to let them in?"
"Then you'll end up alone and miserable, and you'll have done exactly what Gavin wanted.
" Her voice sharpened slightly. "He didn't just take your job, Cinder.
He took your confidence. Your sense of self.
And if you let him take your ability to connect with people who actually care about you, then he wins. "
I stared at her, something shifting in my chest. "That's harsh."
"That's honest." She squeezed my hand before releasing it. "You're one of the best nurses I've ever worked with. You have instincts that most people spend decades trying to develop. And you have a heart that feels everything deeply—even when it hurts."
I smiled wryly. "Especially when it hurts."
"Especially then." She smiled, finally. "So when someone like Taranis Rees stands in a parking lot to protect you from pain he didn't cause, maybe consider that he's not looking for something to exploit. Maybe he just sees something worth protecting."
I thought about the way Taranis had looked at me—steady, certain, like I was worth the effort of understanding. The way his hands had been so careful when he caught me. The way his voice had gone soft when he said someone sees you.
"He runs cold," I said quietly. "When he's stressed. His temperature drops to levels that should be impossible. I tried to tell the coach, the doctor, anyone who would listen. They dismissed me like I was overreacting."
Nancy's expression shifted—not surprise, exactly, but something more careful. More considered. "And you're sure about what you saw?"
"Eighty-nine degrees, Nancy. I checked three times with three different devices.
His pulse was bradycardic, his skin was waxy, and he was standing there talking to me like nothing was wrong.
" I shook my head, the frustration building again.
"That's not normal. That's not possible.
And when I tried to pull him from the game, they looked at me like I was the one with the problem. "
"The team doctor didn't back you up?"
"Dr. Reeves said it was an adrenaline crash. Told me goalies run cold after high-stress games." I laughed bitterly. "Like I don't know the difference between post-exertion cooling and whatever the hell is happening to Taranis."
Nancy was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tapping absently against her desk. I recognized that look—the one she got when she was processing something she wasn't sure she should share.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing." She shook her head slightly. "Just... this team has some unusual players. I've learned not to question everything I see. Everything I hear."
"That's not an answer."
"No," she agreed. "It's not." She studied me with those sharp eyes that had always seen too much. "But Cinder, if Taranis says he's fine—if he's been managing this for years—maybe trust that he knows his own body."
"That's not how medicine works."
"Maybe not. But it might be how this job works." She let that sit between us for a moment before changing the subject with characteristic directness. "Have your parents reached out?"
The question hit me like a sucker punch. I stiffened, my hands tightening around the now-cold mug. "Why would they?"
"Because you're all over the news. Because their son just saved someone's life on camera." Her voice gentled. "Because it's been fifteen years, and sometimes people change."
"They haven't changed." The words came out harder than I intended. "And even if they had, I wouldn't know. I haven't heard from them since they threw me out."
Nancy didn't flinch at the bitterness in my voice. She'd heard this story before—pieces of it, anyway. Enough to know why I'd arrived at nursing school with nothing but a duffel bag from foster care and a chip on my shoulder the size of Colorado.
"I was seventeen," I said, the old wound aching the way it always did when I poked at it.
"They caught me kissing the neighbor's son.
Tyler Morrison. We were in the backyard, and my dad—" I swallowed hard.
"He didn't even yell. Just looked at me like I was something dirty.
Something he couldn't believe had come from him. Said I was going to hell."
"Cinder—"
"My mom packed my bag while he stood there watching. She was crying, but she still folded everything neatly. Put in my toothbrush. My favorite hoodie." I hadn't understood. "Like she wanted to make sure I'd be comfortable while she kicked me out of my own home."
Nancy reached for my hand again, but I pulled back. I couldn't handle comfort right now. Comfort would break me.
"I have a brother," I continued, the words tumbling out now that I'd started.
"Danny. He was eight when they made me leave.
I used to read to him every night. Taught him how to ride a bike.
He cried when I said goodbye, and I told him—" My throat closed up.
"I told him I'd come back for him. That I'd figure something out. "
"And?"
"And nothing." I laughed, the sound ugly and wet.
"They moved and I have no idea where to.
Changed their number. Made it very clear that I didn't exist anymore.
" I finally met Nancy's eyes. "Danny would be twenty-three now.
I don't even know what he looks like. Whether he went to college. Whether he remembers me at all."
"He remembers," Nancy said quietly. "Brothers don't forget."
"You don't know that."
"No," she admitted. "But I know you. And if you loved him half as much as I think you did, he felt it. He still feels it."