Chapter 26
THEO
I went into this week hoping I might have the opportunity to convince Becca to give me a second chance. I never anticipated we might wind up here.
And yet, even after eight years apart, being with Becca feels like the most natural thing in the world.
Our interactions have a rhythm to them that feels both familiar and brand new at the same time, like we’re taking all the good parts of what we were and expanding them into something that better reflects our age and maturity.
After our mothers learn the truth—they luckily manage to keep the gloating to a minimum—Becca and I are basically inseparable.
We spend our mornings paddleboarding or snorkeling or walking on the beach while our mothers shop and visit bookstores and antique markets.
We buy fresh produce we’re never going to finish before it’s time to go home and eat the best scallops we’ve ever had from a food truck parked in the grocery store parking lot.
We watch movies. We read books. We swim and nap on the beach. We stay up late talking, then force ourselves to go to bed only to start texting the minute we’re apart.
With every passing moment, I become more and more certain that I never stopped loving her. She changed my DNA, altered the rhythm of my heartbeats so they only beat for her.
I won’t tell her. Not until I know she’s ready to hear it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think it every time she walks into the room.
“Okay, mushrooms are done, and the salad is fully prepped,” Becca says as she steps onto the patio. She slips an arm around my waist and tucks herself into my side, looking down at the ribeyes sizzling on the grill. “They smell amazing.”
“They’re just about finished,” I say. “Another thirty seconds or so.”
“When did you become such a grill master?”
“Miles taught me, actually,” I say.
“Your team captain?”
“Yeah. He loves to grill. The man can talk for hours about the science of temperature control. If you’re ever invited to eat ribs at his house, definitely say yes.”
“I think what you mean to say is the next time you’re invited to eat ribs at his house, you’ll definitely take me with you.”
I look down at her and smile, then press a quick kiss to her lips. “It’s a date,” I say. I tilt my head to the prep station next to the grill. “Grab that platter?”
She reaches for it, holding it with both hands while I load it up with our steaks.
It was my idea to grill ribeyes for dinner, and I offered to do the whole meal myself. But Becca insisted she help, so we spent the afternoon chopping vegetables and slicing mushrooms and making a lemon pound cake using her grandmother’s recipe.
The whole afternoon has been very domestic, triggering a new kind of craving, sharp and distinct, for a life that isn’t just about hockey.
That feeling isn’t new—it’s a lot of why I started therapy. I realized I needed to get myself figured out so I could have the more I clearly felt like I was lacking.
But spending time with Becca this week has given me a small taste of exactly what that life could be like. And I can’t get enough.
I follow Becca into the kitchen and set the platter onto the table.
Mom is already pouring the wine, and Cassie has helped herself to a thick slice of bread from the farmer’s market, slathered with Irish butter Becca swears makes everything taste better.
Becca brings the salad over, and then we’re ready to eat.
Conversation is easy as we eat, but that’s no surprise.
It has been all week. For all the potential awkwardness of spending time with Becca and both our moms, especially when they clearly had an agenda, it’s honestly been great.
I’m sure it helps that what they wanted—for Becca and me to give each other another chance—they got.
Across the table, Mom tells a story about Carter and me, something about a hockey game when we were nine or ten, playing with kids two and three years older than we were.
“Okay, but you had to have had some idea,” Becca says to Mom. “When did you start looking at them and thinking they might make it to the NHL?”
Mom’s expression turns thoughtful. “I think by the time they were ten or eleven, we had an inkling. Scouts were already looking at them, even at that age. Of course, fewer make it than don’t, so we tried not to think about it too much.
But every time I watched them play, I would find myself looking around at other parents, wondering if they saw what I saw.
Did I think my boys looked so much better because they were mine, or were they really that good? ”
Becca turns to me, reaching under the table to drop a hand on my knee. “What about you? When did you realize you were good enough to go all the way?”
“I was thirteen,” I say, and Becca’s eyebrows lift.
Like she wasn’t expecting such a specific answer.
But I remember the moment vividly. I find her hand under the table and thread our fingers together.
“We’d just played a game and lost really badly,” I say.
“Something like eight to one. Back in the locker room, the other guys were moaning and complaining about the refs and the other team and how unfair it all was. Like we’d lost the game for every reason except that the other team was better.
Which felt so dumb to me. So I looked at Carter and said, ‘They played better defense than we did.’ He nodded, because it was true, then we spent the next hour breaking down everything that made the other team’s defense better than ours.
That’s when I realized it was always going to be different for us.
It wasn’t just about winning. It was about understanding the game. ”
“Your pickleball research makes so much more sense now,” Becca says, and I grin.
But Mom doesn’t seem amused. Instead, she gives me a pointed look, the kind she always gave me when I failed to do something she needed me to do and became disappointed as a result.
I got a lot more of those looks than Carter ever did.
“Hmm,” she says. “Analyzing a loss, learning instead of assigning blame … those sound like the qualities of a good team captain.”
I swallow a sigh. That’s the second time Mom has mentioned the captain thing this week, which is ridiculous.
I have no idea what Carter told her, but I have nothing to do with the decision regarding who is alternate captain.
It’s not like they asked and I said no. Carter mentioned it as a possibility. That’s it.
Becca squeezes my hand, shooting me a questioning look, and I squeeze hers right back. I’m okay, but there’s nothing to truly say here. “I should get started on the dishes,” I say. I push back from the table and stand, and Becca pops up beside me.
“I’ll come too,” she says.
“You should let us do the dishes,” Cassie says. “You two cooked.”
Becca quickly shakes her head. “You need to stay off your feet,” she says to her mother. “And don’t try to fight me on that. If you do, I’ll just call Dad.”
Earlier today, Cassie had a negative reaction to the heat, a symptom of her MS, and Becca has been watching her closely ever since. “I’m fine,” her mom says. “It was just a tiny reaction. As soon as I cooled down, I was better.”
“And you’ll be even better tomorrow if you rest tonight,” Becca says.
“Let’s go sit on the patio,” Mom says. “They’re young. They can absolutely do the dishes.”
Becca sits on the counter while I load the dishwasher. We did a lot of cleaning as we prepped, so there isn’t much to do. But I like that she’s keeping me company anyway.
“So the captain thing,” she says, her voice tentative. “Is there a story there?”
I add another plate to the bottom rack. “No story,” I say. “Carter told her that Coach will pick a new alternate captain since Miles is out for his shoulder surgery. He told Mom my name was mentioned, and she hasn’t been able to let it go.”
“That feels like a big deal. That your name was mentioned.”
“According to Carter, which … he’s biased, so…”
“But he wouldn’t make it up.”
“I guess not. But it doesn’t matter either way. I don’t have any desire to be captain.”
She’s quiet long enough that I stop what I’m doing and turn to look at her. “What?” I say when I see her quizzical expression.
“Nothing. I just think you would be good at it, so I’m trying to figure out why you don’t want to.”
She’s sitting cross-legged, hands resting on her knees, and I step closer, leaning my hands on the counter in front of her. “Don’t overthink it. It’s not complicated. It’s just not a role I’m cut out for.”
She narrows her gaze. “Okay, but wait. Is it something you don’t want? Or is it something you don’t think you’re cut out for? Because those aren’t the same things.”
“Can’t it be both?”
She lifts her hands to my shoulders. “Only if your reasons for not wanting it are more valid than you just not thinking you can. Because you totally could.”
“And you know that based on what?” I ask, my tone a little sharper than it should be. “A version of me from high school?”
Becca winces, her hands falling away from my body, and I immediately regret my words.
“Bec, I’m sorry,” I quickly say, catching her hand. I raise it to my lips, pressing a kiss to her palm. “That came out wrong. I appreciate that you think I could, but it’s not how I see myself.”
She nods. “Okay. I get it.”
I lean forward and press a quick kiss to her lips. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
She rolls her eyes playfully. “Relax. You didn’t snap at me. I’m sorry I pushed.”
It only takes a few more minutes to finish the dishes. It’s a nice night, and I think about asking Becca to go for a walk. But then my phone buzzes with an incoming call.
I pull it out of my pocket and see my agent’s name lighting up the screen.
My stomach tightens. Shawn is a great agent. But he usually only calls when he has something important to say.
“Everything okay?” Becca asks.
“I hope so. I need to take this.” I quickly answer the call before it gets sent to voicemail. “Hey, Shawn,” I say.
Becca motions to the back patio, and I nod, watching as she moves outside and sits down with our moms.
“Theo. How are you?” Shawn asks.
“Good. Great. In Florida for a week of vacation.”
“Oh, sweet,” Shawn says. “You deserve the time off. How’s the hand? You ready for training camp?”
“Ahh, still working on it,” I say. “I hope I’ll be playing, but … it’s been a long road, you know?”
“I can imagine. So, listen, I just want to put some thoughts out there, kinda let you know what I’m hearing, maybe give you the chance to weigh in when it’s still early enough for me to steer the conversation.”
My gut tightens, already unhappy with where this is going. “What conversation is that?”
“Nothing concrete,” Shawn says. “It’s just talk. Easy chatter, you know?”
“Shawn,” I say. I don’t need him to sugarcoat anything. I just need him to tell me what’s going on.
He breathes out a sigh. “You know Miles is almost done. Depending on how his surgery goes, he might make it back to play out the season, but last I heard, they aren’t even sure he’ll play again. Even if he does, his contract is up this year. All signs are pointing toward retirement.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Front office wants a powerhouse,” Shawn says. “Someone who can score like Miles could. Not a rookie. A seasoned player who can be the backbone of the team’s offense.”
“We just got Sanders,” I say.
“And he’s good,” Shawn says. “But he’s young. They want something more.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question.”
He hesitates before finally saying, “To get the kind of asset they’re looking for, they’re going to have to give up something.” Another pause. “Something big.”
“No,” I say. I don’t even want to hear him suggest what I think he’s about to suggest. “I’m not interested.”
“Just give me a second,” Shawn says. “Try to think about this, all right? Your contract is up this year. I know you were hoping to extend, but if you’re willing to move, we’re talking another three, maybe four million.
Ottawa needs defensemen, and they’ve got more cap space than anyone in the league. ”
“I don’t want to play in Ottawa.”
“I can appreciate that. But you know it doesn’t always matter, man. If they’re already making noise about trading you, I just want to make sure we play our cards right since we’re coming up on free agency. We have to be thinking ahead.”
I drop onto the couch in the living room and switch Shawn over to speaker before setting the phone on the coffee table. The Scrabble game from earlier this afternoon is still set up. This time, I was the one who won by a narrow three points. It seems funny now that my last word was TURMOIL.
“I get it,” I say to Shawn. “I understand it’s part of the game. But I don’t want to be traded, and I don’t need more money. My priority is to stay with the team and stay with my brother. If they offered me an extension on my current contract, I’d take it.”
“You shouldn’t take it,” Shawn says. “You’re worth a lot more than that.”
“If it means staying, I don’t care.”
He’s quiet for a beat. “Okay. I hear you. That’s exactly what I thought you would say.”
“Then why did you even ask?”
I look up, momentarily distracted by the sounds filtering in from outside, and see Becca, head thrown back in laughter.
“Because it’s my job to ask,” Shawn says. “And because I don’t want you to be blindsided if I can’t stop this from happening.”
“Your job is to make sure this doesn’t happen,” I say.
“Shawn. Come on. They want to split us up?” I know better than to take for granted the fact that Carter and I have always played on the same team.
There’s never been any guarantee that we would.
But the thought of it still fills me with a mild sense of panic.
“Jaguars defense is deep,” Shawn says. “But you can’t win games without a good offense. You know the balance here, man. It’s a numbers game.”
“Not to throw my brother under the bus here, but why me and not him?”
“He’s an alternate captain. And from an optics standpoint, trading a guy with a wife and local roots in the community looks worse than trading his single brother.”
I huff out a laugh. “Oh great. That’s…” My words trail off, mind reeling. Of all the things that could happen now. With Becca, my hand, and everything else. The last thing I need is the possibility of a trade looming over me.
“Listen, it’s just talk, all right?” Shawn says. “I’ll do what I can to get your name off the table.”
“And in the meantime?”
“Play like hell at training camp,” he says. “Make sure they see how essential you are.”
“And if I can’t play?” I ask.
He’s quiet for a beat too long before he says, “Let’s just hope you can.”