Chapter 27
BECCA
I expect Theo to come out to the patio after he gets off the phone, but he never shows. I have no idea who he was talking to, but from what I saw through the window—mostly just Theo pacing around the living room—it wasn’t a conversation that made him happy.
After forty-five minutes of distracted conversation with the moms, I excuse myself and head upstairs.
I find him in his bedroom, door open. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing pajama bottoms and a t-shirt like he’s ready to check out for the night. He’s leaning forward, elbows propped on his knees while he massages his hand.
“Hey,” I say as I enter the room. I sit down beside him.
“Hey.”
“You disappeared,” I say. “Everything okay?”
He offers me a small smile. “Yeah, all good. Just a call with my agent. Typical start of the season stuff.” He winces, his jaw tightening as he presses on the skin around his scar.
“Here. Let me do it,” I say, reaching for his hand.
He relents, and I slowly start to massage, using the same technique I used when we were out on the beach our first day here. Somehow, that feels like a lifetime ago.
Theo lets out a little groan, his shoulders relaxing. “Why are you so much better at this?” he asks, and I grin.
“I’ve got the magic touch, I guess.”
“I might have to take you to practice with me.”
I move from his palm up to his wrist. “I’m sure one of your trainers could do the same thing.”
He chuckles, his expression heating in a way that makes the embers burning low in my gut spark into a much bigger flame. “Something tells me it wouldn’t have the same effect,” he says, his voice low.
I smile and drop my gaze back to his hand. “Are you worried about going back to practice?”
“Yes,” he says simply, and I pause, surprised by his honest answer.
“Tell me why.”
“Because I’m not ready, and everyone expects me to be. Because I don’t want to fail.”
“Theo, you aren’t a failure because you were injured,” I say. “And your team knows that.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything else. Not until I hit a spot between the pad of his thumb and his wrist.
He winces. “It’s sore there,” he says. “And it’s been bothering me more lately. There’s a tightness that wasn’t there before, or a kind of resistance? It’s hard to explain.”
“It could be the scar tissue,” I say as I move up toward his wrist. “When was the last time you had an MRI?”
“It’s been a while,” he says. “You think I need one?”
“I mean, your doctors know more than I do, but if you’re feeling tightness, it might be worth checking for a tendon adhesion.”
“What would they do about that?” he asks.
“Probably just more targeted therapy. There’s a procedure I saw in nursing school called a hydro-dissection where they inject fluid to separate the adhesion from the tendon. But also, I could be totally off base here. I’m just guessing.”
He breathes out a sigh. “I’ll talk to Nico when we get back.” He lifts his hand from mine and curls it into a loose fist. “But if I’m struggling to get past here when I’m not holding anything, I’m not going to be able to handle a hockey stick.”
I don’t love the note of discouragement in his voice, but I can’t blame him. His body is his work—his life. It has to be frustrating.
“You’re going to get there,” I say. “I promise you will. What would you say to Carter if he were in your situation? Or to anyone else on your team?”
He hooks a hand around the back of his neck.
“I’d probably tell him not to be so hard on himself,” he says.
“Or remind him that nobody else is judging his recovery timeline. When he’s better, he’s better.
And he contributes a lot more to the team than just his grip strength, and maybe he should focus on that for a while. ”
“Huh,” I say. “Sounds like good advice.”
He finally grins, and I sense some of the earlier tension leaving his body. “Maybe, but it’s truer about Carter than it is about me.”
“Says the guy who scored more goals than his brother last season?”
He smirks. “Says the woman who looked up my stats?”
I bite my lip, my cheeks warming the slightest bit. “I was curious. And thinking about what it must be like to have someone you’re inevitably compared to all the time.”
“It’s not that big a deal,” he says. “Carter has the reputation as the slightly more effective Williamson. People always make comparisons. I’m used to it.”
I frown. “For real, people say that? Why would they when they know you might hear it?”
He lets out a little chuckle. “They don’t care about my feelings, Bec. I get paid millions of dollars a year to play a game for a living. They can say whatever they want.”
“Even if it isn’t true? Stats don’t lie, Theo. Overall, you’re more effective on the ice.”
He lifts an eyebrow, giving me a playful smirk. “You’re sexy when you talk hockey.”
This makes me grin, but I still don’t like that he’s being so dismissive. “I’m serious. Why would anyone say he’s more effective when it clearly isn’t true?” I finally release his hand, turning sideways on the bed and pulling my knees up under me.
“There have been plenty of years when he’s had the better stats,” Theo says.
“And it’s never just about numbers. It’s about energy.
Sportsmanship. Connecting with teammates in a way that makes everyone play better because they’re on the ice with you.
That’s Carter’s superpower. I’m okay admitting that. ”
“Fine,” I say. “But that doesn’t make him better than you.”
“No?” he says. He leans back on the bed, propping himself up on one elbow. “Are you saying you prefer me over my brother?”
It’s not lost on me that he’s joking around on purpose, teasing because that’s easier than admitting any real vulnerability. He used to do the same thing when we were in high school.
I stretch out beside him, mirroring his pose.
“You’re by far my favorite Williamson,” I say.
“But I also don’t want you to deflect and say you aren’t something because your brother already is.
So he contributes a lot to the team. Cool.
That doesn’t mean he’s any more deserving of their support than you are. ”
He reaches over and runs a hand down my arm, then curls his big palm around mine. “Thank you,” he says. “It’s no small thing that you believe in me.”
I wait for him to say more, to offer some rebuttal, but he doesn’t do it. Instead, a heavy silence settles between us, encompassing all the words he isn’t saying but is very clearly thinking.
What did his agent say to him to turn him inward like this?
It had to be something—something bigger than regular season stuff—and I wish Theo would tell me what it was.
He squeezes my fingers. “Sorry I’m so grumpy,” he says. “I probably just need to get some sleep.”
I nod, fighting to keep my expression neutral. For the past three nights, we’ve stayed up talking late into the night—a lot later than eleven p.m.—so it’s hard for this not to feel like a rejection. But I’m in no position to push.
This isn’t high school. All the stakes are higher now.
Hockey isn’t just a sport; it’s his entire career.
I can’t pretend to understand all the nuances of how he fits into the league.
I can’t even talk about his relationship with his brother.
I know what it was. I know a lot less about what it is now.
I scoot off the bed, a prickle of uncertainty taking root right behind my ribs.
Vacation ends tomorrow, and we have to go back to our real lives. We have to face our jobs and our schedules and somehow figure out a way to make space for our individual priorities in a way that works for us both.
Maybe Theo does just need to sleep, and I’m reading too much into his sudden shift in mood. But I can’t shake the feeling that his agent upset him, and he’s not being open with me about why.
“I guess I’ll say goodnight, then,” I say as I step away from the bed. But I don’t make it far before Theo sits up and catches my arm, tugging me onto his lap. He wraps his arms around me, burying his face in my neck.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I promise it isn’t you. I’m just worried about the season.”
I lift my hands to his hair, gently running my fingernails over his scalp. “You know you can talk to me about it, yeah? I’ll always listen,” I say.
He tilts his head back, blue eyes almost black in the shadowy lamplight.
“I don’t deserve you,” he says, but it feels less like a compliment and more like a deflection.
Theo has a wall up. I can sense it under the surface, even if it isn’t explicitly obvious in his words.
And I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do about that.
I lean down and press a lingering kiss against his mouth. “Sure you do,” I say. “But even if you don’t, you’re stuck with me anyway.”
Our moms are booked on a much later flight, so Theo and I say goodbye to them at the beach house. Even though we leave at an ungodly hour, before the sun has even come up, they both get up to see us off, walking us out to the porch.
Mom gives me an enormous hug. “You’d better text your sisters on your way to the airport,” she says. “I won’t be able to keep this a secret once I’m home.”
I nod. “I’ll tell them. I promise.”
She gives my arms a little squeeze. “I’m happy for you, Becca. Just hold onto each other. All the details will work out.”
Kim hugs me next, delivering similar sentiments, and then we’re back in Theo’s fancy rental car, heading to the airport.
I stifle a yawn as I drop my head back against the seat.
“You should sleep,” Theo says, but I quickly shake my head.
“I want to keep you company.”
He chuckles. “She says with her eyes already closed…”
I smile. “It’s so stupid early.”
“Then sleep,” he says again. “I promise I’ll be fine.”
I’m sure he’s right, but I still can’t shake the feeling that I need to soak up every possible moment with Theo before we get back to Atlanta. It’s been surprisingly easy to set my worries aside and lean into the vacation aspect of this past week. But I know myself. I need a plan. We need a plan.