Chapter 32
BECCA
I don’t immediately worry when Mia mentions she saw Theo at the hospital down in imaging.
With how his hand has been bothering him, it makes sense his doctors would want another MRI. I’m surprised it’s taken this long for them to order it.
I don’t even worry when he doesn’t respond to my text asking if he’s okay. He’s probably with his trainer and his doctor, having very serious hockey conversations. He probably hasn’t had time to update his girlfriend.
I do start to worry when, four hours later at the end of my shift, he still hasn’t responded. Not to my original message or any of the ones I’ve sent since.
Not that I need him to immediately reply.
But he’s been off the last few days. More tired than usual and spending a lot of time in his own head. I can tell he’s frustrated and that he’s hurting, but whenever I try to bring it up, he gets cagey and tries to distract me with a joke or by talking about something else.
Anna and Malia said training camp was brutal, but this feels more significant than the normal stress of a new season. And I don’t love that he’s pulling away from me instead of letting me in. Instead of talking to me about whatever is going through his head.
I don’t want to overreact. And I’m keenly aware that I might be … hypersensitive after the way our relationship ended previously. The man is allowed to deal with work stress without having to talk to me about every single tiny thing.
But my intuition is telling me there’s something bigger going on. If he got bad news about his hand today, he might not want to talk about it. But he shouldn’t have to process on his own. And I think I’m done letting him try.
I drive my car from the hospital back to the condo in record time, then park in our usual spot before walking the two quick blocks to Theo’s building. He still hasn’t responded to my texts or answered my calls, but he shared his location with me when we were in Florida, so I can see that he’s home.
Unfortunately, the doorman is not interested in letting me inside the building.
“I understand what you’re claiming,” he says, polite but firm, “but out of respect for the privacy of the building’s tenants, policy dictates that I can’t let you in unless a tenant gives you express permission and notifies me directly.
You haven’t been the first person to claim a relationship with a tenant, and you won’t be the last.”
A surge of frustration pushes through me. “No, I understand, and I’m sure all your tenants appreciate the policy. But I really am his girlfriend. And I’m worried about him, and I just—”
He holds up his hand, palm out, and silences my rebuttal.
“My answer isn’t going to change.”
I step away from the desk with a grumble and try to call Theo one more time. This time, it doesn’t even ring. The call goes straight to voicemail.
My heart aches at the thought of whatever he’s feeling right now.
I just need to get to him. But how?
I turn back to my phone and scroll through my contacts, wondering if I possibly still have Carter’s number. I did, once upon a time. When we were all in high school and hanging out. Theo probably put us in the same group chat or something. Hopefully, Carter hasn’t changed his number since then.
Instead of texting, I jump right to FaceTime, hoping some visual evidence will help my case with the doorman.
Luckily, Carter answers almost immediately. He’s clearly standing in his kitchen, and Sarah is visible in the space behind him. “Hey, Becca. You okay? What’s up?”
“Hey! I’m so glad you picked up. I’m actually at Theo’s apartment building, and I’m hoping you can vouch for me with his doorman. You used to live here too, right? Can you tell him I am who I say I am, so he’ll let me go upstairs?”
“Sure thing,” Carter says. “Put him on.”
“Thank you, thank you!”
I carry the phone back to the doorman. “Hi. Someone would like to speak with you.”
I listen as Carter has a brief conversation with the doorman, whose entire demeanor changes once Carter is on the phone. He clearly respects him, and it stands to reason he feels the same way about Theo.
“Okay,” the doorman says. “Sure thing. I’ll send her up.”
“With a spare key, please,” I say. “Just in case he won’t answer the door.”
The doorman’s eyebrows raise at this, but Carter quickly says, “If she’s worried about him, definitely give her the key.”
The doorman nods and hands the phone back to me. Carter’s face still fills the screen.
“What do you know that you aren’t telling me?” he asks, and I breathe out a sigh.
“Nothing, really,” I say. “Just that he was at the hospital for imaging today, and he hasn’t responded to my texts since. Have you seen him this afternoon?”
Carter shakes his head. “He had a pretty rough morning at practice,” he says. “Then he left early and didn’t come back. He hasn’t responded to me either, but I’m more concerned he’s not responding to you.”
His words send a flurry of emotion pushing through me—that he would consider me such an important part of his brother’s life. But the more pressing feeling is an aching desire to get upstairs, to find Theo and make sure he’s okay.
“Text me and let me know how he’s doing, yeah?” Carter says, and I nod.
“I will. Thanks, Carter.”
I disconnect the call, then take the key from the doorman and head straight for the elevators.
Theo’s apartment is quiet, the low light of dusk filtering in through the floor-to-ceiling windows lining the living room wall. “Theo?” I call out, but I don’t hear any response.
I keep looking, moving through the kitchen to the hallway, back to his bedroom.
When I reach the door, I call Theo’s name one more time, but there’s still no response.
Taking a deep breath, a lame attempt to slow my racing heart, I push it open to find Theo sitting on the floor at the foot of his bed, legs up in front of him with his elbows propped on his knees.
He’s in workout clothes and sneakers, AirPods tucked in his ears, and he’s glistening with sweat like he just finished a hard workout.
He looks up when I enter, but his eyes don’t register much.
He looks utterly and completely defeated.
I sit down cross-legged in front of him and reach forward, picking up his hand and pressing a quick kiss to the back of his knuckles before letting him go again.
He tugs his AirPods out and tosses them onto the rug beside him.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.
He shrugs, his voice detached, almost cold when he says, “There isn’t anything to say.”
I take a slow, deep breath, my spine stiffening into a rod of steel. I won’t let him do this. Not again.
“No,” I say simply, tone stern enough that he rears back the slightest bit.
“No?” he asks.
“Theo, I don’t know what happened today or why you’re so determined to carry this burden by yourself, but you don’t have to do it that way. Please talk to me. I didn’t get back together with you just for you to shut me out again.”
His expression turns panicked at my words, and he runs a hand down his face. “I’m not shutting you out, I just—”
“You are,” I say. “You had a conversation with your agent, and you never told me what it was about. You shut me down every time I try to bring up hockey or ask about your hand, and I’m guessing it’s because it’s hurting a lot more, and you don’t want me to know that.
And today, how many of my texts and calls have you ignored?
Mia told me you were at the hospital, so I’m guessing you got bad news, but I don’t like having to guess.
So I’m here. I’m here, and I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on.
” I take a steadying breath. “Because I love you.”
His eyes cut to mine, and my heart starts hammering inside my chest. I haven’t said those words to him since we were seventeen years old.
“I love you,” I continue, “and this is what you do when you love people. You show up. Even when they say they don’t need you. You still show up.” My breath falters as a sudden wave of regret washes over me.
Why didn’t I do this back then? Why didn’t I force my way into Theo’s room and make him talk to me? Why didn’t I fight harder to let him know I wasn’t going anywhere?
My heart practically breaks at the thought. He told me he didn’t feel like he deserved to be loved by anyone. He wanted the solitude, the shame, the isolation. He wanted to hurt.
And I let him.
Why didn’t I fight? For this—for us.
I close my eyes, tears spilling onto my cheeks.
But even as I wonder about impossible outcomes, the woulds and shoulds and could-haves, my brain catches up with my heart just enough to remind me of how young we truly were back then.
Before Theo’s dad died, neither one of us had ever experienced the loss of a loved one—certainly not a parent.
I shouldn’t be critical of choices I made then based on the emotional maturity and understanding I have now.
Love is easier when you’re young. When your world is small and safe, protected by parents who love you, who guide you through the reliable routines of growing up.
We were good at loving each other, but we didn’t have a lot of experience being vulnerable.
So when life got hard, we turned inward to protect ourselves, to hide our shame, our fear of rejection, our brokenness.
But loving someone means loving the broken parts too. It means letting someone love our broken parts.
Theo takes a deep breath, then leans forward, dropping his face onto his arms. “I don’t know where to start,” he says without looking up.
“Just blurt it out,” I say, repeating the words he said to me on the beach. “Don’t try to make the words perfect.”
He tilts his face up to give me a look, and I lift my lips in a small smile.
“It was good advice,” I say. “But also, I’ll sit here as long as you need me to. Take your time.”