Chapter 13
Ryder
Three days alone in this inn room and I swear I can still smell her.
Vanilla and old books. The scent clings to the pillow she left in my room which I grabbed before I left. I hate myself for taking it. Hate myself more for pressing my face into it at night when I can't sleep, which is every night now.
The room is nothing. Beige walls, beige carpet, beige curtains that don't quite block the streetlights.
Generic art of covered bridges and fall foliage.
A bed I don't use and a mini-fridge stocked with water bottles I can't taste.
I've stayed in worse. I've stayed in palaces.
Doesn't matter. Every place feels the same when you're running.
Physical therapy at dawn in this cramped space.
Push-ups between the bed and dresser. Shoulder rotations that pull but don't break.
Ice packs from the front desk that I press against joints that don't hurt anymore because the real pain isn't physical.
The routine gives me something to do besides replay Christmas on an endless loop.
Connor's face when he caught us in the driveway.
The kiss I couldn't hide. Lucy's hand dropping from my chest. The sick feeling in my gut when I walked away three hours later.
My phone screen shows sixteen missed calls. Greg, my agent. My sister asking if I'm alive, then getting pissed when I don't respond.
And Lucy. Two texts from yesterday that I've read at least fifty times but can't bring myself to answer.
The first one: Hey. I know the other night was a lot. I just wanted to check in. Hope you're okay.
So gentle. So her. Reaching out even after I walked away.
The second, hours later: I need to know where we stand. Not today, not right now while you're dealing with whatever you're dealing with. But soon. We need to have a real conversation about this. About us. Because I'm not doing this halfway anymore.
I've typed and deleted responses forty-seven times. Every version sounds wrong. Too much or not enough. Excuses when she deserves honesty. Promises I'm not sure I can keep.
So I've said nothing. And my silence is its own answer, isn't it? The coward's way out.
I silence the phone and watch the notifications pile up like evidence of every bridge I'm burning.
The photo album sits on the dresser. Brown leather, worn at the edges where her hands held it.
I haven't opened it since that night. Can't. Because every time I look at those photos I see what I threw away, and the weight of it makes it hard to breathe.
But I grab it anyway. Flip it open with shaking hands because apparently I enjoy torture.
Photos from the past two weeks. Me with the Wright family. Decorating the tree, building snowmen with Maisie, game nights around the dining table. Me at the Christmas market helping Lucy with her booth. At the food bank boxing donations. Candid moments I didn't know she was capturing.
And us. A few photos of us together, carefully mixed in with the family shots. The look on my face in those pictures makes something twist in my chest. Like I'd already decided without admitting it.
She'd been documenting what I was too scared to claim. Proof that I had a home here. Proof that I belonged.
I close the album. Press my palms against my eyes until I see stars.
My shoulder protests when I pull on my jacket. Good. Physical pain is easier than this hollowed-out feeling in my chest. I grab my keys and head out, knee solid when I test it. My body is ready for whatever I ask. My head is a disaster.
Downtown Pine Hollow looks like a Christmas card. Lights strung between streetlamps, wreaths on doors, people ducking in and out of shops carrying bags and wearing smiles. I keep my hood up and head down, just driving. No destination. Just movement because staying still means thinking.
Then I see her truck.
Forest green. Dent in the back bumper from when she backed into a snowbank trying to park. Parked outside the rink with the bed full of boxes.
I slow. Pull into a spot three rows back where I can see but stay hidden.
The side door to the rink opens and Lucy emerges carrying a stack of posters. Natalie's with her, arms full of decorations. They're laughing about something. Setting up for the charity game. The event I helped save. The event I'll have to attend tomorrow and pretend I'm fine.
Lucy looks tired. Even from this distance, I can see the shadows under her eyes, the way her smile doesn't quite reach where it should. She's wearing jeans and an oversized sweater, hair in a messy bun, and she's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Natalie says something. Lucy shakes her head. Her shoulders curve inward slightly, a posture I've never seen on her. She's always so straight. So strong. So steady.
I did this. Put that exhaustion in her face. Made her shoulders bow.
My hands grip the steering wheel. Every muscle in my body screams to go to her. Walk across this parking lot, take the boxes from her hands, tell her I'm sorry. Tell her I was wrong. Tell her I love her and I'll do whatever it takes to fix this.
But fear roots me to the seat. What if she won't listen? What if I make it worse? What if the best thing I can do for her is stay away?
Lucy bends to pick up a poster that fell. The wind catches her hair and she tucks it behind her ear with hands I've held. Kissed. Watched grip my sheets when I was making her come.
My chest physically aches. Like someone reached in and squeezed. I've had injuries that hurt less than this.
She straightens. Turns slightly toward where I'm parked. For one terrible second, I think she sees me. But her gaze slides past without recognition, and somehow that's worse.
Natalie touches her arm. Lucy nods. They go back inside.
I sit in my truck for another twenty minutes. Engine running. Heat blasting. Hands still gripping the wheel like it's the only thing keeping me upright.
This is the moment something breaks.
Not dramatic. Not like in movies. Just a quiet crack in the foundation I've been standing on since I was eighteen and my father told me greatness required sacrifice.
I can't watch her from a distance anymore. Can't hide in this inn room pretending I need space. Can't keep running.
I drive back and the room feels smaller. Suffocating. I pour whiskey I don't drink. Stare at the album I shouldn't open. Do it anyway.
My phone rings at four in the afternoon. Greg's name flashes.
I answer this time. "Yeah."
"Finally." He sounds equal parts relieved and irritated. "Three days, Ryder. We need to talk about Boston."
I press my palm against my eyes. "Not now."
"Yes, now. They need an answer by January second. Five-year contract, guaranteed money, first-line minutes. Everything you've worked for."
Everything I've worked for.
This should be the moment I've been waiting for. The dream. Security. Proof that the sacrifice was worth it. Proof that I'm good enough.
But all I can think is: that's three plus hours from Lucy.
"What if I don't sign?" The words come out before I can stop them.
Silence. Then Greg laughs, sharp and humorless. "Don't sign with Boston? Are you serious?"
"What happens if I explore other options?"
"Other options?" His voice climbs. "You're talking about turning down one of the best contracts I've seen in a decade. For what? You're twenty-eight. You have maybe five good years left if your shoulder holds. Where else are you going to get a deal like this?"
"I don't know."
"Jesus, Ryder." He exhales hard. "Is this about the girl?"
I don't answer.
"Look," Greg says, softer now. "I get it. You've made connections there. But this is your career. What you've sacrificed everything for. Don't let one person derail that. Your father wouldn't have—"
"Don't." The word comes out harder than I intend. "Don't bring him into this."
Pause. "I'm just saying, he taught you better than this. He taught you that greatness requires focus. Dedication. Not getting sidetracked by—"
"He died alone." My voice is flat. "My father died alone in a hospital room because everyone who loved him gave up trying. My mother left. My sister barely spoke to him. I was in playoffs, too important to visit. He'd have understood, I told myself."
Silence on the line.
"That's what his choices got him. A career full of accolades and a funeral with twelve people."
"Ryder—"
"I need to think about this." I'm already standing, pacing the small room. "Can you stall them?"
"For how long?"
"I don't know. A few days."
Greg sighs. "I'll try. But they're not going to wait forever. And if you turn this down, there might not be another offer like it."
"I know."
"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, you're about to make the biggest mistake of your career."
Maybe. Or maybe I already made it three days ago when I walked away from the only person who's ever made me want something more than hockey.
I end the call. Throw the phone onto the bed.
The room is too quiet. I can hear my own breathing, ragged and uneven. Can hear the couple arguing in the room next door, the ice machine humming down the hall, the sound of my own cowardice echoing off beige walls.
Five years in Boston. Guaranteed money. First-line minutes.
Everything I thought I wanted.
But when I close my eyes, all I see is Lucy's face when I told her I needed space. The way her expression went blank. Empty. Like I'd confirmed every fear she'd ever had about being chosen last.
The album sits on the bed where I left it. I pick it up again. Look through the pages one more time.
There I am. Caught in moments I didn't know mattered. Looking at her off-camera in half the shots, my expression giving away everything I was trying to hide.
She saw it before I did. Saw us before I was ready to admit we were an “us.”
And I walked away four days later.
I close the album. My hands shake.
My father died alone. That's the truth I've been avoiding for years. He pushed everyone away—my mother, my sister, me. Chose his pride over connection. Chose being right over being loved.
I've been following his pattern exactly. Keeping distance. Running when things get hard because staying requires courage I've never had to show on the ice.
Lucy asked what I was running from. I said my career. But that's a lie I've told so long I almost believed it.
I'm running from the same terror my father ran from: letting someone matter more than the game. Building something that isn't measured in points and wins.
I open my phone. Pull up Lucy's contact. Her profile picture is from the food bank—laughing at something off-camera, flour on her cheek, eyes bright.
Her two texts sit there, unanswered. Waiting.
Hope you're okay.
We need to have a real conversation about this.
I should respond. Should tell her something. Anything. But every word I type feels inadequate.
I try: I'm sorry. I need to talk to you.
Delete it.
Type: Can we meet?
Delete that too.
Type: I love you. I was scared and I fucked up and I love you.
My thumb hovers over send for thirty seconds before I delete that one as well.
What do I say? How do I respond to her kindness with anything less than the truth? How do I explain that I've been terrified since the moment I met her? That she makes me want things I've never let myself want? That loving her feels like stepping off a cliff without knowing if there's ground below?
And how do I admit that I've been reading her messages for twenty-four hours and haven't had the courage to answer?
I put the phone down. Stand. Pace the small room like a caged animal.
The charity game is tomorrow. I'll see her there. Have to face her. Have to look her in the eye and see what I've done.
The question isn't whether I love her. I know the answer to that. Have known it for weeks. Fell for her somewhere between catching her when she fell off that ladder and watching her light up the Christmas market, between late nights in her shop and quiet mornings building snowmen with Maisie.
The question is whether love is enough to undo the damage. Whether she'll even give me the chance to try.
I look at the album one more time. At Lucy's face in every photo. At the evidence of someone who saw me—really saw me—and chose me anyway.
She was trying to tell me. Trying to show me there was another path. One that didn't require sacrifice. One that included both the dream and the girl.
I was too scared to see it.
But I see it now. Clear as the ice I've spent my life on. Clear as the truth I've been running from.
I'm in love with her. And I'm done running.
The decision settles in my chest. Heavy and terrifying and absolutely right.
I grab my phone. Text Greg: I'm ready to talk. Call me when you can. I know what I want.
The options I'm thinking about have nothing to do with negotiating terms. Everything to do with asking if there's any way to make this work without leaving Pine Hollow. Without leaving her.
I send it before I can overthink.
Then I sit with the album in my lap and wait for dawn, fear wrapped around my ribs.
I don't know if Greg can find a solution. Don't know if Lucy will forgive me for the silence. For reading her texts and not responding. For making her wait while I figured out what she already knew.
But I know I have to try.
Because the alternative—spending the rest of my life running from the only person who ever made me want to stay—is something I can't survive.
Morning comes slow. I haven't slept. Haven't moved from the chair by the window. Watched the sky go from black to gray to the pale gold of winter sunrise.
Greg responds at six: Call me at nine. We'll figure something out.
Figure something out. Like this is just another contract negotiation. But it's not. It's my entire life. The choice between the path I've always walked and the one I'm terrified to try.
I open the album one more time. Stop on that last photo. The way I'm looking at her in that picture—that's not something I can fake. Not career ambition or physical attraction or temporary connection.
That's the truth I've been too scared to admit.
And I hurt her. Because I was too much of a coward to choose her when it mattered.
Tomorrow at the charity game, I'll see her. And somehow I have to find the words to tell her that I'm done being my father's son. Done choosing safety over everything that matters.
I set the album down. Head for the shower. Start figuring out what to say.
If she'll give me the chance to prove it.