Chapter 26
CONTROLLED ZONE ENTRY: ENTERING THE OFFENSIVE ZONE WHILE KEEPING POSSESSION
It takes three days for me to make the call to tell him I’m ready for our dinner date and less than two minutes for him to reply with, “How about tonight?”
“Do you want me to bring anything?”
“Just yourself,” he assures me. “Seven?”
“I’ll see you then.”
I drive to Brennan’s home practically on autopilot. Living in Willow Creek my whole life, I know exactly which home Brennan purchased. I pull up and pause in the driveway. It’s stunning. Still, I imagine it was the fact it’s on the outskirts of town that really sealed the deal.
It’s the kind of place you’d choose when you wanted privacy more than you wanted community. It’s a masterpiece of escapism wrapped up with stunning views. It might have been what he wanted when he first got here. But that’s changed. He’s changed.
Alighting from my car, I head to the front door. My knock is instinctive—one soft. Three fast. Another soft. The opposing knock to the one he started using in college.
The door flies open so fast, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was hovering next to the rustic wood from the other side.
I rake my gaze over him in a single glance.
He’s wearing a cable-knit sweater and jeans, hair still damp.
His gaze travels over me from head to toe, and his face shifts with relief, hunger, restraint.
“Welcome.” He steps back to let me in. “I ordered food and hope you don’t hate me for it.”
“Why would I be offended by you wisely choosing not to poison me with your cooking?”
“Because I guessed what you might want to eat?”
“Bold of you.”
He winces. “It was either that or ask you eleven different questions. I was torn between making it weird and assuming you’d be okay with pasta.”
“I appreciate your commitment to reducing any weirdness and you already know pasta is always a yes for me.”
He exhales while laughing. “Before dinner arrives, I want to tell you something.”
My pulse ticks up. “What?”
His voice is steady. “My head’s been off a little today.”
Alarmed, I step forward and lay my hand on his bicep. “Do you want to reschedule?”
“No, no! I…just didn’t want you thinking it was you if I act…off.”
“What happened?”
“A box of oatmeal fell on my head. Clipped the corner of my temple.”
I wince before cautiously asking, “That’s it?”
His grimaces. “With repetitive concussions, sometimes that’s all it takes.”
Before he can say anything else, the doorbell rings. He excuses himself to go back to the door to retrieve our dinner from the driver. It’s then I notice his movements are less sure than they have been while we’ve been in town.
After a quick debate, we decide to eat on the couch where we can watch the lake. While twirling his pasta, Brennan flicks his gaze toward me. “How’s your food?”
I fork up a big bite. “Good. And yours?”
He cuts into his chicken marsala. “Good.”
We sit comfortably eating for a few minutes before I ask a question that I hope he’ll answer. My throat tightens. I stare at my plate. “Brennan—”
He stills at my serious tone. His fork hovers midair on its way to his mouth, he asks, “What?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
He nods.
“What happened exactly on the ice that night?” I don’t have to add which night.
“I got hit and everything went quiet. I felt like I was underwater in my head.”
“It was a bad hit.”
“They’re all bad hits, Amy.” He pauses before sharing. “People think career-ending injuries are the worst part.”
“What’s the worst part?”
“Realizing your body isn’t yours anymore. That it can betray you. That the thing you built your identity on can be taken in one second and the world keeps moving.”
“And you?”
“I didn’t keep moving.”
My lips part.
“I’d had concussions before,” he continues. “A lot of them. Some were diagnosed. Some…ignored. Because that’s what you do in the sport. You tell yourself you’re fine, you pass the test, you get back on the ice. You don’t want to be the guy who can’t take a hit.”
I stare at him, anger flaring. “That’s…different from college; isn’t it?”
“It’s what I thought was expected of me playing pro hockey.”
I hate how simple he makes it sound, like the sport expects lifelong damage. “And the last concussion?”
He swallows a bite of his food. “The last one changed something.”
“How?”
“My recovery wasn’t normal. I thought it would go away. I went to four different hospitals. I thought if I kept going, someone would finally tell me what I wanted to hear.”
“That you were fine,” I whisper.
He corrects me, “That I could play.”
“And instead…”
He picks up where I trailed off, “They all said the same thing—my brain wasn’t bouncing back the way it should. It wasn’t until the final doctor explained that every concussion stacked on top of each other that I understood.”
“Understood, what?”
“That I’d never play hockey again.” His voice is matter of fact, but I know it had to kill something inside of him to hear that. Still his next words cause my emotions to spike. “Another hit, one bad fall could…change me permanently.”
This Brennan almost wasn’t sitting here. Blinking away tears, I ask, “What did they do? Did they—”
“They pulled my clearance. Immediately.”
“You didn’t get a choice?” I’m aghast...
“Not a real one.”
“How do you feel about it?”
“Now? After getting hit in the head with a box of oatmeal, I know they were right. If I was able to play again, I might not know my own name in a few years.”
“What are your limitations?”
“You mean now?”
“Yes,” I say. “Not theoretical. Not worst-case. What can’t you do? What do you have to watch for?”
He answers immediately without hesitation. “No contact sports. No ‘just for fun’ games. No skating pickup where some idiot could clip me. No roller coasters. Things like that.”
“And day to day?”
“Sometimes, sleep is iffy. Headaches are much more rare.” Then he offers a self-depreciating smile. “Unless I drop a box of oatmeal on my head.”
“Is there anything else?”
“If I push too hard—mentally or physically—I may have residual issues but it’s been a while.”
I frown. “Mentally?”
“Stress, tension. And until my next neuro appointment, I have time limitations for screen time. Indoor loud or overly bright places can also be a trigger.”
Compassion must be oozing from my pores because Brennan asks, “What are you thinking?”
“You spent your whole life catering to certain beliefs—putting hockey above everything else. I don’t know what I’d do if I were you.”
His eyes are raw. “At first, I was terrified.”
The simple admission hits harder than any medical term. “I’m sorry.”
His mouth twitches. “I’m not.”
My jaw falls open. “What?”
“Because of this, I realized there’s so much more to life than blades and ice. You’re here. We’re…talking. I have a whole new team finally embracing me.” His smile is crooked. “They just call themselves a town.”
I try to orient my thoughts. I came here to see if forward is possible with this man. Somehow, I found out so much more. I study the reality of who Brennan is now and compare our journeys. I lost faith and trust, but I regained them—even with him.
But what happened to Brennan? He’s lost his life’s anchor—hockey. He’s cycling through the stages of betrayal I endured as his “friend” tries to convince him what he did wasn’t that bad. My eyes roam his face. “I think we both have battle scars.”
A short bark of laughter escapes him. “Of course. We survived.”
“What’s next for us then?”
“Now, we celebrate being right here.” He sets his plate on the coffee table. I follow suit. His next confession causes me to lower my walls a bit more, “You have an incredible life you’ve built in this amazing community, Amy.”
The pride in his voice makes my heart flutter. I redirect the question to him. “And you? What do you have?”
“I have a home. I’m alive. I’m really enjoying mentoring the kids here.” His voice turns raspy. “Yes, I’m in therapy. That’s a good thing. But the best part is having time with you.”
His words warm my core. I touch his arm and feel the crazy sparks leap through us both. “Are you happy?”
His muscles tense beneath my touch. A thrill runs through me at how I still affect him. “Yes, especially when you look at me like you don’t hate me. Truly, I feel like I’ve been given a new lease on life.”
My hand strokes his bicep unconsciously. “That’s a lot.”
“You’re not responsible for fixing us but I’m asking you to give me a chance.”
Brennan deliberately rests his hand on the cushion between us, palm up. Not demanding.
Offering.
I don’t hesitate before sliding my hand off his arm into his. His fingers close gently, like he’s holding something precious. “What do you want from me?”
“Only what you’re willing to give.”
The words shouldn’t land like a warm embrace, but they do. They’re offering trust without expectation. I stand before ordering him, “Turn around.”
His brows lower. “Why?”
“Trust me, Brennan.”
He shifts until his shoulders face in the direction of where I was sitting. “I already do and I’ll never forget I should have.”
His openness causes tears to prick at the back of my eyes. I step behind him. Up close, it’s obvious how tightly wound he is. Like his muscles are permanently bracing for impact even though the hits are over.
“Tell me if this hurts,” I say quietly.
“Okay.”
I rub my hands together before placing them on his shoulders. Letting warmth seep into his muscles. He exhales. His shoulders drop half an inch. I knead gently, thumbs pressing into the knots at the base of his neck. “You’re so tight.”
“I thought about getting a massage but…” his voice trails off.
“Stop fighting your instincts.” The moment the words leave my mouth I realize I should probably take my own advice—especially when it comes to Brennan.
His breathing changes. “It’s like my body never got the memo that my game days are over.”
I knead a bit harder. “You have to take care of yourself.”
His “I will” comes out in a rush of air.
A long silence follows, filled only by the soft sound of his moans before even those quiet. Minutes pass. His body tips forward slightly.
“Brennan?”
No answer.
I lean closer. His eyelashes rest against his cheeks. His jaw is slack. The tension in his shoulders loosened under my hands gave him much needed relief. So much so that he’s fallen asleep.
Something in my chest aches sharply because this is what he needed tonight. Not an inquisition about a past that is starting to matter less and less. Not worrying about the future.
He needed someone. Me.
I reach over to grab a throw blanket from the back of the couch. Draping it over him, I lean forward and gently ease him to his back before pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “Sleep well.”
Tonight shifted something. Standing in his living room, watching him curled up and relaxed, I realize the past isn’t what’s standing between us. It’s a question only I can answer.
Can I forgive him for not believing in me?
I clear the plates and grab him a bottle of water. Then I scribble out a quick note from a pad I found on the counter. Tearing it off, I leave the note weighed down by the water before tiptoeing out of the room. Heading toward the door, I realize we can’t move forward until I answer that question.
Opening the door I slip out and ease it closed behind me without disturbing him.
The night air wraps around me, cool and sharp, grounding me. Staring up at the stars, I admit something to myself. I want to be with Brennan—the man he is now.
With that self-awareness, hope settles into my heart. Confessing to the sky, I murmur, “After tonight, I think we have a good shot at working things out.”