Chapter 5 Heath #2
It was a sea turtle. Broken shell on one side. Eyes clear. Swimming in a shallow tank.
"This one came in six months ago. Boat strike. Fractured carapace. Pneumonia."
I studied the image. "Did it—did she make it?"
A faint smile. "She. Yeah. Released two weeks ago." He swiped to another photo. His thumb brushed my wrist as he angled the phone. Same turtle, different angle. The shell damage still visible but calcified over. "It's a slow process. Antibiotics. Physical therapy to rebuild diving strength."
The brief contact sent a small wave of electricity up my arm.
"Physical therapy for a turtle?"
"Sounds ridiculous. But yeah. You have to confirm they can dive properly. Surface independently. Hunt."
I looked at the photo again. "How do you know when they're ready?"
"Behavior. Weight. Blood work." He locked his phone. Set it on his thigh. "You can see when something's healing. It's measurable."
A memory from home flashed. I thought about my dad's back. The injury that ended his career. Surgeries that helped but didn't fix. Pain that became chronic instead of acute.
It never fully healed but stabilized enough for basic function.
"Does everything heal?" I asked.
Kieran turned his head and looked at me directly.
"No."
It was honest, direct.
"Sometimes it's more about stabilizing than healing," he continued. "That might be sufficient."
The bus hit a pothole, and it jolted us. Our shoulders pressed together for a second.
"You think about this a lot," I said. "The science of it."
"It makes sense. Hockey doesn't always."
"What do you mean?"
He exhaled and spoke softly. "Hockey's about proving you belong every shift. Marine biology's about making sure something can survive with the right conditions. One has you living with constant evaluation. The other asks you for patient observation."
"Which do you prefer?"
Kieran didn't answer immediately.
"The one where I'm not being evaluated," he said finally.
The bus turned into the airport approach. Kieran retrieved his bag from under the seat.
"You played well tonight," he said. "Don't let commentators make you second-guess it."
"I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
I looked at him, and he looked right back.
"You held position when their thug tried to move you. That's not luck. That's discipline."
***
The hotel catered to business travelers and road teams. Clean. Functional.
We checked in fast. Key cards distributed by the equipment manager. Room assignments pre-determined.
I rode the elevator to the eighth floor with Rook and Varga. Varga was mid-story about a goalie in juniors who'd allegedly kept a live chicken in his equipment bag for luck.
"—I'm telling you, the smell—"
My room was 823. View of the parking garage.
Dropped my bag on the luggage rack and checked my phone.
One text from my sister.
Maggie: How'd it go?
Heath: Won. Scored.
Maggie: Mom saw the highlight. She's thrilled.
I continued to unpack. Hung my suit in the closet and plugged in my charger.
It was barely past eleven, and my body remained wired from the game. I changed into gym shorts and a t-shirt.
The hotel gym was on the second floor. Down a hallway that smelled faintly of chlorine from the adjacent pool.
It was empty. Treadmills against one wall. Free weights and benches against the other. Fluorescent lighting that flattened everything into two dimensions.
A TV mounted in the corner played SportsCenter with the sound off. Closed captions lagged three seconds behind, like a drunk translator.
I grabbed dumbbells and started with my shoulders. Overhead press. Controlled reps.
The door opened. Kieran stepped inside.
"Donnelly."
"Mathers."
He didn't ask if I minded company, just started his warm-up. Stretching first. Shoulders. Hips. Methodical.
The gym was quiet except for our breathing and the soft percussion of weights settling back onto racks. I finished my second set. Sweat gathered at my hairline.
On the TV, SportsCenter cycled through highlights.
Kieran glanced over. "Need a spot?"
"That'd be great."
He set his dumbbells down. Wiped his palms on his shorts. Moved behind the bench.
I lay back. The weight felt heavier than the last set.
"Ready?" His voice came from above.
"Yeah."
I lifted the bar off. His hands hovered beneath. Not touching. Present.
My arms trembled slightly on four.
The bar wobbled on six.
Kieran's hands were there. Steadying without lifting.
"You got it." Quiet. Certain.
I pushed through. Seven. Eight. On nine, my arms screamed.
The bar dipped left.
Kieran touched my shoulder, steadying me.
His fingers spanned my shoulder completely—thumb near my collarbone, pinky at the curve where shoulder became arm.
I finished the rep, and he helped me rack the bar.
The hand on my shoulder lingered. Then he stepped back.
"Good set."
When I finished my next set, Kieran was doing pull-ups. Controlled. Perfect form. Shoulder blades converging on each rep.
I watched how his back muscles moved under his damp t-shirt, definition that came from years of training. The shirt rode up slightly at the top of each pull. A sliver of skin visible above his waistband.
He dropped down. Shook out his arms.
Caught me watching.
Neither of us spoke.
He grabbed his water. Drank. When he lowered the bottle, he dragged his thumb across his bottom lip, left to right, the same unconscious motion I'd seen him make on the bench between shifts.
I moved to the treadmill. Started a cool-down. Easy pace.
On the TV, they replayed my goal. Slow motion made it look even more chaotic.
Five minutes later, I stepped off the treadmill while Kieran wiped down the bench with a hotel towel.
We walked to the door together.
When the elevator arrived, we stepped in, side by side.
He pressed eight.
"Same floor."
"Yeah."
The doors closed. Kieran's shirt was damp with sweat, his hair pushed back from his forehead. We both watched the numbers climb.
I watched his hands. Long fingers. Calluses from stick tape and weightlifting. His thumb tapped once against his thigh.
The elevator dinged. Eight. Kieran stepped out first, and I followed.
He stopped at 826.
"Night, Donnelly."
"Night."
I stood in the hallway another beat before continuing to 823.
I'd barely been in my room for five minutes when my phone buzzed.
Kieran: Can't sleep.
Heath: Same.
Kieran: Wanted to make sure you were okay. Media can be tough.
I read it twice.
He was checking in on me. I considered leaving it there.
Instead, I typed:
Heath: The turtle you showed me. What was her name?
Kieran: Marina.
Heath: That's a good name.
Kieran: Rehab team named her. I just did the grunt work.
Heath: Grunt work that saved her life.
The response took a bit longer this time.
Kieran: Yeah. I guess it did.
Heath: Goodnight, Kieran.
After another thirty seconds:
Kieran: Night, Heath.
After taking a shower, I looked at the phone again.
Night, Heath.
My first name. Not Donnelly.
The room was dark except for the parking lot security light bleeding through the curtains.
My phone buzzed again. I grabbed it.
Maggie: Call when you get a chance.
It was almost midnight. I shivered slightly, fearing the worst. She answered on the second ring.
"I'm fine. Everyone's fine."
I exhaled. "What's up?"
"What happened?"
"Nothing really. It's just Dad's prescription. Insurance changed their formula. The drug that was working isn't covered anymore."
I closed my eyes. "How much?"
"Out of pocket? Three hundred a month."
"Fuck."
"Yeah. And the mortgage, property taxes went up. Payment's going up two-forty starting next month."
I did the math in my head. Games played. Paychecks. Entry-level contract. Fixed salary. Bonus structure tied to performance metrics I wasn't guaranteed to hit.
"I can cover it."
"Heath—"
"I can. It's fine."
"I'm not asking you to—"
"I know."
She was silent for a few seconds.
"We're managing. I just wanted you to know, so you're not surprised when you see the numbers."
I raked my fingers through my hair. "I appreciate that."
After another beat: "Just keep doing what you're doing," Maggie said. "Okay?"
"I will."
"Love you."
"Love you too."
The call ended.
Three hundred a month. Two-forty more on the mortgage. Five-forty total. Manageable if I kept my spot. If I didn't fuck up.
Every shift was groceries.
And I was letting myself want someone who—
My phone buzzed.
Kieran: You asleep?
Heath: No.
The dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Kieran: Good.
That was it. Good.
I stared at the word.
I could hear him saying it in my head.
Down the hall in 842, Kieran was awake. Texting me. Checking to make sure I was okay.
He wasn't asking me to be smaller.
He was checking in because he wanted me to be okay.
Maybe taking up space wasn't the thing that would make me lose my spot. Maybe shrinking was.