Chapter 24
DANNY
I find out my relationship is over from a fucking Instagram post.
I’m sitting in my apartment, suspended from the team, banned from the arena, watching my phone blow up with notifications I’m trying to ignore, when Carter texts me.
Dude. Did you see Noah’s statement?
My stomach drops.
What statement?
Check the Raptors official account.
I open Instagram. It’s the top post.
I read it three times.
The relationship has ended.
He didn’t even tell me. Didn’t call. Didn’t text. Just released a fucking statement to the world announcing we’re over.
My phone rings. It’s Carter.
I answer. “Yeah.”
“You okay?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Jesus. I’m really sorry, about all of it.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“You need anything?”
“No. I just... I need to be alone.”
“Okay. But call me if you change your mind.”
He hangs up, and I’m left staring at Noah’s statement.
Briefly involved.
Appearance of impropriety.
The relationship has ended.
Like we were a PR problem he needed to manage. Not two people who fell in love.
Not someone who told me he loved me less than twenty-four hours ago.
I throw my phone across the room. It hits the wall and clatters to the floor.
Then I sit there on my couch and try to figure out how everything fell apart so fast.
Friday night, we were at a team event. We snuck outside. We told each other we loved each other. We kissed on the street like we didn’t care who saw.
Now it’s Saturday afternoon, and my relationship is over by way of a fucking press release.
My phone buzzes from across the room. I consider leaving it there.
But it might be Marshall with news about the suspension. Or my agent. Or—
I get up, grab it. The screen’s cracked but it still works.
My blood ices when I see the text from Noah.
Can we talk? My place. 7 PM.
I stare at the message.
He wants to talk. Now. After releasing a statement saying we’re over. After telling the entire world before telling me.
I should say no, tell him to fuck off so he feels even a fraction of what I’m feeling right now.
But like an idiot, I do the thing I shouldn’t.
Fine.
The rest of the afternoon drags. I try to distract myself with television and video games, but all I can think about is Noah’s statement.
The relationship has ended.
Past tense. Like it’s already done. Like I don’t get a say.
At six forty-five, I get in my truck and drive to his place.
I don’t park a block away this time. Fuck anyone who sees and says something about it. What’s the point of hiding when everyone already knows?
I knock on his door at seven exactly.
He opens it immediately. “Hey,” he says, his voice strained.
I walk past him into the house. “You wanted to talk. So talk.”
He closes the door. We stand in his living room, and the distance between us feels like miles.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“For what? Ending our relationship in a press release? Or for not having the balls to tell me first?”
“Both. I should have told you before I released the statement. I was going to, but Marshall wanted it out before the afternoon news cycle, and—”
“And what? You couldn’t take five minutes to call me? To give me a heads-up that you were about to announce to the world that we’re over?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like, Noah? Because it looks like you made a decision without me and then told everyone else before you told me.”
“I was trying to control the narrative. Trying to—”
“Jesus Christ,” I bellow. “Fucking control. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You controlling everything. The statement. The relationship. When it starts. When it ends.” I shake my head. “Did I ever get a say in any of this?”
“Of course you did.”
“Bullshit. I don’t remember you asking me if I wanted to end things. I remember you releasing a statement saying it was already over.”
“What did you want me to do? Keep fighting for a relationship that can’t survive this? That hurts everyone around us?”
“I wanted you to fight for us! I wanted you to believe that what we have is worth the trouble!”
“It’s not about worth—“
“Then what is it about? Your father? Marshall? The organization?” I step closer. “What did your father say in that conference room?”
Noah’s lips press together before he finally speaks. “He said he’s disappointed that I didn’t trust him enough to tell him before the videos came out and that he had to find out with the rest of the world.”
“And?”
“And that I need to decide what I can live with. Whether this relationship can survive what’s coming.”
“So you decided it can’t.”
“Look at what’s happening! The videos are everywhere. The league’s investigating whether you got special treatment. My father’s being questioned about whether he knew. Marshall’s talking about my future with the organization. Your teammates are going to blame you for the suspension—“
“I don’t care about any of that!”
“Well, I do. I care that my father is being dragged through this because I couldn’t maintain professional boundaries. I care that you’re suspended for fifteen games during a playoff push. I care that everything I’ve built is falling apart—“
“So you’re saving yourself.”
“I’m trying to salvage what’s left. For everyone!”
“By ending us.” I let out a sharp laugh. “You know what’s fucked up? Last night you told me you loved me. And now, less than twenty-four hours later, you’re ending it. So which is it, Noah? Do you love me or not?”
“Of course I love you.”
“Then how can you just walk away?”
“Because loving you doesn’t change reality.” His voice cracks. “It doesn’t change the fact that we can’t be together without destroying everything around us. It doesn’t change the fact that every day we stay together makes it worse for you, for me, for my father, for the team—“
“So you picked them over me.”
“I picked not destroying everyone’s lives,” he yells.
“You picked what was safe. Like you always do.” I head for the door. “You spent weeks and weeks teaching me restraint. Teaching me to think before I act, to consider consequences. And the second it actually mattered, you forgot all of it. You acted out of fear instead of love.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Oh yeah, it is. You were so scared of what might happen that you didn’t even give us a chance to fight through it.
” I stop at the door, pressing my hand on the frame before looking back.
“I love you, Noah. I told you that last night. And I meant it. But I can’t be with someone who gives up the second things get hard. ”
“This isn’t just hard. This is impossible.”
“Only because you decided it was.”
I leave before he can respond. I get in my truck, drive home, and try not to think about the look on his face when I walked out.
I try not to think about the fact that he let me go.
I try not to think about how much it fucking hurts.
By the time I get home, my phone has hundreds of more notifications. More commentary on the statement. More speculation about our relationship.
I turn it off and collapse on the couch in the dark.
The league suspended me for fifteen games. My relationship just ended. My reputation is damaged.
Everything I was afraid would happen is happening.
And Noah’s not here to help me through it.
I’m completely alone.
Three days later, I’m still alone. I can’t bring myself to call my parents or my brother, even though they’ve left tons of messages and voicemails. I can’t face any of them.
And of course, there’s been no word from Noah. No texts. No calls. Nothing.
The team plays without me. I watch their third straight loss against Seattle from home. And I know I’m to blame.
I’m the reason we’re short a player. The reason the team’s distracted. The reason everything’s falling apart.
I turn off the game. Can’t watch anymore.
I'm halfway to the kitchen for another beer when there's a knock at my door.
I check the peephole.
Alex Naylor.
I open the door six inches and put my body in the gap. “How the fuck did you get my address?”
“Public records aren't that hard to find, Danny.” He smiles like we're old friends. “Can I come in? I'd rather not have this conversation in your hallway.”
“We're not having any conversation.”
“Five minutes. Then I leave.”
“No.”
“Riley Collins.”
I freeze.
Alex watches me freeze. His smile doesn't change.
“Five minutes,” he says again.
I step back and let him in.
He walks into my apartment like he's been there before, glancing at the framed jersey on the wall, the photos of my parents on the bookshelf. He doesn't sit. Neither do I.
“What about Riley Collins?” I say.
“I've been working this profile piece for three months. The whole arc - the assault, rehabilitation, redemption. Five thousand words, a Sunday feature placement.” He pulls a notebook from his jacket pocket but doesn't open it.
“I've talked to a lot of people on my way to getting this story, including a bartender at a hotel in Detroit who remembers your rookie defenseman drinking alone in the lobby for three hours and going up to his room with another guy. Not a teammate. Not a girl.”
My stomach drops.
“That's not a story,” I say.
“It is if I write it. I've got the bartender on tape. I've got hotel timestamps. I've got Riley's tell on his face every time someone mentions a girlfriend in the locker room…and yeah, I've been in your locker room enough times to see it.”
“You can't print that. You don't have anything.”
“I have enough. And here's the thing, Danny, I don't even need to say he's gay.
I just need to say there are ‘questions’ about a young Raptors defenseman's personal life and let the internet do the rest. Within forty-eight hours every blog and podcast in hockey will be running with it.
The kid'll be done. Nineteen years old. First NHL contract. Done.”
I take a step toward him.
Alex doesn't flinch. He's done this before.
“You touch me,” he says quietly, “and the story runs tomorrow with a quote about violent retaliation. You know the math, Danny. You can't win that fight.”
I stop.
“What do you want?”