Chapter 28
DANNY
I make it to my truck before the anger turns into something else.
Regret. Guilt. The realization that I just said things I can’t take back.
You’re too scared to fight for what you want.
We’re done.
Stay away from me.
I sit in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel, trying to catch my breath.
The clinic. I’m supposed to be at a clinic right now teaching kids hockey. Acting like my life isn’t falling apart.
I was already late.
And now that I’m sitting here, I know can’t do it.
I pull out my phone to text Tate.
Can’t make the clinic. Sorry.
His response comes immediately.
What happened?
Ran into Noah. It went badly.
Where are you?
Parking lot.
Stay there. I’m coming out.
Three minutes later, Tate appears. He spots my truck, walks over, opens the passenger door, and gets in without asking.
“Talk,” he says.
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Bullshit. You just bailed on a clinic you committed to. What happened?”
I stare at the steering wheel. “Noah was here. We ran into each other. We fought.”
“How bad?”
“Bad. I said things I shouldn’t have said.”
“Like what?”
“That he gave up. That he was too scared to fight for us. That he chose everyone except me.” I run a hand through my hair. “I told him to stay away from me.”
Tate’s quiet for a moment. “Did you mean it?”
“I don’t know. In the moment? Yeah. Now?” I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“What did he say?”
“That I gave an interview that got him fired. That I handed the guy the ammunition to destroy us both. That I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”
“Is he wrong?”
The question hits harder than it should.
“No. He’s not wrong.”
“So you’re both hurt. You both fucked up. And you both just threw it in each other’s faces instead of actually talking about it.”
“Pretty much.”
“Great. Real mature.” Tate leans back. “You know what I think?”
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“I think you’re both so busy being angry that you’re forgetting why you were together in the first place.” He looks at me. “Do you still love him?”
“That doesn’t matter—“
“It’s the only thing that matters. Do you still love him?”
I’m quiet for a long moment.
“Yeah. I do.”
“Then you need to fix this. Not by yelling at each other in a parking lot. By actually talking. About what happened. About what you both did wrong. About whether you want to try again.”
“He ended it, Tate. He released that statement without even telling me. How am I supposed to get past that?”
“The same way he’s supposed to get past you giving that interview.
By deciding that what you have is bigger than the mistakes you made.
” Tate opens the door. “Look, I get it. You’re hurt.
He hurt you. But you hurt him too. And if you walk away now without actually trying to fix it, you’re doing exactly what you accused him of doing. Giving up.”
He gets out of the truck.
I sit there for a long time after he leaves.
Tate’s right. I know he’s right.
I accused Noah of giving up. Of choosing the safe option. Of being too scared to fight.
And then I walked away and told him to stay away from me.
I’m doing the exact same thing.
I pull out my phone. Noah’s number is still blocked from his end, but I could text from a different number. I could show up at his house or find a way to reach him.
But what would I even say?
Sorry for yelling at you. Also, you’re still wrong about everything.
That’s not going to fix anything.
I need to actually think about this. About my part in what happened. About whether I’m willing to do the work to fix it.
I drive home and spend the rest of the day pacing my apartment, replaying the confrontation.
Noah’s face when I told him he gave up. The hurt in his eyes. The way his voice cracked when he said I did love you.
Past tense.
Like it’s already over.
Maybe it is. Maybe we’re too broken to fix.
Or maybe I’m just scared.
By eleven that night, I’m going insane. The walls of my apartment are closing in. I can’t sit here anymore.
I grab my keys and drive without really thinking about where I’m going until I’m pulling into the arena parking lot.
I’m not supposed to be here. Marshall banned me. I’m supposed to stay away during suspension.
But it’s almost midnight. The building’s dark except for security lights. No one’s here.
I just need to see it. The ice. The boards. The place that’s been home for all these years.
I try the side entrance near the player facilities. It’s locked.
I’m about to leave when I remember the loading dock door. Sometimes it doesn’t latch properly if you don’t pull it all the way shut.
I walk around back and try the handle.
It opens.
I slip inside, quiet, listening for security. But the building’s silent except for the hum of the air conditioners.
I make my way through the corridors, past the locker rooms, and out to the rink entrance.
The arena’s dark. Just the ice lit up by emergency lights, reflecting in the empty space.
God, I missed this.
I walk down to the ice level, lean against the boards, and just breathe it in. The cold air. The smell of ice and Zamboni exhaust. The echo of the empty building.
I stand there a long time.
I think about every shift I've ever taken on this ice. Every win, every loss, every time the arena erupted into cheers that rang in my ears. This place has been the most reliable thing in my life since I was twenty-two. The one part of me I never had to second-guess.
And I think about how, for the last two weeks, I haven't missed it the way I should.
I miss it. But I miss something else more.
I miss the way Noah looked at me across his kitchen the first morning I stayed over. Half asleep, hair a sexed up mess, and the second he registered I was still there he tried to hide how relieved he was. He failed. He didn't know I saw it. I've been holding that look in my memory ever since.
I miss the way he laughed at the rink that day with the kids…
the actual laugh, not the professional once when the seven-year-old asked him if he played and he said no and the kid said, "that's okay, you can still cheer.
" I miss how he looked at me right after, embarrassed and open, like he'd been caught at something he didn't know was a secret.
I miss him.
And what I did to him in that conference room…telling him he gave up, telling him to stay the fuck away from me…that's not the man he saw on the ice with the kids. That's not the man he risked everything for.
I grip the boards. The cold shoots up my forearms.
I gave Alex that interview because I thought Noah was already lost. Because I thought I had nothing left to lose for him. Because I'd already decided we were over and I was just protecting the next person I could reach.
But he's not lost. He's just hurt. And I'm the one who hurt him last.
I'm done waiting for him to make the first move. Done waiting for the right time. Done telling myself pride is the same thing as principle.
Tomorrow morning I'm going to find him. I'm going to apologize for the conference room. For the silence. For believing him when he said it was over instead of believing what I knew underneath.
I'm going to fight for him.
Whatever it costs.
Whatever he says back.
I'm going to fight.
That's when I hear footsteps behind me.
Coach Enver’s standing at the tunnel entrance, arms crossed, watching me.
Fuck.
“I know I’m not supposed to be here,” I say immediately. “I just... I needed to see it. I’ll leave.”
“How’d you get in?”
“Loading dock door was open.”
He walks down toward me. “Can’t sleep?”
“Something like that.”
“Me neither.” He comes to stand beside me at the boards, both of us looking out at the empty ice. “Been watching tape and trying to figure out how to stop the bleeding. Five straight losses. Six after tonight.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what? Getting suspended? Or for what happened with my son?”
I don’t answer.
He’s quiet for a minute. “You miss it?”
“Every day.”
“Good. That means you’re not taking it for granted. I’ve been coaching for thirty years. You know what I’ve learned? The players who miss it when they can’t play…those are the ones who appreciate it when they can.”
“I appreciate it. I just fucked up and lost it.”
“You didn’t lose it. You’re suspended. There’s a difference. Eight more games and you’re back.”
“If the team still wants me. If my teammates don’t hate me.”
“Some of them are mad. Some of them aren’t. That’s sports. You’ll deal with it.” He glances at me. “But that’s not what’s keeping you up at night, is it?”
I shake my head.
“I heard what happened at Play It Forward,” Coach says. “Between you and Noah.”
My chest tightens. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“I know. But it did. He came home after, but wouldn’t talk much about it. I could see on his face how hurt he was.”
“Yeah, well, he hurt me first,” I grumble.
“I know he did. He hurt himself too.” Coach turns to face me. “Look, I’m not here to take sides. You’re both adults. You both made mistakes. But I’m going to tell you something because I think you need to hear it.”
I look at him and wait.
“When Noah told me about you two, I was angry and disappointed. I felt betrayed that he didn’t trust me enough to tell me before the whole world found out.
” He pauses. “But I was also scared, scared that he’d thrown away his career for something that wouldn’t last, scared that he’d get hurt, and most of all scared that I’d lose my son to a mess I couldn’t fix. ”
“Did you tell him to end it?”
“No. I told him to figure out what he could live with. Whether the relationship could survive what was coming.” He looks at me. “He chose to end it. That was his decision. Not mine.”
“But you pressured him—”
“I told him the truth about the consequences. The league investigation. The questions I’d face.
The damage to his career and yours. That’s not pressure.
That’s reality.” Coach’s voice is firm. “But I never told him to end it. I never said I’d resign if he didn’t.
That was all him, trying to protect everyone like he always does. ”
“He gave up,” I finally say.
“Yeah. He did.” Coach nods. “And I think he knows that now. It took him a while, but he’s getting there.”
“I'm gonna reach out to him.”
Coach looks at me. Really looks at me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Coach is quiet for a long minute. Then he leans his forearms on the boards next to mine, looks out at the ice instead of at me.
“He's hurting too,” he says. “In case that helps.”
“It does.”
“He thinks he protected everyone. He didn't. He just made everyone hurt by themselves instead of together. He'll figure that out, but it might take him a minute.”
“I'm not waiting for him to figure it out. I'm gonna find him tomorrow.”
“Good.” He pauses again. “For what it's worth, Masterson, I told him a lot of things in that conversation. Most of them true. But there’s one thing I didn't tell him.” He glances at me.
“That I'd rather have a son who fights for what he loves than a son who plays it safe. I should've led with that. I didn't.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“Because if you find him tomorrow, and he tries to tell you he's doing this for me and my career, you tell him I said that. Word for word.”
“Yeah. I will.”
He straightens and pats the boards twice with his palm. “Now get out of here before security finds you, kid. Side door's unlocked till four in the morning. Use it.”
He walks back up the tunnel without looking back.
I stand there at the boards, staring at the empty ice. I'm not thinking about what Coach said. I'm thinking about Noah.
Tomorrow morning.
Whatever it costs.
Coach is right. I’ve been so busy being angry, being hurt, being justified in my pain that I haven’t thought about whether I’m willing to actually do the work to fix this.
Whether I’m brave enough to reach out first.
Whether love is worth the risk.
I pull out my phone and look at Noah’s name in my contacts.
I’m still blocked from his end. But I could text from a different number. Or show up at his house. I could find a way.
I don’t know what I’d say or if he’d even listen.
I also don’t know if we can fix what’s broken.
I leave the arena, drive home, and spend the rest of the night figuring out what I want to say.
By morning, I have it.
Not perfect. Not polished. Just honest.
I grab my phone and open an email.
Noah, I know you don’t want to hear from me.
I know I said things I shouldn’t have said.
But I need to talk to you. Really talk. Not yell.
Not fight. Just talk. If you’re willing, meet me tomorrow afternoon at two at the coffee shop where we met last time.
If you don’t show up, I’ll understand. But I’m asking you to give me a chance to fix this. Please.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself.
Then I wait.