24. Delaney
24
Delaney
I'm sprawled on Breck's couch, my injured ankle propped up on a mountain of pillows like some kind of ridiculous ice queen. The TV drones on, but I'm barely paying attention. My eyes keep darting to the clock, counting down the minutes until I can get back on the ice.
"Hey, Del," Breck's voice breaks through my brooding. "You need anything? More ice? Another pillow? I could whip up some of those protein balls you like."
I can't help but smile, even as I roll my eyes. "I'm fine, Breck. You don't have to hover."
He grins, that crooked smile that always makes my heart skip a beat. "Hovering is what I do best. It's my superpower."
"Some superpower," I mutter, but there's no real bite to it.
Breck plops down on the edge of the couch, careful not to jostle my ankle. "Come on, admit it. You're enjoying being waited on hand and foot."
I wrinkle my nose. "It's... not awful," I concede. "But I'd rather be skating."
"I know," he says softly, and something in his tone makes me look up. His warm brown eyes are filled with understanding, and suddenly I'm struck by how much he gets me. How much he cares.
"Hey," I say, reaching out to touch his arm. "Thanks for... you know. All of this."
Breck's face lights up like I've just handed him the Stanley Cup. "You don’t have to thank me, baby. I like taking care of you."
As he bustles off to the kitchen, muttering about protein balls and hydration, I watch him go. My chest feels warm, and it's not just from the blanket he insisted on tucking around me. For the first time in a long time, I feel... seen. Cared for. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
Is this what being in love feels like?
The thought hits me like a blindside check, leaving me breathless and disoriented. I've been so focused on my goals, on the ice, on proving myself, that I never expected... this. This warmth that spreads through my chest every time Breck smiles at me. The way my heart races when he touches me, even if it's just to adjust my ice pack.
I watch him as he moves around the kitchen, humming off-key to some country song. He's wearing ratty sweatpants and a Hunters Hockey t-shirt with a hole in the collar, and somehow he still looks devastatingly handsome. It's infuriating.
"You're staring, Quinn," Breck calls out, not even turning around. "See something you like?"
I feel my cheeks heat up. "Just wondering how long it takes to grab a glass of water," I deflect. "I could've skated a whole program by now."
He laughs, the sound rich and warm. "Patience, grasshopper. Perfection takes time."
As he walks back over, two glasses in hand, I can't help but think that maybe he's right. Maybe some things are worth the wait.
Thankfully, I don’t have long to wait when it comes to training. After the prescribed days of rest, I’m with the athletic trainers getting the all clear.
"Clear for light training," Dr. Patel says, her smile warm but cautionary. "And I mean light, Delaney. No jumps, no spins, nothing that puts undue stress on that ankle. Understood?"
I nod eagerly, already itching to feel the ice beneath my blades. "Crystal clear, Doc. Thank you."
“We’ll reassess in two days. If I like what I see, you’ll get the all clear, yes?”
“Can’t wait.”
As I leave the medical center, the crisp January air nips at my cheeks. Campus is buzzing with post-holiday energy, students rushing to and fro with new textbooks and determination. I take a deep breath, savoring the familiar rhythm of a new semester.
My phone buzzes with a text from Breck:
All clear?
Not quite. Light training only. No jumps or spins.
Want company at the rink later? I promise not to hover and drive you crazy ??
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling as I reply.
I’ll believe that when I see it. But sure, see you at 4.
As I head to my first class of the day, I can't shake the feeling that something has shifted. The world looks a little brighter, a little more full of possibility. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
But first things first. I've got a Developmental Psychology lecture to survive, and an ice rink calling my name. One step at a time, Quinn. One step at a time.
??????
Winter break ends as abruptly as it began, and life picks up like someone hit fast-forward. My days blur together: early mornings at the rink, afternoons filled with classes, and evenings spent hunched over textbooks. Skating feels good again—even if I’m still holding back on jumps and spins—but everything else feels... different.
The campus is alive with the usual January energy, the post-holiday buzz giving way to the grind of a new semester.
Through it all, Breck remains a constant.
He’s always there. At the rink watching me practice. After class, leaning against the wall with a cup of coffee in hand, giving me that crooked smile that makes my knees wobble. At night, wrapping me up in his arms like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. It started with an excuse, he wanted to be there in case my ankle acted up, but we both know that’s not it anymore. Now, it’s just us. No excuses, no reasons. Just him and me, falling asleep together every night we can.
Last night, he surprised me with my favorite True Brew coffee and a stack of flashcards for my upcoming exam.
It should scare me, how much I’ve started to rely on him. But it doesn’t. Not really.
I can't help but notice how naturally we've fallen into step with each other. It's comfortable, easy. Like we've been doing this for years instead of weeks.
It’s a freezing Monday evening when it happens. I’m walking to class, coffee in hand and my practice bag slung over one shoulder, when I hear them.
“Oh my God, what do you think he’s planning for you?” one girl asks, her voice practically dripping with excitement.
“No idea,” her friend replies, sounding just as giddy. “But he keeps hinting. I think it’s something big—maybe that Italian place downtown?”
I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but it’s hard not to when they’re walking right in front of me. They keep talking about Valentine’s Day—about flowers and chocolates and fancy dinners—and shit .
Valentine’s Day.
It’s only a couple of weeks away, and I haven’t even thought about it. I glance at my phone, my thumb hovering over Breck’s name in my messages.
What are we even doing for Valentine’s Day?
The bigger question looms in the back of my mind: What are we doing, period?
What are we? The thought hits me like a slap of cold air. We're together all the time, sleeping in each other's beds more often than not. But we've never actually defined what this is. Are we dating? Exclusive? Just friends who happen to kiss and cuddle a lot?
I shove the thought aside, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. But the question follows me, nagging like a blister.
At the rink the next morning, it’s even harder to ignore. I go through the motions, lacing up my skates, warming up, and running through my practice routine. But my head isn’t in it. Every glide across the ice feels heavier, weighed down by the question I’m too afraid to answer.
What if he doesn’t want more?
Breck’s laugh cuts through the hum of the rink. He’s leaning against the bleachers, chatting with my coach again, looking like he owns the place. The sound sends a pang through my chest. He’s so easygoing, so confident. Meanwhile, I’m stuck in my own head, overthinking everything.
I want us to be something real.
The realization settles over me like the weight of a perfect jump, landing clean but leaving me breathless. This isn’t just some fling or convenient arrangement.
I want him . And not just in stolen moments or borrowed nights—I want something solid.
The thought is terrifying.
I stumble on a turn, catching myself before I hit the ice. My coach frowns but doesn’t call me out, too used to my off days by now. Lachlan eyes me but says nothing.
Breck notices, though. He always notices.
“You good?” he asks when I skate over to the side, his brows knitting together in concern.
I nod quickly, avoiding his eyes. “Just tired.”
He doesn’t press, but I can feel his gaze on me as I pull off my gloves and focus on unlacing my skates. My fingers shake, and I don’t know if it’s from exhaustion or the weight of everything I’m feeling.
How do I even bring this up?
The idea of having the talk with Breck makes my stomach churn. What if he doesn’t feel the same? What if he’s fine with things the way they are—casual, undefined, safe?
What if asking for more ruins everything?
The drive back to my apartment is quiet. Breck is behind the wheel, his hand resting casually on the gearshift, inches from mine. Normally, I’d reach out, letting our fingers tangle together, but tonight I don’t.
My thoughts are too loud, drowning out the usual comfort I find in his presence.
“What’s on your mind?” he asks, glancing at me as he pulls into the parking lot.
“Nothing,” I lie, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he follows me inside, kicking off his shoes and settling onto the couch like he belongs there.
Because he does.
I watch him for a moment, taking in the way he leans back, his long legs stretched out and his arms draped across the cushions. The way his lips curve into a soft smile when he notices me looking. His eyes are soft and warm as they meet mine, and my chest aches.
And it hits me.
Not like a spark or a bolt of lightning—no, this is slower, deeper. A warmth that spreads from my chest to the tips of my fingers, grounding me and unraveling me all at once.
I’m in love with him.
The realization is terrifying and exhilarating in the same breath. It’s not just that I care about him or that he makes my world brighter; it’s that I can’t imagine a world without him in it. The thought of him not being there—of not waking up to his sleepy grin or hearing him tease me about my coffee obsession—feels unbearable.
I love him.
I love the way he looks at me like I’m something rare, something worth knowing, even as it terrifies me because I’ve never been anyone’s treasure before.
I love the way he remembers the little things—the kind of things most people overlook. How he knows I like chai before practice and that I always need extra syrup in my mocha when I study. How he noticed I wear my socks inside out because the seams bother me. How he carries an extra pair of gloves in his bag because I always forget mine.
I love the way he laughs, deep and unrestrained, the kind of laugh that makes you want to bottle it up and save it for the hard days. And the way he looks when he’s trying not to laugh—when I say something ridiculous, and his lips twitch, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he fights to keep a straight face.
I love how fiercely he believes in me, even when I don’t. The way he stood at the edge of the rink during my first practice back, clapping and shouting like I’d just won gold, when all I’d done was land a shaky spin. The way he tells me I’m strong, stubborn, and capable—so often that I almost start to believe him.
I love that he’s patient with my fears. That he never pushes, never asks for more than I’m ready to give. He just waits, steady and sure, like he knows I’ll find my way to him when I’m ready.
I love him.
All of him.
The thought is as thrilling as it is terrifying. Because what if he doesn’t feel the same? What if I tell him, and I ruin everything we have?
I glance at him, still stretched out on the couch, scrolling through something on his phone. He looks so at ease, so effortlessly himself. And I wonder how it’s possible that someone like him could want me, let alone love me.
He hinted at it over Thanksgiving. But, is that really what he meant? Was I reading too much into it? He’d never come out and actually said those three words. And even if he meant them then… it’s been two months. How long is he willing to wait until he gives up on me?
The air in the room feels different now, heavier, like it’s holding the weight of what I just uncovered.
“You okay?” Breck asks, sitting up a little straighter.
I nod, but my throat feels tight. I cross the room and sink onto the couch next to him, my hands clenched in my lap. He shifts closer, his knee brushing against mine.
“You sure?” he presses, his voice soft.
I look at him, really look at him—the sharp lines of his jaw, the flecks of gold in his eyes, the concern etched into his brow. And for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
“I’m fine,” I say finally, though the words feel like a betrayal. I want to tell him, to say it out loud and let the truth settle between us.
But I can’t.
Not yet.
Instead, I let him pull me into his arms, resting my head against his chest. His heartbeat is steady, strong, and it calms the storm raging inside me.
“I was thinking,” I start, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah?”
The word is soft, inviting, but it feels like a challenge. I swallow hard, my heart pounding in my chest.
“Never mind,” I say quickly, chickening out.
His hand stills in my hair, and I feel him tense slightly. “Del, what’s going on?”
I shake my head, burying my face in his shoulder. “I don’t know.”
But I do. I know exactly what I want.
I just don’t know if he wants it too.
I want us to be something real. Something more.
But I have no idea how to make that leap—or how to face the fallout if he doesn’t catch me