Chapter 17
Lydia
Grief is not a process. It is a state of being.
It isn't five stages that you move through neatly—Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. It’s a messy, chaotic storm where you feel all of them at once, usually while standing in line for coffee or trying to tape a linebacker's ankle.
It had been four weeks since Mikey left.
Four weeks since he walked away from me in the snow. Four weeks since he vanished into the ether, leaving behind only a signed confession and a shattered team.
I was surviving. Technically.
I attended my classes. I sat in the front row. I took meticulous notes. I aced my midterms.
I worked my shifts at the student clinic. I taped ankles. I iced knees. I smiled at patients and asked about their pain levels on a scale of one to ten.
My own pain level was a constant, throbbing eight.
Everywhere I looked, I saw him.
I walked past the library, and I saw the glass-walled study room where we had first touched knees. It was empty now, just a fishbowl reflecting the grey sky.
I walked past the arena, and I heard the phantom sound of skates cutting ice. Shhh-shhh-shhh.
I slept in my dorm room, but I woke up reaching for a body that wasn't there. My hand would hit the cold mattress, and the reality would crash down on me all over again.
He's gone. He hates me. I ruined him.
"Lyd, you're doing it again," Becca said gently.
We were in the cafeteria. Lunch. I was staring at a bowl of tomato soup like it was a scrying pool.
"Doing what?" I asked, stirring the soup. It was cold.
"Dissociating," Becca said. She reached across the table and took the spoon from my hand. "You haven't eaten a bite. And you look like you haven't slept in a month."
"I sleep," I lied. "I just... dream a lot."
"About him?"
I didn't answer. Of course about him. Dreams where he wasn't hurt. Dreams where he didn't sign the paper. Dreams where we were in a loft in Detroit with a giant dog.
"You need to move on, Lydia," Becca said, her voice firm but kind. "He's gone. He hasn't called. He hasn't texted. He... he confessed to harassing you."
"He lied," I whispered. "To save me."
"Or maybe he told the truth," Becca countered. "Maybe he was using you. Maybe he realized his career was tanked and he needed a scapegoat."
I glared at her. "He wouldn't do that."
"You don't know that. He's a Holt. They're unstable. Everyone says so."
I stood up, my chair screeching against the floor. "I'm not hungry."
"Lydia, wait—"
I grabbed my bag and walked out. I couldn't listen to it. I couldn't listen to people rewrite him. They didn't know him. They didn't know the boy who cried in the firelight. They didn't know the man who wired twelve thousand dollars to save a father who didn't recognize him.
I walked out into the cold March air. The snow was melting, turning into grey slush. It was ugly.
I headed for the one place I wasn't supposed to go.
The Arena.
Uncle Mac had lifted my ban after the investigation cleared me. I was allowed back in the building, but I hadn't gone. It hurt too much.
But today... today I needed to feel close to him. Even if it was just to the ghost of him.
I swiped my ID at the staff entrance. It beeped green.
I walked down the familiar hallway. The smell hit me instantly—ice, sweat, rubber.
I walked past the locker room. I could hear the team inside. They were loud, but the energy was different. Manic. Fragmented. Without their Enforcer, they were a pack without an Alpha.
I walked to the Hydrotherapy Room.
The door was unlocked.
I slipped inside.
It was empty. The lights were off. The tub was drained.
I walked over to the edge of the tub and sat down on the cold tile. I pulled my knees to my chest.
This was where it happened. Where we broke the rules. Where I felt his hands on me for the first time.
I closed my eyes and inhaled.
Under the bleach, under the eucalyptus... faint, fading, but there...
Cedar.
I let out a sob. Just one.
Then I heard footsteps.
Heavy. Slow.
I froze.
The door opened. Light spilled into the room.
"I figured I'd find you here."
It was Uncle Mac.
He stood in the doorway, filling the frame. He looked tired. He looked sad.
"Hey, Coach," I whispered, wiping my eyes.
Mac walked in and sat down on the bench opposite me. He sighed, rubbing his face with his hands.
"You're cleared, Lydia," he said. "The Board accepted the report. You're free and clear. Your scholarship is safe."
"Yay," I said flatly.
"You don't sound happy."
"I'm not happy, Mac. I'm miserable. I have my scholarship, but I lost... everything else."
Mac looked at me. His bear eyes were soft.
"He did a good thing, Lydia. Taking the fall. It was the only way."
"Where is he?" I asked. "Do you know?"
Mac hesitated. "He's in Chicago. Living in a motel. Working construction."
My heart squeezed. Construction. On a broken leg?
"Is he rehabbing?" I asked. "Is he skating?"
Mac shook his head. "No. He gave up, Lydie. He thinks it's over."
"It's not over!" I insisted. "His leg will heal. He can still get drafted. If he just... if he just tries."
"He has nothing to try for," Mac said gently. "He thinks he's poison. He thinks he's doing the world a favor by disappearing."
Mac stood up. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope.
"This came to the office today," he said. "Return address is a PO Box in Chicago. It's for you."
He handed it to me.
My hands shook as I took it. It was a plain white envelope. My name was scrawled on the front in messy, familiar handwriting.
Lydia.
"I didn't open it," Mac said. "But... whatever it says... maybe it'll help you close the book."
He patted my shoulder and walked out.
I sat there in the dark, holding the letter.
I was terrified to open it. What if it was cruel? What if it was a final goodbye? What if it confirmed everything Becca said?
But I had to know.
I ripped it open.
Inside was a single piece of notebook paper. And something else. Something small and hard.
A key.
I looked at the key. It was old, brass. It looked like a house key. Or a car key.
I unfolded the paper.
Mouse,
By the time you get this, the dust should have settled. Mac says you're safe. That's all that matters.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything. For the lies. For the pain. For being exactly who everyone said I was.
You were right about the fantasy. It was a nice dream. But dreams aren't for people like me.
The key is for the storage unit on 4th and Main in Chicago. Unit 404. Inside is the Camaro. It's yours. Sell it. Keep it. Burn it. I don't care. It's the only thing of value I have left, and I want you to have it. Maybe use the money for med school. Or a vacation. Or a dog.
Don't come looking for me. Please. Let me stay gone.
Be happy, Lydia. Be brilliant. Be safe.
Love,
The Problem.
I stared at the letter.
Tears dripped onto the paper, smearing the ink.
He gave me his dad's car. His legacy.
Don't come looking for me.
I crushed the letter in my fist.
"No," I whispered. "No, you don't get to do that. You don't get to be noble and tragic and leave me with a muscle car and a broken heart."
I stood up.
The zombie phase was over.
I wasn't going to accept this. I wasn't going to accept a life of "safety" and "scholarships" while the love of my life rotted in a motel room thinking he was a monster.
I looked at the key.
Unit 404. Chicago.
I checked my watch. 4:00 PM.
It was a six-hour drive to Chicago.
I grabbed my bag. I grabbed the key.
"Screw safety," I said to the empty room. "I'm going to get my monster."
Mikey
The motel room smelled like stale smoke and despair.
I sat on the edge of the sagging bed, staring at the TV. It was muted. Some game show. People winning money.
My leg was propped up on a stack of pillows. The cast was heavy, itching like crazy.
I took a swig of the cheap whiskey I had bought at the liquor store down the street. It burned going down. Good.
It had been four weeks.
Four weeks of hell.
I worked days at a construction site—off the books. I was the "guy who sits in the booth and checks invoices" because I couldn't walk. The foreman took pity on me because I was big and looked like I could kill someone if I wasn't crippled.
It paid enough for the motel and the whiskey. That was all I needed.
My phone—a burner flip phone—sat on the nightstand. It never rang. Nobody had this number except Mac, and he only texted to give me updates on the "investigation."
She's safe.
That was the last one.
I closed my eyes.
Safe.
That was the goal. Mission accomplished.
So why did I feel like I had ripped my own heart out and eaten it?
I missed her. God, I missed her.
I missed her smell. I missed her bossiness. I missed the way she counted heartbeats.
I looked at the empty space beside me on the bed.
I imagined her there. Sleeping. Drooling on my arm.
Stop it, I told myself. She's better off. She's going to be a doctor. She's going to marry a nice, human accountant who doesn't have a genetic predisposition for homicide.
I took another drink.
Someone pounded on the door.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"Housekeeping!" a voice yelled.
"Go away," I shouted. "I don't need cleaning."
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"I said go away!"
"Open the door, Holt!"
I froze.
The bottle slipped from my hand, thudding onto the carpet. Whiskey spilled, staining the rug.
That voice.
It wasn't housekeeping. It wasn't the foreman.
It was the one voice I had been trying to drink out of my head for a month.
"Lydia?" I whispered.
"Mikey! I know you're in there! Open the damn door or I'm kicking it down!"
I stared at the door.
She came.
She ignored the letter. She ignored the warning. She came.
Panic surged. She couldn't see me like this. Not here. Not in this filth. I was unshowered, unshaven, drunk, and broken.
"Go home, Lydia!" I yelled. "Leave me alone!"
"No!" she shouted back. "I drove six hours through construction traffic! I am not leaving!"
I heard a metallic scraping sound in the lock.
The key.
Not the room key—I had changed the lock myself because the motel one was flimsy. But she was... picking it?
Click.
The door swung open.
Lydia stood there. She was wearing her coat, a scarf, and boots that were covered in mud. She looked exhausted. She looked furious.
And she looked like an angel.
She stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind her. She scanned the space—the spilled whiskey, the unmade bed, the cast, the despair.
Her eyes landed on me.
I braced myself for the pity. Or the disgust.
Instead, she dropped her bag on the floor and marched over to me.
"You look like shit," she announced.
"Nice to see you too," I muttered, looking away.
"Why did you send me the key?" she demanded, standing over me.
"Because it's your car now. Sell it."
"I don't want the car, Mikey! I want the driver!"
"The driver is totaled," I snapped, gesturing to my leg. "Look at me, Lydia. I'm done. I'm washed up. I'm living in a roach motel drinking rotgut whiskey."
"So?" she challenged. "Is that it? You hit a bump and you just... quit?"
"It wasn't a bump! It was a cliff! I lost everything!"
"You didn't lose me!" she screamed. "You threw me away!"
"To save you!"
"I didn't ask to be saved! I asked to be your partner!"
She grabbed my face with both hands, forcing me to look at her. Her hands were cold. Her eyes were wet.
"You think you're noble," she whispered fiercely. "You think you're protecting me from the big bad wolf. But you're just scared. You're scared that if you let me in, really let me in, I'll see the cracks and run."
"You should run," I rasped. "The cracks are getting bigger."
"I don't care about the cracks," she said. "I have glue. I have tape. I have a degree in fixing broken things."
She leaned in, her forehead resting against mine.
"I love you, Michael Holt. I love the broken parts. I love the scary parts. And I am not leaving this room until you admit that you love me too."
I closed my eyes. I tried to summon the wall. I tried to summon the coldness I had used in the courtyard.
But it was gone.
Her presence melted it instantly. The smell of her—vanilla and determination—filled my lungs, replacing the smoke and whiskey.
"I love you," I whispered brokenly. "I never stopped. Not for a second."
She let out a sob—half laugh, half cry.
"Good," she said. "That's a start."
She pulled back, wiping her eyes. She looked around the room again.
"Okay. Here's the plan. Pack your bag. We're leaving."
"Leaving?" I blinked. "Where?"
"Chicago," she said. "But not this dump. We're going to my aunt's house in the suburbs. She has a guest room. It's clean. It has food."
"Lydia..."
"Shut up. You're coming. We're going to get you cleaned up. We're going to get you a real doctor to look at that leg. And then... we're going to call Reynolds."
"Reynolds?" I laughed bitterly. "He hates me."
"He thinks you're a liability," she corrected. "We're going to prove him wrong. You have eight weeks until May 1st. That's enough time."
"For what?"
"For a montage," she smiled weakly. "Rehab. Training. Ice time. I'm going to work you until you puke, Mikey. But on May 1st, you are going to skate for Detroit. And you are going to get that contract."
"And if I don't?"
"Then we figure something else out," she said. "Together. Maybe we open a gym. Maybe we breed Newfoundlands. I don't care. As long as it's us."
She held out her hand.
"Are you in, or are you out?"
I looked at her hand. Small. Strong. Offering me a lifeline I didn't deserve.
I looked at the whiskey bottle on the floor.
I looked at my cast.
Then I looked at her eyes.
"I'm in," I whispered.
I took her hand.
She pulled me up. I grabbed my crutches.
We walked out of the motel room. I left the whiskey. I left the despair.
I hobbled to her car—the beat-up Honda Civic.
As I climbed in, she leaned over and kissed me. It wasn't a polite kiss. It was a claiming.
"Let's go get your life back, Problem," she said.
I smiled. A real smile.
"Drive, Mouse."
We pulled onto the highway, heading toward the suburbs. Heading toward the montage. Heading toward the impossible.
I didn't know if we would make it. I didn't know if my leg would hold.
But for the first time in a month, the noise in my head was gone.
And the Wolf? The Wolf was howling.
Not in madness. In hope.