Chapter Sixteen #2
I took in the view in his short absence, marveling at the ships in the water, the buildings of downtown sprawled all around us.
Kids played games on the lawn, groups of friends shared drinks, people all over donned their Tampa Tarpons gear.
By the time Shane joined me again, I was smiling ear to ear.
“You know, it may not be Boston, but Tampa is pretty cool.”
“Oh, just wait. We haven’t seen anything yet.” Shane tapped his beer against my Bloody Mary. “To reuniting with old friends.”
I gave him a pointed look, but grinned, anyway, as I took the first sip.
It was spicy and perfect.
“So, you stuck around Boston, huh?” Shane asked, his eyes on some kids who were playing tag.
“I did.”
“Never wanted to go anywhere else?”
“I thought about Colorado once. But otherwise, no, not really.”
“You did always seem happy in New England.”
“It’s home,” I said, a soft smile on my lips. But my stomach twisted in the next second when I thought about how quickly we’d left, how Nathan had accepted this job without so much as speaking to me.
It wasn’t that I would have said no. I loved him, and I wanted him to chase his dreams. I knew this was what he’d wanted for a long, long time.
It was that he didn’t even think to consult with me, like I wasn’t a partner in his eyes, but rather just an accessory.
“You did move, though,” Shane said, his expression somber now. “Not long after the trial.”
“I did,” I answered carefully. “And again, when Nathan and I got married. How did you—”
“Hey, Coach!”
We both turned to the source of the greeting, and when Shane waved at the group of Tarpons fans who had recognized him, they were overjoyed.
Suddenly, the people who had been oblivious to who he was in our near vicinity were paying closer attention, narrowing their gaze in question, some hopping on their phone.
I wondered if they were googling to figure out who he was, if they didn’t already know.
And I felt suddenly, acutely visible.
A familiar prickle of unease crept up my spine. I imagined a photo snapped at the wrong angle, a caption taken out of context, Nathan scrolling past it later, his rage boiling until it overflowed right onto me.
I forced my shoulders to relax, but I was anything but calm inside. It’ll be fine, I told myself. I’ll just say we ran into each other. I was out running errands. Oh, why was I drinking a Bloody Mary? Well… I… they were free, actually. Yeah. There was a new bar opening and—
The fact that I was already making up stories for an argument that hadn’t happened yet had that this is wrong feeling lurching back to life.
“What do you say we walk a little?” Shane asked, shifting closer, his voice low.
Relief washed through me, quick and telling.
I nodded. “Sounds perfect.”
We did a lap around all the shops, Shane stopping to tell me a little about each of the restaurants as we did. Once I’d finished my drink, he insisted we stop for a cone from Jeni’s Ice Creams, and then we were on to our third form of transportation: rented bicycles.
It was just what I needed, that break from talking and being close to Shane.
I rode in happy silence behind him, smiling at the sun reflecting off the water as we cruised Bayshore.
Every now and then, Shane would pull to the side, stopping to point at something off in the distance and explain it to me.
He really had taken on the role as tour guide, and it made me think of when we’d walked around Boston that first summer we were a couple — how we’d watched the sailboats in the harbor, our days lost in the North End devouring the best Italian food the city had to offer, the nights we’d played tourist and followed the historical paths, reading about the men and women who’d helped found our country.
My chest ached fiercely with the memories by the time we parked our bikes in Hyde Park. There was an energetic market going on, white tents sprawled as far as the eye could see between the strips of shops on either side of the street.
And as if he didn’t even have to think before he did it, Shane grabbed my hand.
Time slugged again as his palm slid into mine, his fingers curling around me with ease. Heat zapped from that point of contact, a warning sign or an invitation, I couldn’t be sure.
We took only a few steps before I yanked away, tucking my hair behind my ear before I folded my arms tightly across my chest.
Shane frowned at the rejection, but quickly smiled and shook his head like he’d forgotten a cup on top of his car before driving off. “Sorry. I… I guess I…”
Instead of finishing the thought, he shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded his chin toward the market.
“I hope I didn’t upset you,” Shane said after we perused the first two tents in silence.
My throat was tight as I answered, “You didn’t. It’s just that I—”
“Am married,” he finished for me, our eyes locking as we came to a stop in the crowd. “I know. It was… I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess it just kind of felt…”
He swallowed, again shaking his head like he was an idiot unable to explain himself.
I couldn’t help the smile that spread on my lips, even as my stomach tightened painfully. “I understand,” I said softly.
And I did.
It felt natural, even after all this time, after all the pain and loss. I felt it, too.
“It’s just nostalgia,” I said, and even as I said it, I wondered if I believed the truth of those words. “We’re old now. Easy to want to go back to a time when our knees didn’t ache.”
Shane barked out a laugh at that. “God, it’s been a while for me on that front. I take aspirin like candy since my injury.”
I frowned, the conversation paused long enough for us to smell soaps and lotions from a local craftswoman before we were walking again. “Does your hip still hurt? Even now?”
“Not all the time,” Shane said with a shrug. “But, yes. Hip and knee, both. It takes constant physical therapy to manage the pain.”
“That sounds tiresome.”
“It’s worth it to do what I love, even if not in the capacity I wish I could,” he answered easily, and then he plucked a candle from the table we were browsing.
He held it up, brows arching as I read where it said bacon in the oven.
He opened it, inhaled, and then handed it to me to do the same as his eyes shot open wide.
I laughed.
It really did smell like bacon in the oven.
“I don’t think I’d want that smell in my house unless there really was bacon coming,” I said. “Seems like torture for my stomach.”
“What about this one?” he asked. This candle was labeled monstera that needs water. We both laughed in surprise when we smelled it. It was actually quite delightful.
“What actually happened?” I asked as we perused the candles. “With your injury. If you don’t mind talking about it, that is?”
Shane stiffened, his eyes darkening. “I don’t mind.” But he still paused a long moment before speaking again. “It happened late in the second period in a game against Toronto,” he said finally. “I was on a break down the right side. A defenseman stepped up faster than I expected.”
He lifted one shoulder in a small shrug, like the rest was obvious.
“I tried to cut inside. My skate caught. Knee went first.”
My chest tightened, and a vision of him standing on the sidewalk in the freezing cold of Boston hit me like a truck — the crutches, the bulk of hardware under his clothes, the way he’d carried himself like a broken man barely hanging on.
“I heard it,” he went on, voice even. “That pop everyone talks about. I didn’t feel the pain right away, but I knew something was wrong.”
He stopped walking, picking up a candle and turning it over in his hands before he sat it back down again.
“I still had momentum. Got hit from the side before I could go down clean. Took the boards hard. Hip shattered on impact.”
The words sat between us, heavy and final.
“They helped me off the ice,” he added. “I kept telling them I’d be fine. That I’d be back by playoffs.” A brief, humorless exhale left him. “Turns out you don’t rehab your way out of that.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Shane slid his gaze to me. “That’s it,” he said. “One bad second.”
And then he reached for a candle, holding it up to ask the booth attendant how much it was.
In the end, I left with one called old bookstore and Shane picked neighbor’s freshly cut lawn to take home. When we had our bags in hand, I turned the conversation back to his injury.
“I thought you would end up playing again,” I said. “After the injury.”
“I told you I never could.”
That memory made my stomach twist, how we’d stumbled upon each other by chance in Boston not long after his career had ended in a flash.
“I know, I just… I guess I kind of thought somehow you’d find a way. You’ve always been so driven, so passionate.” I swallowed. “I know hockey is everything to you.”
Shane’s expression went flat, like those words were an insult instead of the truth. “Yeah, well, I learned quickly there’s only so far a can-do attitude can get you, and apparently it’s not very far when you shatter your hip and tear your ACL at the same time.”
I swallowed, eyes on where my hands were tangled together in front of me. “I’m sorry, Shane.”
“Not your fault,” he said. His eyes floated to mine as we came to a stop next to a jewelry tent. “We both know the blame is all mine.”
“It was an accident.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it again, a tight smile finding his lips before he gestured to the next tent.
I wondered if I was thinking what he was, if I’d read the implication of those words he’d muttered correctly.
He wasn’t to blame for the injury that ended his hockey career.
But he was to blame for the ending of us.