Chapter Twenty-Two
The First Crack
Ariana
It was an accident, the first time I saw Shane on my television after that night he found me in Boston.
It would be a lie to say Shane never crossed my mind. He did. I had a feeling he always would. But that cold winter night in Boston four years ago had cleansed me of him in a way. I’d been able to look him in the eye and tell him how I felt, and it helped me move forward.
I didn’t follow what happened to him after his injury. I didn’t want to know. Any time I thought of him, I tried my best to unthink. It was a wound I didn’t want to poke, a scab I knew better than to pick at.
But Georgie had become a hockey fan in the last few years, thanks mostly to Nathan and his affiliation with the league through his job.
Nathan worked in finance, and his firm specialized in alternative investments — money that moved quietly, through channels most people never saw.
Sports were just another asset class to him, another place where numbers could be bent, optimized, and leveraged.
And right now, my little brother was sprawled out on my king bed, hand buried in a bag of chips and a game on the TV as he kept me company while I unpacked.
Part of me wanted to tell him to shoo so I could listen to an audiobook or some music, but he was fifteen now, a sophomore in high school and quickly becoming too cool for his older sister.
If he wanted to hang out with me, I was going to take it.
I had a feeling those days would come to an end far before I was ready.
I was sorting through a box of Nathan’s, folding his night shirts and pajama pants, when a reporter said a familiar name and made me freeze mid-fold.
“Shane McCabe, assistant coach for the Jacksonville Barracudas, joining us now.”
My heart stuttered so hard I felt it in my teeth.
The camera cut to him, and I stopped breathing.
The last time I had seen him, he had been on crutches outside that restaurant in Boston. He’d been pale, too thin, and hollowed out by pain — both physical and mental. That boy had looked defeated and lost, the kind of broken that made me ache just to witness, even if I was still mad at him.
But the man on my television looked nothing like that.
“Whoa,” Georgie said from the bed, suddenly sitting up. Chips spilled onto the comforter, but he didn’t seem to notice. “No way. I had no idea Shane was still in the league.”
“Me either,” I managed on a breath, the corner of my lips curling as the reporter asked him question after question.
And it wasn’t a lie. I didn’t know what happened to him after his injury. He’d told me he was done playing, but I knew there was no way he’d let hockey go forever. It was in his soul. It was who he was.
So to see him now, still able to be a part of the sport he loved so much…
I couldn’t help but smile.
“Man, look at him,” Georgie said, grinning as he shook his head and popped another chip in his mouth. “Hard to believe I used to ride around on that guy’s shoulders. What a stud.”
I laughed.
It felt like shaking rust off my ribcage.
Shane’s hair was slightly longer now, swept back in a way that looked effortless.
A neatly trimmed beard sharpened his jaw.
His suit jacket stretched over broad shoulders that spoke of strength rebuilt over time.
His cheeks were flushed from the game, and his loosened tie made him look relaxed and confident in a way I’d never seen before.
He looked good.
He looked healthy.
He looked sure of himself.
It felt as though the injury, the depression, and the broken pieces I had seen in Boston had been smoothed over and reforged into someone steady.
It felt as though he had healed, and he had done it without me.
“Is he really an assistant coach now?” Georgie asked, turning to me with wide eyes. “That is insane. He’s like, what… thirty-three?”
“You called me old when I turned thirty,” I teased my younger brother. “Now thirty-three is young?”
“To be an assistant coach in the NHL? Yeah.” Georgie shoved a handful of chips in his mouth. “And you threw your back out like the day after you turned thirty, so…”
I grabbed one of my t-shirts and tied it into a knot before chucking it at my little brother, who laughed and caught it with ease. The brat.
When I looked back to the TV, Shane lifted his chin toward the reporter, and the familiarity of the gesture made something deep inside me twist.
“Coach McCabe, there are rumors swirling that you may already be in consideration for head coaching roles as early as next season,” the reporter said. “Anything you want to comment on?”
Shane smiled, and the sound of his quiet laugh reached directly into a part of me I had tried so hard to seal off.
“Rumors are just rumors,” he replied. “My focus is here with this team. Tonight’s win belonged to the players. They earned it.”
“That’s humble talk,” the reporter teased. “But you’re one of the youngest assistant coaches in the league. What would it feel like, to become one of the youngest head coaches in the future?”
“We will take the future as it comes,” Shane said with a small shrug. “For now, this is where I want to be.”
My fingers closed slowly around the shirt in my hands. I felt my pulse beating in my throat, sharp and unsteady. The reporter said something else to dismiss Shane, and he smiled at the camera, giving a little wave before he excused himself.
I found myself smiling, too.
“Good God, Georgie.”
I jumped a little at the baritone of my husband entering the room.
Husband.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to that.
My heart bloomed even as it beat double time as Nathan swept into the room, like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t have been doing rather than folding laundry. But I also beamed at his presence, at my handsome husband joining us. Any time he walked into a room, I lit up like a firework.
Nathan swiped the bag of chips out of Georgie’s hand. “We just had dinner.”
“That was thirty minutes ago!” my little brother defended with a grin.
It was then that I noticed the tumbler of dark liquor in Nathan’s hand.
That’s odd, I thought. He doesn’t usually drink at home.
“You’re going to eat us out of the house,” Nathan said, which made us all laugh, even if the joke did sound a bit aggressive. “Might be time to get a job so you can contribute to the grocery bill. God knows your sister doesn’t.”
That comment killed the laughter.
Both my and Georgie’s smile faltered. He glanced at me, a question in his eyes, and I flushed furiously before smiling to cover my confusion.
What the heck was that?
“I’m just messing with you, kid,” Nathan said, grabbing a chip before he handed the bag back to Georgie and ruffled his hair. “Eat all you want. You’ve got it good now.”
I blinked repeatedly, my stomach sloshing with anxiety soup. I thought it was from Shane being on the TV, but now…
Nathan crossed to me next, plopping down on the floor next to where I sat.
He wrapped me up from behind and kissed my hair.
“That was a nice smile you had when I walked in,” he said, eyes flicking to the TV.
Thankfully, it was on game highlights now, Shane no longer on screen. “Wish I got more of that smile.”
I swallowed, trying to shake off the weird feeling in my gut. “What do you mean? You get all my smiles.”
“Not that one. I wasn’t even in the room.”
I blinked again.
What was he getting at here?
Before I could wrap my head around the confusing comment, Nathan chuckled, leaning his chin on my shoulder and looking at the folded clothes in front of me.
“You’re so cute when you try to be domestic,” he said, picking up one of his night shirts I’d folded. He eyed it with amusement as he took a sip of the liquor in his glass. “Georgie, did you teach your sister how to fold, or did she learn from watching another toddler?”
Georgie’s smile was strained, and again, his eyes caught mine, like he was unsure what to say or how to react.
That makes two of us, I thought.
“I’m teasing you!” Nathan said, elbowing me.
I laughed, but it felt stranger than anything that had ever left my lips before.
My heart was pounding in my ears, but I didn’t know why.
“Here, let me show you,” Nathan said, and he kissed my cheek sweetly before holding up his shirt and instructing the proper way to fold it. Once he’d finished, he watched me re-fold three shirts before he seemed satisfied. “There you go. You’ll get the hang of it.”
He stood then, saying he needed to do some work in his study before he was humming his way down the hall like nothing had happened.
I stared at the shirts I had refolded, every edge sharp and straight, exactly the way he wanted them.
A thin line of unease coiled beneath my ribs.
It was small enough to ignore.
It was easy enough to swallow.
But it was the first crack in the glistening picture he’d painted for us.
I felt it — even if I didn’t realize what it was.