Chapter Thirty-Two
Just the Way It Is
Shane
Present
I watched Ariana take in every inch of my home as I walked her through it, guiding her toward the living area.
She paused more than once along the way, her eyes tracking the framed team photos lining the hallway, the plaques and trophies mounted with understated restraint.
She lingered longest in front of the photograph of me with the Stanley Cup lifted over my head, the Ospreys packed tight around me, all of us frozen mid-roar.
Her lips quirked upward, something like pride softening her expression, before she finally moved on.
Though I’d never claim to be an interior designer, I did consider myself a man of taste.
The space reflected that in a way that felt instinctive rather than curated — clean lines, dark woods, leather softened with wear.
The furniture was substantial and meant to be lived on, not admired from a distance.
An old-school record player sat against one wall, its walnut casing polished from years of use, stacks of vinyl neatly organized beside it.
Across from that, a wide bookshelf stretched nearly from floor to ceiling, packed tight with hardcovers and dog-eared paperbacks, some hockey-related, others completely unrelated, all of them well-loved.
The house had always felt grown to me; grounded and masculine without being cold.
I’d lived here since accepting the coaching job in Tampa.
It was farther from the stadium than most people might expect, a newer build perched along the water in Indian Rocks Beach, but the distance had been intentional.
I needed a place that created space between me and the rink, somewhere I couldn’t see the stadium lights from the driveway or hear the echo of the crowd in my head the second I walked through the door.
Not that it always worked. I’d lost count of the nights I’d slept at the stadium anyway, especially during playoff races, but this place had always been my attempt at balance.
It was my reminder that there was a world beyond the ice.
Ariana hummed in amusement as she traced my record player, tapping her nails on the CD player perched right next to it. Her blue eyes sparkled when she cocked a brow at me. “Care to join us in the age of Bluetooth speakers?”
“Not when I have these at my disposal,” I said, bending to retrieve a thick album of CDs. Ariana’s jaw dropped before she stole the thing from my hands. Then, she was giggling and shaking her head as she thumbed through it.
“Wow,” she said, pulling one from its protective case and holding it up to show me. “Warm Up Mix 2005.”
“And it’s a banger, too.”
“I just know 50 Cent is on here.”
“The Game, too. But don’t get it twisted,” I said, holding up one finger firmly. “Fall Out Boy and Foo Fighters take up just as much space.”
“What’s the first song?”
“Pop it in and find out,” I dared, notching my head toward the player.
She smirked, accepting the challenge, and when “Girlfight” by Brooke Valentine started playing, she held her laugh for all of two seconds before it burst from her lips.
“What?” I defended. “This shit is hype!”
She laughed harder, and then her eyes snagged on another CD in the album. She wordlessly pulled it from the case and swapped it out with the one playing.
As soon as the first song began, I knew which mix she’d picked.
“Open Your Eyes” by Snow Patrol hummed over my speakers, the familiar, rhythmic guitar strums echoing in my chest the way they always did.
“Her,” Ariana said, reciting the word I’d scribbled in Sharpie across the top of that CD the day I’d burned it. Her eyes lingered on mine, and I shrugged.
“One guess who she is.”
Ariana’s throat constricted, her gaze falling to the floor between us, and then she wordlessly moved over to the couch and sat.
She dropped the burner phone on the couch cushion before immediately folding her hands into her lap, wringing them together as her knuckles turned white.
She was dressed in satin pink pajamas, her feet bare, face shining from what I assumed was her nightly skincare routine.
The sight of her like that sucker punched me, because I felt robbed.
I could have lived my entire lifetime with that sight, with her climbing into bed next to me and kissing me before settling in to read her book while I fell asleep beside her.
I could have woken to her each morning, could have held her against me and felt her warmth.
I’d been a fool to leave her under the pretense of protection. A young, stupid fool.
I quietly sat next to her as Snow Patrol serenaded us, and for a while, I let her stay silent.
Then, I reached over, peeling her hands apart so I could slide my palm into hers and thread our fingers together.
We both closed our eyes when I did, like we were spiraling back to the first time I’d ever grabbed her hand.
“I know it’s probably the last thing you want to do,” I told her, gently stroking her skin with my thumb. “But I need you to tell me everything. I need to know exactly what’s been going on with you and Nathan.”
She let out a shaky exhale, shaking her head. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Try.”
She spoke slowly at first, like she was testing the ground with each word to make sure it wouldn’t give way, and I stayed quiet, my hand wrapped around hers as I listened.
What she told me didn’t land as something that made sense all at once, but in pieces that seemed small on their own and devastating in the way they accumulated.
Nathan controlled their money. He not only reigned over their accounts but restricted her access to them.
He handled every payment, laughed at her when she suggested maybe she should have a separate account of her own, and framed all of it as responsibility rather than restriction.
He acted as if he was doing her a favor by taking it off her plate.
Her schedule wasn’t hers either. He expected to know where she was, who she was with, and how long she’d be gone. When she stepped outside those expectations, he noticed. He always noticed.
“Did he know we were together that day when he went to Vegas the first time?” I asked.
She swallowed. “I didn’t think so at first, but now… I’m sure he did. Or at least, I know he knows I was out all day. He may not have proof I was with you, but he suspects.”
I nodded. “It makes sense why he was so abrasive with me at the executive dinner. If he already suspected we’d spent time together…”
“And then he saw us alone.”
I nodded grimly.
“He asked me where I’d been for Thanksgiving after his trip. We share our location, so I didn’t see any reason to lie.” She paused. “He wasn’t happy you were there. And that’s when he started in on Sweet Dreams.”
She went on to tell me how Nathan had questioned the time it demanded, the people involved, the way it was “draining her,” all under the guise of concern. By the time his concern hardened into pressure, Ariana had already realized what his intention was.
“And then… there’s Georgie.”
My stomach dropped along with her shoulders when she said his name.
She told me what I suspected, that everything her brother depended on had been folded neatly into Nathan’s influence — his tuition, housing, stability.
He’d never threatened her outright with any of it, but he didn’t need to.
He simply reminded her what was at stake and let the fear do the work for him.
“That part hurts the worst,” she admitted softly. “Because for so long, I took care of Georgie. But then I trusted Nathan when he said he wanted to take care of both of us. I fell into the trap because I was so desperate for the release — to be free of the stress, the worry, the pressure.”
That had cracked my heart like flimsy, dry clay.
Because I knew she was desperate for that because I’d left her wanting.
Affection, she went on, had become conditional. Nathan gave it to her when she complied, withheld it when she didn’t, and sharpened it when she resisted. He made her feel smaller without ever raising his voice, made her doubt instincts she’d once trusted without question.
I listened as it all came together, each piece slotting into place until there was no denying the shape of it.
Nathan had worked his way into every corner of her life so subtly that she hadn’t realized she was losing ground until there was nowhere left to stand.
He’d charmed her first, then slowly eroded everything that made her glow, leaving behind a subdued version of the woman he’d met.
Every choice she made, every movement she allowed herself, had been orchestrated until he held the strings, and she was left believing it was her fault.
“He’s never hit me,” she admitted softly, like that somehow acquitted him, like because he wasn’t the same kind of piece of shit as her stepdad, he somehow still had merit.
“But… before the dinner party, he grabbed me. My wrist. Hard. He was angry, and I tried to pull away, and he—” Her breath hitched.
“He wanted to hurt me. Just enough to make a point.”
By the time she admitted she was terrified to leave, her voice was barely there. It trembled as she told me how she was scared of what he’d do, worried of what she’d lose, and ashamed that she’d let it happen, that it’d grown to this point.
My grip tightened around her hand. I hoped it anchored her and I needed it to anchor me, because now that I could see it clearly, I understood just how deep it went.
And there was no universe in which I was letting her face it alone.
“I don’t know who I am anymore, Shane,” she whispered, her eyes welling, lips rolling together as she shook her head. “I… I can’t believe I’ve let it get here. I watched this happen to my own mother.” She finally looked at me. “How did I not see it happening to myself?”