Chapter 24
Ryan
Haven't slept all night. No matter how hard I tried, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling. Sometimes staring at the Penguins poster on the wall. Other times at the photo of Mom, Dad, Sarah, and me on the nightstand.
The pillow’s damp under my face, the navy blanket twisted in my hands so tight my knuckles ache. My chest keeps hitching, and I can’t stop making these broken sounds.
Got back to Erie late last night. The train ride's a blur—three hours of watching my reflection in the dark window, phone buzzing against my thigh until I finally shut it off. Each vibration made my stomach clench.
Larry picked me up at the station. One glance at my face, and he looked ready to murder someone. Told him what happened. Mostly. Didn’t bother mentioning how Connor held me at gunpoint. Or how he drugged me.
But everything else came pouring out.
The blackmail. The marriage. Losing my scholarship.
I curl tighter, throat aching from crying so hard.
Need my bear. But he’s back at Crestwood. In that room. With him.
Might as well have ripped my heart out and left it there too.
There’s a knock on my door. “Ryan? You awake?”
I wipe my face with my shirt and sit up. “Yeah.”
The door opens and Larry steps in, a bottle of water in his hand. He sets it on the nightstand. “Figured you could use this.”
“Thanks.”
He settles into my desk chair. “How you holding up? Get any sleep last night?”
I shake my head as the tears fall all over again. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
His thick eyebrows furrow. “For what?”
“You did so much. Called in favors with Coach Nieminen. Pushed me to try for Crestwood.” My throat tightens. “And I fucked it all up.”
“Ryan, stop.” His voice is firm but gentle. “You didn't fuck anything up.”
“My scholarship’s gone. Gone. Everything you worked for—”
“Everything you worked for.” Larry leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I made some calls, yeah. But you're the one who made the team. You're the one who kept your grades up. You're the one who impressed Nieminen enough that he wanted you there.”
I pull my knees to my chest. “Doesn't matter.”
“It matters.” He runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Look, I pushed for Crestwood because I saw what you could do on the ice. The way you played after—” He pauses. “You have NHL potential, Ryan. Still do. That's why I called in those favors.”
My throat tightens. “Had.”
“Have. Present tense.” He shifts in the chair, making it creak.
“But that doesn't mean you have to keep playing.
You want to focus on your accounting degree?
We'll make that happen. Gannon's got a good program. So does Mercyhurst. Hell, even Penn State Behrend. And they’ve got great hockey teams if you decide to keep playing.”
I want to argue, to tell him it's not that simple, that I can't just pick up and start over somewhere else. That I'm tired of losing everything.
But he's trying. He's always trying.
“I wanted to make you proud.” The words come out broken.
“Kiddo, you've made me proud every day since you came to live here. College doesn't change that. Hockey doesn't change that.”
I reach for the water bottle, but my gaze lands on the photo of my family. My hand freezes, throat tightening.
Three days.
Three more days until—
“Ryan, breathe. Come on. In. Out. In. Out.”
But I can’t. I can’t do it. It’s all too much. My chest seizes, and the sound that rips out of me is ugly, raw, too loud. My whole body shakes as I wail again. “Dad, it hurts. It hurts so much.”
“Oh, kiddo.” The mattress dips and then Larry’s arms wrap around me, pulling me to his chest. “I got you.”
My fingers clutch his sweatshirt as sobs tear through me.
His hand rubs circles on my back, the same way he did that first night I woke up screaming in this house. The same way he did after every nightmare, every anniversary eve, every time the grief got too big for my body to hold. “Let it out. Just let it all out.”
I don't know how long we stay like that. Long enough that the sobs turn to hiccups. Long enough that my ribs ache from crying so hard. And long enough that exhaustion starts winning over grief.
My breathing finally slows, the harsh gasps evening out. Larry's sweatshirt is soaked where I'd been crying against his shoulder. He’s the only person I don’t flinch with. The only person whose touch makes me feel safe.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to call you—”
“Ryan. Call me whatever feels right to you. Dad, Larry, Coach—doesn't matter to me. We've been over this.”
But it matters. My real dad is buried in Erie Cemetery, has been for eight years. And here I am, calling another man Dad.
“Kiddo, it’s your choice. Always was, always will be. Doesn't change anything between us.”
I nod.
He said the same thing after he asked if I wanted him to adopt me and I told him no. I didn’t want to replace my dad. Never will.
But I see Larry as my dad too. That’s why it slips out sometimes, why the word burns my throat even if it feels right. When I woke up in that hospital bed, all I wanted was Mom, Dad, and Sarah. I kept asking for them until the CPS lady sat down and explained what happened.
Not one member of my extended family came. No one stepped up for me.
Except Larry.
He’d been my hockey coach back then. He got a provisional foster license while I recovered in the hospital. Everyone felt it was in my best interest since I knew him.
I sit back and wipe my eyes. “It’s not that I don’t . . . I mean . . . It’s confusing.”
“I know, kiddo.”
“I want to. You’re like my dad. You did everything for me, took me in when you didn’t have to. Put up with so much. Even when I attacked my classmates.”
“That’s my biggest regret. When they removed you after the cemetery incident, I should've raised hell. Made them listen.”
“You did fight.”
“Not hard enough.” His shoulders sag. “But I didn’t know what to do.”
“I don’t blame you.”
Larry probably didn’t have a choice. I was a foster kid. After I’d gotten arrested for attacking those kids, CPS removed me for safety and mental health stabilization. Put me in that group home that broke whatever wasn’t already broken.
I went back to Larry’s after. He did everything to help me, to make sure no one tried to take me away again.
He wipes the corner of his eye, then clears his throat. “Where's your bear?”
“At Crestwood.”
“With that boy?”
I nod.
Last night I thought Larry was going to drive to Crestwood and strangle Connor with his bare hands. He’d been furious when I told him what happened.
But no matter how much I wanted to let him, no matter how easy it would be to hate Connor and never look back . . . my chest twists at the thought. Because it isn’t that simple.
Not for me.
I look down at my bed, wringing my fingers. “I’m in love with him.”
He grumbles. “Yeah, picked up on that last night. The way you talked about him, even angry and hurt, there was something else there.”
“I'm stupid.”
“You're not. Love doesn't follow logic. If it did, I never would've fallen for my ex-wife. She was a disaster. Impulsive, stubborn, and drove me absolutely insane. But I loved her anyway. Sometimes you can't help who you connect with.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Then how come you left her?”
“Kiddo, she left me. Found someone else.” He pats my knee. “Now, get dressed and come downstairs. Made pancakes.”
“Not hungry.”
“And I’m not asking.” He gets up and walks to the door, pausing at the threshold. “Ryan, I love you. And I’m here. Always.”
“Love you too.”
He closes the door softly behind him. I sit there for a moment, staring at the space where he was.
Larry fought for me. Sat through eight years of nightmares, anniversary breakdowns, and trauma responses. Never once made me feel like a burden. Never once gave up on me.
My legs shake as I stand. Everything aches—my eyes from crying, my ribs from sobbing, my chest from the Connor-shaped hole torn through it.
But I tug on a pair of shorts and a clean T-shirt. Because Larry made pancakes, and he's not asking me to be okay. He's just asking me to try.
And maybe that's enough to survive the next three days.