Chapter 41
FORTY-ONE
TODD
The second Logan steps onto the ice beside me, I already know today’s going to run smoother than the last couple practices.
Not because of some cosmic shift or because everything is magically better.
Just…because he’s here. Because we’re us again.
Warmups start with simple passes, but Logan still has to show off—chipping the puck up and catching it flat on his blade before passing it to me.
Show-off.
“Trying to impress me?” I ask, flicking it back to him.
“Obviously,” he says, winking.
A shiver goes straight down my spine. I pretend it’s just the cold rink air.
Peter skates by, catching the wink and groaning. “Unbelievable. You two make up, and now I have to deal with you making eyes at each other the whole practice.”
Blue flips us off lazily as he glides past. “Get a room.”
“Jealous?” Logan chirps.
“Disgusted,” Blue corrects. “Deeply. Passionately.”
Eli’s laugh echoes from the crease—bright and genuine, because he’s constitutionally incapable of being anything but sunshine. “Don’t worry, Blue. You’re still the prettiest one out here.”
Blue blows him a kiss. “Don’t let Max hear you say that.”
“I said out here,” Eli laughs. “My man knows how sexy he is.”
Coach whistles us into line rushes, then transition drills. And God—everything clicks so easily I could almost forget how messy things were before.
Logan anticipates every move. I feel him over my shoulder without needing to look. Our timing is back, better than ever.
Daniel fires a pass too hard, and Logan cushions it instantly, sending it to me with a subtle tap. I one-time it into the net so loud it rings off the boards.
“Okay, shit,” Peter says, skating up beside us. “Did you two fuse into one player overnight? ‘Cause this is borderline terrifying.”
Logan bumps my shoulder. “We’re unstoppable.”
“Cocky,” I mutter.
“Accurate,” he corrects, grinning.
Coach even cracks a smile. A real one.
And for a bit—it’s just hockey. The ice, my team, and Logan’s presence is like a quiet gravitational pull beside me the whole time.
We rotate into another rush. I hit Logan with a pass; he spins off Blue, cuts inside, and buries it glove side.
Eli throws his hands up dramatically. “This is not making me look good.”
“I love you, too, Starling!” Logan yells back.
Eli beams. “Thank you!”
Everything feels good.
And then as I skate back to center ice, something in my periphery freezes me mid-glide. A figure standing behind the glass. Hands in his jacket pockets. Shoulders stiff, posture unsure. My stomach drops straight to the ice.
Dad.
He’s by the boards near the bleachers, expression drawn tight, eyes fixed not on the team…but on me.
My breath catches hard in my chest.
Logan notices immediately and skates closer, blades whispering against the ice. “Hey,” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear. “You good?”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
My eyes stay locked on the figure behind the glass. He looks…older. Not ancient, not falling apart, just worn in a way I’ve never seen before. His shoulders are tense under his jacket, hands shoved deep in his pockets, jaw rigid like he’s holding something in.
As though the last few weeks cut into him just as deep.
A lump forms in my throat so fast it almost chokes me.
I blink hard. I will not cry on the ice. Not at practice. Not with Blue already primed to chirp me into the grave if he even senses emotion anywhere near my face.
But my legs feel shaky as I peel away from Logan and skate slowly toward the boards.
Coach’s whistle blows in the background, but it’s just noise. Everything else fades to the sound of my own heartbeat slamming in my ears.
I stop right in front of the glass where Dad stands. He doesn’t wave or smile. Just meets my eyes with something tight and unreadable.
“Dad?”
His throat works once before he speaks, voice muffled but steady through the glass. “Can we talk,” he says, “when you’re done?”
I swallow, nod once. “‘Kay.”
He nods back stiffly, like he’s afraid any bigger movement might break something fragile between us. Then he steps away from the boards, heading toward the stands.
I turn back toward the ice, and Logan skates up beside me immediately, quiet concern written across his face.
“You want to stop?” he asks.
I take a slow breath. My chest still feels tight, but my legs are steady.
“No,” I say. “If he wants to talk…he’ll still be there when we’re done.”
Logan studies me for half a second longer, then nods. “Okay. If you need me, I’m right here.”
“I know. And I love you for that.”
He smiles, his eyes flicking over my shoulder to my dad, then back to me. “I love you, too.”
When I finally step out of the locker room, the hallway is quieter than usual. Most of the team has already headed out.
Logan lingers by the door, leaning against the wall with his hands in his jacket pockets, curls damp, eyes soft and worried. He straightens the second he sees me.
“You sure you don’t want me with you?” he asks, voice low.
I swallow. “I don’t know how this is gonna go.”
“I don’t care,” he replies instantly. “I’ll stand ten feet back, I’ll hide behind a vending machine, I’ll sit in the damn ceiling tiles. Just say the word.”
It makes something warm and painful twist under my ribs.
I reach out, brushing my fingers against his. “If it goes bad…I’m coming straight to you.”
His jaw works, like he’s fighting the urge to pull me in. “Yeah. Good. Do that.”
I nod, exhale shakily, and step out into the rink lobby.
Dad’s there. He looks up the moment he hears my footsteps.
“Todd.”
My name sounds too loud in the quiet space.
I stop a few feet from him, heart pounding. “Hey.”
Up close, he looks…unsure. The man who always had an answer for everything now seems like he’s trying to figure out which version of himself he’s supposed to be around me. And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt.
He clears his throat. “Walk with me?”
I hesitate for a fraction of a second—enough time for Logan, still at the locker room door behind me, to straighten subtly, ready.
I nod. “Yeah. Okay.”
Dad turns toward the exit, and I fall into step beside him.
My palms are sweating. My pulse is too loud. And I have no idea if this conversation is going to start stitching things together…or rip the last threads apart. But either way I’m done running.
We step outside, the air cold enough to sting. The parking lot is mostly empty, the last few players driving off, engines fading into distance. Dad walks a few steps ahead, then stops near the bench by the side entrance and sits like his legs can’t hold him.
I stay standing for a second, unsure.
He looks up at me, eyes tight. “Sit, Todd.”
I lower myself onto the bench, hands clasped between my knees. My heart feels like it’s trying to claw out of my chest.
For a long moment, neither of us says anything. Just the light breeze and my pulse roaring in my ears.
Finally, he exhales and rubs a hand over his face.
“I owe you an apology,” he says, voice rough. “A real one. And I’m not good at this, so…just let me get it out.”
My throat closes, but I nod.
He stares down at his hands. “What I said…when you came home. Calling it a phase. Telling you to leave.” His jaw tightens, like the words physically hurt. “That was wrong. All of it. I shouldn’t have said it, and I shouldn’t have…pushed you out like that.”
My chest aches sharply. “Dad—”
“No. Let me finish.” He looks up, and his eyes are wet. Actually wet. “I was scared. And confused. And I thought—Christ—” He breaks off, swallowing hard. “I thought I was losing the son I thought I knew.”
A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it. He sees it. His own eyes break a little more.
“And then I realized,” he whispers, “I wasn’t losing a son at all. I was making him afraid of me. Afraid of being himself around me.”
I look away, blinking fast, but it doesn’t stop anything. The tears just keep coming, quiet and hot.
Dad’s voice cracks. “I’ll regret that for the rest of my life, Todd.”
My breath stutters. “Why didn’t you just… talk to me? Why didn’t you let me explain?”
“Because I thought I already knew the answers.” He shakes his head. “I thought I understood your life better than you did. I thought I was protecting you. Hell, maybe I was protecting myself.”
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes. It doesn’t help. The tears keep leaking through my fingers.
He continues softly, “You came to me being honest about who you are, and I threw that back at you. I hurt you. And I’m sorry. I am so damn sorry.”
A small, broken sound escapes me. I try to muffle it, but it’s too late.
Dad reaches out slowly—like he’s not sure he’s allowed—and rests his hand on my shoulder. The touch unravels me completely.
I choke out a sob and bury my face in my hands, body shaking. I don’t cry like this. I don’t cry ever. But it pours out of me, weeks of pain and doubt and self-loathing cracking wide open.
Dad slips closer, his arm curling around my back and pulls me into him. “Hey… hey,” he murmurs. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
And for the first time since this whole mess started… I let him.
I lean into him, shoulders shaking, tears soaking the front of his jacket. He holds me like he hasn’t in years—firm and steady and scared he might lose me if he lets go.
“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” I manage, voice shredded.
He sucks in a breath like the words punched him. “You’ve never disappointed me. Never. I was the one who failed you. Not the other way around.”
I cry harder, fingers clutching at his sleeve.
After a moment, he cups the back of my head like he used to when I was a kid. “I don’t care who you love,” he says quietly. “I care that you know I love you. And I don’t want you to think you have to hide any part of yourself from me ever again.”
My voice trembles. “I thought you hated me.”
He lets out a broken noise, something between a gasp and a sob. “No. God, no. I hated myself.” He presses his forehead to the side of my head. “I just want to try to fix this. If you’ll let me.”
I don’t answer for a long moment. Not because I don’t want to. But because I can’t get the words out around the tightness in my chest.
Finally, I nod into his shoulder.
His hand squeezes the back of my neck, relief flooding his body. “Okay. Okay. We’ll get through this.”
We sit like that for a long time.
A father and a son on a cold metal bench outside an empty rink, crying into each other in the most imperfect, honest way we ever have. And I know that eventually, we will heal.