Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SEBASTIAN
Asteady scraping noise wakes me with a start. I roll over, rub my eyes, and squint at the dim pre-dawn light. Fi is still asleep at my side, her long hair fanned out around her head.
Michaels is gone.
It’s only been a day since we got here, so I thought we were still cozied up in the loft. Disappointment tightens my chest when I take in the floral wallpaper and drab, lacy curtains.
The scraping noise continues.
I climb carefully out of the bed so as not to disturb Fi, then slip into the bathroom to piss, brush my teeth, pull on my clothes. Then I stumble out into the living room to the rich smell of coffee. Michaels must have made it before disappearing to God knows where.
I grab a cup from the cupboard and pour the steaming liquid.
After I take a sip, I walk to the curtain and push it aside.
The sun has finally made an appearance, and the landscape is brilliantly white.
I look at the thermometer perched outside the window; it reads ten degrees, which is fucking cold for Washington.
This winter is so fucked up. It’s been below freezing like this ever since we fled from Vancouver.
“No climate change, my ass,” I mutter as I continue to sip my coffee. The scraping noise picks up again. “What the heck is that?” I pull on my boots and winter clothing and walk out onto the porch. The still icy air steals the breath from my lungs.
My stomach clenches when I see Michaels a little ways out on the pond with a small snow shovel, pushing piles of white fluff toward the bank. My first thought is that the ice may not be stable, but then I remember that he probably knows more about ice than I do.
He pulls off his jacket and tosses it to the side, wiping sweat from his brow.
He’s breathing so heavily I can hear it from here, but he doesn’t seem to be in distress.
I’m about to ask him why he’s out here at the ass crack of dawn shoveling snow from the pond when I notice his black skates near the shore.
Is he…?
He grips the shovel tightly, his cheeks red and his hair damp.
He walks carefully across the slick surface, sits on a rock, takes off his boot, and slides his foot into one skate, lacing it up with practiced precision.
Then, Michaels does the same with his second skate.
He places his foot on the ice and stands.
I hold my breath.
He didn’t clear a huge space, but trees sheltering the edges of the pond also protect it from snow, so there’s enough raw ice that he can glide around in a circle, his movements elegant as his feet dance around each other.
His face lights up with a breath-taking smile, and he looks so fucking proud of himself. He moves faster, furrowing his brow in determination, and I see a flicker of the self-assured hockey player he was—the man I obsessed over every time I saw him in the arena.
But just as Michaels makes another pass under a grove of trees, his skate catches on something, and he spins out of control, crashing to the ground. He lands on his hands and knees with a strangled cry.
Without a thought, I launch off the porch, treading through the snow toward him. He hears me coming and his head snaps up, his flushed, tear-streaked face pointed in my direction.
“Don’t.” He holds up his hand. “Please.” His voice cracks, and he falls back onto his ass, burying his face in his gloved hands to hide a muffled sob.
I skid to a halt, unsure if I should actually listen to him. He starts crying in earnest, and drops his hands, beating the ice beneath him.
“Stitch, stop!” I yell. “You’ll break the ice.”
He screams, the cry so raw and angry, like a caged wild animal. I want to go to him so fucking bad. His breathing has picked up, and he’s panting and clutching his chest.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, as I stumble toward him.
“Wait,” he croaks. “My inhaler.” He points to his coat, which is discarded on the ground to my left.
I reach for it, rifling through the pockets as panic seizes my limbs.
He has a fucking inhaler?
I find it and shove it in my pocket so I have my hands free for balance as I walk as quickly as I dare onto the ice. I slip and slide over to him, crashing to my knees when I reach his side. He’s gasping for air around his sobs, tears streaming from his reddened eyes.
I pull the inhaler from my pocket and hand it to him. He shakes it and presses it to his lips, releasing the medicine with a soft hiss. He takes a deep, steady breath, and I pull him to me, holding his shaking body in my arms.
“You’re okay,” I murmur, trying to sound as soothing as possible.
He takes a second pull, then looks at me miserably. “I’m sorry.”
“Shhh, baby; let’s go inside.” I offer my hand, and he takes it.
I walk to the edge of the pond while he glides behind me. When we get there, he sits and I kneel so I can untie his skates and pull them off. Then I grab his boots and push them onto his feet, not bothering with the laces.
Michaels watches me the whole time. “This reminds me of when you patched up my hand.” He gives a tearful laugh. “You’re always cleaning up my messes.”
I shake my head. “This isn’t like that, and you know it.” I place a gentle hand on his knee. “It’s okay to let people take care of you, Brantley; it doesn’t make you weak.”
His eyes glimmer with fresh tears that trickle down his flushed cheeks. “It’s not that I think it makes me weak. I just never thought I was worth being taken care of.”
I use my thumb to wipe away his tears. Then I take his hand and pull him to his feet. “That might be the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”
“What about when I said that I like Costco hot dogs better than yours?”
“Even dumber than that…”
Our fingers twine together as I lead him inside. Fi’s in the living room, and she glances up from her bowl of cereal when we enter. She looks like a wet dream, still sleep-rumpled in shorts and an oversized, threadbare Whitmore U hockey T-shirt.
Her eyes widen when she takes in Michaels’s state, and she stands from the armchair, setting her dish aside. “What’s going on?”
Michaels stops abruptly, pulling me to a halt as well, and I turn to look at him. He’s staring at Fi with so much emotion, I feel it wash off him in waves.
“Is that—” He drops his gloves on the floor. “Is that my old hockey T-shirt?”
Fi glances down. “Oh, yeah, I suppose it is.”
“You kept it?”
“I…”
“Why did you keep it, Fi?”
She swallows. “I couldn’t throw it out. It was all I had left of you. Of us.”
Michaels steps around me, rushing Fi, and pulling her mouth to his, kissing her fervently. When they pull apart, he’s crying again, his eyes squeezed closed, and he bows his face against Fi’s neck.
Fi looks at me. “Tell me what happened, Seb.”
“He was skating on the ice and fell and…”
Michaels pulls away from Fi and shoots me a look, so I don’t finish my sentence.
Then he wipes his eyes and trudges to the couch, falling heavily onto it.
Fi snuggles up beside him. “It was my first time on skates since the accident.” My eyes widen, and I kneel in front of him, my hands on his knees.
“I never took them out of my truck, so I thought…with the pond being frozen…”
“That’s a big deal, Michaels,” I say.
He nods and gives me a sad look. “It was…frustrating. Trying to get used to my limitations hurts sometimes.”
“I didn’t realize that you have an inhaler,” I say quietly.
“What?” Fi asks. “You do?”
Michaels nods reluctantly. “It’s just part of my life now.
My injury limits my lung capacity, so sometimes I just have to use it when I push myself.
” His fingers graze his neck, and he gives me a meaningful look.
“But I’m tired of feeling weak, and I still want a future in hockey, even if it’s not the NHL dream I thought I’d have.
” Michaels’s hazel eyes are hopeful as they bounce between us.
“I was texting with my sponsor last night, and he suggested that I coach kids. I could still be on the ice playing, but making a difference, you know?”
Fi smiles. “I love that idea, B.”
I nod in agreement. “Yeah, you’re pretty much a child, so I think that’d be a good fit.”
“He’s got jokes now.” Michaels smirks. “Say what you will, Bastian, but you seemed to like my Daddy dom vibes last night.”
I glare at him, but it’s all for show. Michaels has always been capable, he just lost his way. It’s fucking amazing to see that spark in his eyes again.
He rubs the back of his head. “I’m sorry you saw that outside. I’m kind of an emotional guy.”
“You don’t say,” I mutter.
Micheals nudges my shoulder. “And despite how hard it’s going to be, I’m done being a failure. I’ll figure out how to manage it all, even if it almost kills me.”
Fi’s eyes soften. “You were never a failure, B.”
I smile when he looks at me. “She’s right. Despite what you did in the past, it’s what you do now that matters. Sometimes it takes a little tough love to see that—I gave you that.”
“Love?” Michaels says playfully.
I clear my throat. “You know what I mean, Stitch.” I shoot to my feet before this conversation veers wildly off the rails, and walk to the kitchen. “Who wants breakfast?”
Fi glances at her soggy cereal.
“Real breakfast,” I clarify with a sigh.