Chapter 25
twenty-five
MAYA
The game has gone to complete shit, and Maine is the primary architect of the disaster.
I sit in the freezing stands, watching his third catastrophic play in a row, and something cold and heavy settles in my stomach. This isn’t Maine. That man is nowhere to be found. Instead, there’s this hollow-eyed stranger on the ice who can’t seem to remember how to hold a hockey stick.
From my spot, I have a perfect view of his walk-of-shame as Coach Pearson yanks him from the game. The arena feels like it’s holding its breath—thousands of people witnessing his complete unraveling in real-time—and he seems to shrink under the weight of collective disappointment.
He drops onto the bench like his legs have given out, positioning himself at the far end, as far from his teammates as possible while still technically being part of the team.
The isolation is deliberate and calculated.
He’s building walls in real-time, and I recognize the move because I’ve done it myself.
“What the hell is going on with him?” Sophie whispers beside me, her breath visible in the cold air. Her voice carries that particular blend of shock and secondhand-embarrassment that comes from watching someone you know completely implode in public. “He’s usually great.”
The statement triggers something protective and fierce in my chest. I’ve been watching Maine for weeks now, but at home rather than in the public view. I can tell when he’s exhausted, when not even his performative energy can hide it, and I’m seeing it in him today.
“He’s exhausted, Sophie,” I say, my voice low and urgent, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “Something is wrong.”
My clinical training kicks in, cataloging symptoms like I’m reviewing a patient chart: chronic fatigue, decreased performance, social withdrawal, and the weight loss I’ve noticed lately. Combined, it’s the recipe for a guy who’s falling apart, even if he won’t admit it or tell others.
Sophie turns to look at me, really look at me, and I see the moment she registers that this isn’t casual concern. Her eyebrows draw together, creating that little crease between them that appears when she’s processing something important.
“You’re right,” she says slowly, then leans closer, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper, like she’s about to share state secrets. “Mike told me something. He made me promise not to spread it around, but… this has been going on for months.”
My heart rate picks up. “What has?”
“It’s money.” The words are simple, but they land like a punch to my solar plexus.
“Maine’s broke. Like, seriously broke. You know he was struggling to pay the bills and working multiple jobs before you moved in, but it hasn’t really let up.
Mike told me he’s been sending money home for his sister’s medical bills… ”
Jesus Christ, the revelation crashes over me. I didn’t even notice.
Shame burns hot in my throat. I’d been so wrapped up in my family drama, my wounds, and my growing feelings for him that I missed the signs of his struggle. The man who sat on our kitchen floor while I sobbed, who held me without question or judgment, has been drowning right in front of me.
I knew he was working hard and feeling weighed down by his family…
But this?
Holy shit.
“His family,” I breathe, remembering that day with Chloe, the casual way his parents had dumped their sick daughter on him like he was a convenient babysitting service rather than their exhausted son. “They lean on him so heavily, and he just smiles and does whatever they need.”
“Mike says they don’t even know how bad it is,” Sophie continues. “Maine won’t tell them. He just keeps sending money and pretending everything’s fine.”
Of course he does. Because that’s his role.
The easy kid. The one who doesn’t need anything, who shows up with jokes and charm and never asks for help.
I recognize the pattern because, for a while, I tried living a different version of it—performing perfection for parents who only value the image, not the person.
But where my parents expected perfection, Maine’s parents simply… need him. They need his money, his care, and his endless capacity to give. And he gives and gives until there’s nothing left, until he’s collapsing on the ice in front of thousands of people.
A surge of protectiveness rises in me, so fierce it takes my breath away.
It’s not the casual concern of a roommate or even the affection of someone I’m sleeping with.
This is something deeper, more primal. I want to march down to that bench, wrap my arms around him, and shield him from every set of judging eyes.
I’ve cut off my family. That’s done, and I’m no longer interested.
But Maine?
I want him to be my person, and watching him suffer like this is torture.
On the ice, the game continues without him. His teammates are trying to salvage something from the wreckage, but the scoreboard tells the damage has been done in unforgiving red numbers. And Maine just sits there, staring at nothing, his hands dangling uselessly between his knees.
“Look at him,” I murmur, more to myself than to Sophie. “He’s completely alone.”
Despite being surrounded by teammates, despite the arena full of people, he’s created an island of isolation on that bench. The other players are giving him space and he’s bearing this humiliation in solitude, the way he probably bears everything else.
Maine’s family isn’t here. They likely can’t afford to be here. But if they were, I wonder if they’d even notice his exhaustion under the performance he puts on for them. Or would they just see their reliable son, the one who always has a joke and never needs anything?
The thought makes my chest ache.
“He did the same thing for me,” I find myself saying. Sophie turns to me, confused, but I’m lost in the memory. “I was falling apart, and he just… stayed. He didn’t try to fix it or make it about him. He just sat with me on our kitchen floor and let me be broken.”
Sophie’s hand finds mine, squeezing gently. “You care about him.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “More than I meant to.”
The final buzzer sounds, sharp and definitive, officially sealing both the team’s loss and Maine’s public humiliation. The crowd begins to file out, their disappointed murmurs creating a low rumble of judgment that makes my skin crawl.
On the ice, the teams line up for the obligatory handshake, but Maine doesn’t join them. He’s still on the bench, frozen in place like he’s hoping if he stays still enough, he might become invisible. A few of the other players glance over at him, clearly concerned, but nobody approaches him.
Finally, agonizingly slowly, he stands. His movements are mechanical, automated, like his body is operating on muscle memory alone while his mind has checked out entirely. He’s the last to leave, trailing behind his teammates who are already disappearing into the tunnel.
As he walks, his head stays down, shoulders hunched against invisible blows. Each step looks like it costs him something. The confidence that usually radiates from him, that fills every room he enters, has been completely extinguished. In its place is just… exhaustion and despair.
Bone-deep, soul-crushing.
I think about last night, about the way he’d made love to me with such desperate tenderness, like he was trying to say something with his body that his mouth couldn’t form. I’d whispered those three terrifying words— I need you —and he’d answered with his hands, his lips, his whole being.
But he hadn’t said them back.
Now, watching him disappear into that tunnel, I understand why. How can he promise to be there for someone else when he’s barely keeping himself afloat? How can he offer what he doesn’t have? Hell, had my words put even more pressure on him? More than he could bear?
The sting of that unanswered confession fades, replaced by something fiercer, more urgent. He doesn’t need my wounded feelings right now, although he’s got them… got me… any time he wants. No, he needs to know he’s not alone in this disaster.
I pull out my phone, my frozen fingers fumbling with the screen. Around me, Sophie is gathering her things, but I’m focused entirely on finding the right words. What do you say to someone whose worst fears just played out in front of thousands of people? How do you reach through that kind of shame?
I think about all the times he’s made me laugh when I wanted to cry. The way he sat next to me on the floor, not trying to fix me but just being there. I think about the stupid jokes, the quiet comfort, the way he sees through my performance to the mess underneath and doesn’t flinch.
Finally, I settle on simple truth in text-message form:
Thinking of you. Don’t be too hard on yourself.
My finger hovers over the send button. The heart emoji feels dangerous, too revealing, but I hit send just as his broad shoulders disappear, swallowed by the darkness of the tunnel. The message flies across the digital space between us, carrying everything I can’t say out loud. Not yet.
You’re not a failure.
You’re not alone.
You’re extraordinary, and I see you—the real you, not the performance.
Sophie touches my elbow gently. “Ready to go?”
“Yeah,” I say.
As she starts to walk, I take one last look at the empty bench where he sat in his shame. But I’m already planning. He’ll come home eventually, probably hours from now after he’s tortured himself enough. And when he does, I’ll be there. Not to fix him or save him, and not to tell him I love him.
Rather, I’ll show him that being seen doesn’t always mean being judged, and that admitting you need help doesn’t always mean you’re letting someone else down. Sometimes it just means being loved, even if he’s not ready to say the words just yet.