CHAPTER TWENTY
RHETT
Day Sixteen
Nora's kiss follows me onto the ice.
Not the heat of it. The moment after, when she looked at me as if stopping proved I did not want her.
I wanted to tell her there has never been a version of my body that did not want hers.
Desire is not the difficult part.
The difficult part is refusing to turn desire into evidence that the marriage is saved.
The series is tied two games each. We play in an arena where the crowd treats silence as a personal failure. During warmups, Lucas skates beside me.
"You look less dead," he says.
"Thank you."
"Did something happen?"
"No."
"That answer had cheekbones. Something happened."
"Focus on the puck."
The first period is fast and ugly. My wrist holds. My mind stays where my skates are. We score once, then allow two.
Midway through the second, I chase the puck behind the net.
The defenseman arrives late.
His shoulder catches my chest. My head strikes the glass.
Light breaks.
For a few seconds, the arena becomes a photograph exposed too long—white, soundless, without edges.
Then I am on one knee.
The trainer is speaking.
"Rhett, look at me."
I do.
"Where are we?"
I name the city.
"What period?"
I hesitate.
That is enough.
They take my stick.
In the medical room, nausea rises when I follow a finger with my eyes. The doctor says concussion. No return. No travel without observation.
I argue once.
Then I remember the penalty, the bench, Sloane asking how endurance has harmed me.
I stop.
The Breakers lose while I sit beneath fluorescent lights.
At the hospital, scans rule out bleeding. The room is quiet except for a monitor and Lucas complaining that the visitor chair was designed by enemies.
"Go back to the team," I tell him.
"Coach sent me. Apparently goalies are decorative after the game."
The door opens.
Nora enters.
Every part of me reaches for her before I move.
She wears the black sweater from last night. Her camera is not with her. Her hair is tied badly, as if she did it in a car.
"Tessa called," she says.
"I told her not to."
"She called Maren. Maren told me. There are too many women improving your decisions."
Lucas stands. "I have suddenly remembered an urgent goalie thing."
He leaves.
Nora approaches the bed. "How bad?"
"Concussion. Scans are clear."
"Did you lose consciousness?"
"Maybe a few seconds."
Her face drains.
"I'm fine."
"Do not use that word in a hospital."
She sits, but not close enough to touch. Her ring is still on the chain.
Hope tries to rise again. Injury gives it a crueler voice: She came. She still loves you. Use the opening.
I kill the thought before it becomes behavior.
"You don't have to stay," I say.
Her eyes sharpen. "I know."
"I mean it. Tessa can arrange transport."
"I came because I wanted to know you were alive, not because the divorce disappeared when you hit your head."
"I know."
"Stop saying that."
"Still working on alternatives."
A small laugh escapes her.
The sound hurts more than my skull.
She looks at the discharge instructions. "No screens, no driving, someone should observe you overnight."
"Team medical will handle it."
"Good."
Her relief contains disappointment. Mine probably does too.
"Nora," I say, "the Nordic job begins in less than a month. Do not change anything because of this."
"You are concussed. This may not be the time to manage my career."
"I am not managing it. I am removing myself from the decision."
She folds the papers carefully. "What if I wanted to stay?"
The question could mean tonight or forever. I refuse to choose the meaning that benefits me.
"Then stay because you choose the chair," I say. "Not because I am in the bed."
Her eyes fill.
She remains for twenty minutes. We talk about nothing important. My mother's flight. The gallery. Whether Lucas is capable of existing quietly.
When she leaves, she touches two fingers to the back of my hand.
Not a vow.
Not forgiveness.
A human tenderness freely given.
After the door closes, Lucas returns with vending-machine coffee.
"You look terrible," he says.
"She came."
"Yes."
"I told her to leave."
He studies me. "That must have nearly killed you."
"More than the hit."
"Good. Means the concussion didn't destroy all higher brain function."
I close my eyes.
In the dark behind them, Nora is not walking back toward me.
She is walking toward a life I finally love enough not to block.