35. Bad Guy （Kieran）
BAD GUY (KIERAN)
Rain hits harder than it has any right to.
I stand at the top of the Radio City steps. Rain soaks through my coat, drips into my eyes, runs cold down my neck. My hands are numb. I don’t know if it’s the cold or the way my heart just stopped.
All I can do is watch her leave.
Wren on the subway stairs. Hand gripping the railing, marquee lights bleeding red and blue over her face.
She looks at me like she’d come back if her heart hadn’t learned not to.
I take a step toward her without thinking.
Stop.
Because what right do I have to close any distance after what I’ve done?
She blinks—rain or tears, I’ll never know—and turns away.
Down.
Into the underbelly of the city.
Out of my reach.
The subway swallows her, and I stand here in the rain, holding the weight of the mistake I’ve made.
I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here. Could be seconds. Could be hours.
A door opens behind me. Warm air spills out.
“Kieran?” Liam’s voice. Low. Careful.
I drag my palm over my face, rain and something heavier I can’t name.
“I’m coming,” I manage.
Inside, the applause is fading, the hall buzzing with after-show energy. People are celebrating. Laughing. Taking photos.
And I’m walking back, a part of myself left on the subway stairs.
Liam falls into step beside me without saying a word.
Every breath feels wrong. Because all I can think is, I don’t deserve her.
But God, I want to be the man who does.
Radio City backstage is another planet—concrete corridors, velvet ropes, crates of equipment, bouquets of roses waiting for pickup. Crew members weave around us, adrenaline humming.
Erin comes out first, radiant and flushed, still vibrating from the stage. Luka Havran follows close behind, hair wild, riding the high. He spots Dmitri, and a grin splits his face.
“Medo!” Luka throws his arms wide. “You did not glare at me during the performance. This is progress.”
Dmitri doesn’t even blink. “Only because your boyfriend was sitting between us.”
Luka freezes mid-stride, then slaps a hand over his heart, theatrically staggering back. “Ah, yes. The great reveal that saved my life.”
A tall, handsome man slides in behind him, looping an arm around Luka’s waist with an indulgent eye-roll.
Dmitri arches a brow. “Tell me, Havran, do you ever plan to inform the front row that you are gay? Or should I help you with the coming out?”
Luka gasps, scandalized. “And ruin the fantasy? Absolutely not. They scream louder when I wink.”
Dmitri snorts. Luka beams. “The show must go on.”
Their banter fills the whole corridor with warmth, reminding me how good people hold onto their joy.
And how far I’ve drifted from mine.
Erin leans into Dmitri, her hand on his chest, and he folds his arm around her waist automatically, soft and possessive at once. Mom fusses with Erin’s hair, telling her she was transcendent. Sophie and Liam hover close, glowing with pride.
Everyone is laughing.
Except me.
I stand back, pretending to examine a stack of speakers, pretending I’m not holding myself together with wire and hope.
Erin scans the group. Her gaze lands on me. “Did Wren show?” she asks, trying for neutral. Failing miserably.
The whole group goes still.
Sophie stops smiling. Liam’s jaw ticks. Dmitri’s hand flexes at Erin’s waist. Mom’s eyebrows crease, her face full of quiet, maternal worry.
I force the words out. “She was here.” Erin raises an eyebrow. “But…she left right after the show.”
Mom steps forward slightly. “Oh, baby boy,” she murmurs, soft, sad, seeing everything I didn’t say.
I look away because I already know what every single one of them is thinking.
This is my fault.
They’re right.
We end up at a late-night place a few blocks away—Mom’s idea, Erin’s exhaustion, and Liam’s gentle insistence that we shouldn’t end the night yet.
White tablecloths, warm lighting, clinking silverware. The kind of place Wren would love.
She should be here.
Tucked between me and her little cousin, rolling her eyes at Luka’s theatrics. Laughing under her breath at Sophie’s stories. Hiding behind a menu because she hates being stared at.
Instead, the space beside me stays cold. Empty chair. Empty chest.
Menus circulate. Water pours. Bread baskets refill.
I stare at the condensation sliding down my glass.
Liam leans in. “Staying away is the first part,” he says. “If she ever gives you another inch after that, you’ll have to earn her trust.”
I drag in a breath. “I know.”
He dips his chin once. “Good.”
Somewhere between entrées and dessert, Erin’s phone buzzes. She glances at it, her expression unreadable at first, then something in her face eases. “Wren,” she says softly, looking at me.
My pulse stumbles. She texted. She thought about tonight enough to reach out at all.
Hope flares sharp and unwelcome in my chest.
“She says congrats on the performance,” Erin continues. “And that she’s sorry she didn’t stay. Larisa wanted to meet us.” Her mouth tilts. “She didn’t say she was overwhelmed. But we all know she was.”
Sophie lowers her fork, watching me carefully.
Erin hesitates, then adds, “She also said…next time.” She leans in slightly. “If there ever is a next time, don’t squander it.”
Dmitri nods once, solemn. “This girl is special,” he says. “If she ever decides to let you close again, you do not get a second chance to be careless.”
Mom reaches across the table and covers my hand, warm and steady. “She didn’t have to come tonight,” she says gently. “The fact that she did means something. Even if she didn’t stay.”
My throat tightens. I nod because if I speak, I’ll break.
She came. After everything.
Maybe—just maybe—I haven’t burned every bridge.
Eventually, dessert menus arrive, a flimsy attempt at normalcy.
Luka orders crème br?lée with the enthusiasm of a man proposing marriage to sugar.
His boyfriend steals his spoon. Sophie and Erin split something chocolate.
Liam orders a complicated oat milk cappuccino for Sophie and an espresso he absolutely should not be indulging in at this hour. Mom gets a port.
I don’t order anything. My stomach is tied in knots.
Conversation drifts. Laughter bursts. Silverware clinks. Somewhere across the table, Dmitri murmurs an endearment to Erin in Russian, and she flushes, smiling.
Sophie looks at me.
Really looks.
“Kieran,” she says, carefully casual, “are you okay? You’ve barely spoken.”
Liam exhales through his nose, an oh-good-she-opened-the-door breath. Mom tilts her head, already braced.
My chest tightens. Heat, then cold.
Because there’s something I haven’t said. Something I didn’t think I’d ever have to say out loud.
“I don’t think the Defenders contract is coming back,” I say finally. My voice stays steady even as something breaks loose behind my ribs. “And I don’t want to pretend it is.”
Liam’s jaw tightens. Erin goes still. Mom doesn’t interrupt.
I swallow.
“I applied to MIT last fall,” I say. “It wasn’t a plan. I just wanted to see if I could do it, if there was more to me than hockey.”
A beat.
“I didn’t expect to get in.”
Silence lands heavy.
“I got accepted,” I finish quietly. “Mechanical engineering.”
My heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears. I’ve been holding this in for weeks—a possibility that didn’t feel real. And now it’s out. Terrifying. Mine.
The table stills, breath held.
Sophie’s eyes go wide. Erin’s mouth parts. Dmitri straightens. Luka mutters, “Holy shit,” and immediately gets elbowed by his boyfriend.
Liam stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You got into MIT? MIT-MIT?”
“Yeah.” My throat tightens. “Full ride.”
Mom’s hand flies to her mouth. Her gaze shines, pride first, then confusion, then something deeper.
“Honey,” she whispers, “why didn’t you tell us?”
I shrug, helpless. “I didn’t know what it meant yet. Or if it mattered, because I thought I was—”
“Going pro,” Liam finishes for me quietly.
I nod.
He leans back, stunned. “Kie…that’s huge. That’s life-changing.”
Sophie nudges him. “Translation: he’s proud of you but his vocabulary is temporarily offline.”
Mom squeezes my arm, firm. “Kieran, this is terrific. But are you—”
She stops. Because she doesn’t need to finish.
I meet her gaze. Then Liam’s.
“I’m sure,” I say.
A small silence ripples outward.
Liam recovers first, studying me carefully. “Is this because of Wren?” he asks. “Because punishing yourself won’t fix anything. There are other teams. The Defenders aren’t the only option.”
“No.” I shake my head. Steady. “This isn’t punishment. It’s a choice.”
I hesitate, then add, “But Wren was the first person who saw past hockey. She saw the part of me I didn’t know how to name yet and didn’t laugh.”
Understanding settles across Liam’s face.
“I love hockey,” I continue. “I always will. But it’s not all I am. And after everything that happened…I realized I don’t want to spend my life performing a version of myself that other people are comfortable cheering for.”
No one moves, as if afraid to break a spell.
There is no stopping now. The truth is out. “I’m terrified. Of failing. Of proving everyone right about who they thought I was. But I’m more afraid of waking up at thirty-five and wondering who I could’ve been if I tried.”
Mom presses her fingertips to her lips, overwhelmed. “Your father would’ve—” She swallows. “He’d be proud you’re choosing your own path.”
Something caves in my chest. Then rebuilds.
Liam exhales slowly. “You know you’re walking away from a lot. Money. Fame. Ice time.”
“I know.”
“And you’re okay with that.”
I nod. “I do care about all that. But this feels like the right next step.”
Liam leans back, studying me with something like awe.
“Holy shit,” he murmurs. “You really grew up.”
“Well, maybe getting there slowly.” Dmitri chuckles, and everyone around the table exhales at the joke. Erin beams. Sophie smiles.
Luka snaps his fingers. “So the jock is a secret genius. I knew it.”
Dmitri nods, approving. “Good choice, O’Connor.”