Chapter 77
NOW
Bennett
They don’t let me play.
It’s a collective decision, but I’m not upset about it.
Maybe I should be, considering it’s the final game of my final Frozen Four as the Waterfell Wolves’ goalie.
But I’m more than that. My team knows that, and they can do this.
Besides, Connor Mercer, my tandem, is an incredible goalie.
A little more confidence and he’d be far better than me.
Still, I know I can trust him. I know my team trusts him.
Paloma didn’t offer her opinion, but I swear I could feel her relief when I succumbed to their insistence.
She did, however, insist on us riding back to Beacon Hill with my dad.
“I think you should tell him,” she said as we stood outside the arena near my dad’s SUV. Her hands adjusted my beanie again, fussing over me whether she realized it or not. “About how you feel. About hockey.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
So now I’m sprawled in the passenger’s seat of my dad’s black G-Wagon, headache slowly subsiding, silent as he drives. Paloma is seated in the center behind us, quiet and calm. Steady.
Adam Reiner wears every emotion on his sleeve.
I don’t know if he was always that way or if it developed when I was younger, to help me read him.
For a long time, I felt safest with him because I could understand his every word and emotion.
When I was little, I thought it was just a bond we shared. Now, I think maybe he made it that way.
Or, maybe, it’s a bit of both.
My eyes flicker to the rearview mirror, where Paloma nods and smiles at me, her hands lifting to give me two thumbs-up in silent encouragement. She looks so relaxed and happy, a sheen of pride over her eyes as she looks at me.
She doesn’t look like I just finished a meltdown and bailed on my team before our biggest game of the season—which she should be there for, too. Instead, Paloma looks at me the same way she did all those years ago, like something strong. Solid and impenetrable.
I wonder if she knows that she’s the one who helped me become strong in the first place.
Still, talking to my dad like this again feels difficult, like a creaky unused door that needs to be forced open. I cough a little and clear my throat, trying to speak through the tight feeling of it. “I don’t . . . I don’t want to play hockey anymore.”
My dad pulls into the driveway slowly, his jaw tight, cheeks wet, I realize with a start. He’s crying. He puts the car in park and wipes harshly at his eyes.
No. Not just crying. Openly sobbing.
“I love you,” he chokes out, turning to me over the console.
His eyes are mirrors of my own, deep and fathomless blue.
His hand grasps the back of my neck, pulling me in.
“I love you, Bennett. More than anything on this fucking earth. You are one of the only good things in my life—the only thing I’ve done worth shit is being your father.
And I am so goddamn proud of you. And . .
.” His voice shakes. “And I’m so fucking sorry, for all of it. ”
I shake my head, pulling back. His hand sinks to my shoulder and squeezes, like he doesn’t want to break the connection.
“You didn’t—why are you apologizing?”
“Because you have never loved hockey. And I knew that.”
“You did?” I ask, eyes glancing to Paloma and her gentle smile.
He laughs, but it’s wet and half a cough.
“I’m your dad, Ben. I pay attention to you.
But you always wanted to play. And I was so fucking selfish to just .
. . let you do it. Because it gave me something of you that was also mine, that was a piece of me and the dreams I had.
And—” He cuts himself off and turns away, staring down at the steering wheel.
“And I’ve been a shit father. I haven’t .
. . I’ve done something wrong or let something happen and you’ve grown to resent me for it, and I keep trying to figure out what it was.
“And then tonight? Seeing you panicked and hurting? And I did nothing? I’m so sorry, Bennett. I love you so much, do you know that?”
“I do,” I say, because my entire system feels frozen and I can’t think of anything else to say.
He nods, wiping at his eyes. “Good.” Another shaky exhale leaves him. “I don’t know what I did to hurt you, but if you just tell me, I’ll fix it. I can’t—” His voice breaks off. “I can’t stand being so distant from you, Ben. You’re my entire world.”
My chest aches enough that I rub at it, feeling raw and open, but also exhausted from my earlier panic.
“I . . . maybe we can go inside and talk,” I say, quiet and soft. “And I can make food. I’m . . . really hungry.”
There’s a light tilt to his lips before he nods.
· · ·
Paloma and Seven are upstairs in my room. I told her to shower and handed her snacks until her arms were full, leaving her with a quick kiss on the corner of her mouth. She hummed and turned on her heel, my dog only following her after nudging at my hand to check on me.
It’s nice to have her in my space again, especially in the house in Beacon Hill. It’s nice to just be so openly in love with her again.
So, at peace with the knowledge that she’s here, showering in my room, relaxing in my clothes, in my bed with my dog—I start cooking.
It’s an uncomfortable thing, to tell your own father that you’re quite sure he’s been in love with his best friend’s wife for years.
And that watching him hurt himself that way had grown from sympathy to resentment.
Every thought that makes sense in my own head feels ridiculous as I try to explain it, but my dad just listens, sitting at the bar top, never interrupting. Just nodding lightly.
I know it takes some effort. Adam Reiner wears his heart on his sleeve, so I know he’s deliberate in keeping the stoic face, the calm features.
The end of my explanation coincides perfectly with plating our food—lemon Parmesan grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, and vegetables. A side of Italian pasta salad that I made earlier in the week.
I shrug, eyes darting away from his face. “I didn’t mean to cut you out. But I was already struggling and seeing you with them— I don’t know. It was difficult.”
And then my dad laughs, head tilted back before grinning at me broadly.
“Max would kick my ass—maybe kill me—if he thought I wanted Anna for myself, Ben.” He shakes his head.
“You have to remember—we were twenty when we met, then only a few years later Max found Anna. We were inseparable. They were . . . mine. My family. And I love them. I always will. And sure, the three of us did some wild shit together back then.” He laughs, eyes glazing with a memory.
“But Max and Anna are soulmates. And I love them together. If you saw me longing for something, it was . . . affection. Love. Adoration. I’d never . . . To be honest, for a long time I just thought it wasn’t for me. That I wouldn’t be good enough for it.”
A stone lodges in my throat.
“But then, Helen had you—my son. My own person to love and care for and who would love me. And god, Bennett, I love you so much.” His voice grows tight with strain. “And that was all I needed, okay?”
“It’s not all you need,” I say. “You can want more. I want you to be happy.”
He nods. “I’m working on it.” His eyes glint, the mischievous, almost goofy aspect of my dad returning through the heaviness. “I’ve always been Boston’s most eligible bachelor anyways. Maybe it’s time to date again.”
“Yeah?” I laugh.
He nods. “If Alessia lets me get within five feet of her ever again, I’m going for it.”
It’s almost self-deprecating, but it’s something other than tears and frustration.
“Sounds good.” I nod, eyes ducking where my fingers draw words on the countertop. “And I promise, I won’t . . . I’m not going to miss therapy again, okay? And maybe we could do our post-therapy dinners again . . . if you wanted to.”
A layer of peace rolls over his features and he closes his eyes.
“Nothing I want more, Ben,” he says. His hand reaches to squeeze my shoulder.
“Now go feed your girlfriend and watch your friends play,” Adam says, ruffling my hair before ducking out of the kitchen. “I’m gonna head out.”
“All right,” I nod, plating the rest of the food on the third plate my dad had already laid out.
“She seems better. Paloma, I mean.” He looks at me, eyes wide. “I hope she knows how much she’s loved by us all.”
My chest squeezes. “Yeah. I think it’ll take some time, but”—I shrug with a brighter, content smile—“I’m willing to wait.”
“Me too, Ben.”
· · ·
Paloma’s eyes are wide pools of brown, brow dipped in concern where she stays comfortably seated on my bed, Seven curled up next to her, the Frozen Four game already streaming on my laptop.
She’s showered but redressed in my hockey sweater, which sends another wave of possessive thrill through me. Her blond hair is damp but unbrushed.
Smiling, I spot the paddle brush next to her.
“You don’t have to—”
“Nothing I’d rather do, P,” I say, walking over and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Let me shower real quick first, okay?”
She nods and hums as she scoops a handful of cheese crackers into her mouth, before I grab the bag and replace it with her actual meal.
“Eat. I’ll be right back.”
“Yes, sir,” she says. It’s mocking, but I can’t help the easy effect it has on me, heat reddening my face and the back of my neck. I shake myself out of it and head in to shower and redress quickly so that I can spend my time brushing Paloma Blake’s hair.
“Are you okay?” she asks as I comb gently through the strands. They are drier now, the snarls and tangles a little tougher, but I take my time.
“I’m okay, P.” I say, “Did I freak you out?”
She huffs a breath and rolls her eyes, leaning back into my chest. I put the brush down in favor of holding her closer, my hand massaging the peachy skin of her bare thigh.
“God, no. You just worried me. And I didn’t—” Her throat works with a hard swallow. “I want to be there for you. I was worried I did a bad job.” A puff of laughter, and then, “I’m still working on it.”
I kiss her, just because I can. “You’ve been more constant than you know, love.
Thank you for being there tonight, supporting me with my dad.
You’re the only one who knew how I felt about everything, who understood me from the first day we met and never asked me to change.
Never wanted me to.” I kiss her again, along her soft cheek, turning her just slightly in my arms so I can see the devotion in her warm brown eyes that mimics mine.
She’s perfect. So strong and beautiful and smart. And I will happily spend the rest of my life making sure every single day that she knows she’s loved and worth it all.
I don’t ever want to return to a time when she wasn’t like this, soft in my arms, but I’d go through all the pain again if this was the outcome.
“You know that’s how I feel about you, right?” she says, her brow furrowing slightly as she peeks up at me. “You loved me through everything. Even when I was away or hurting or—anything, I never felt alone because I knew I had you, even if I didn’t allow myself to have you.”
My chest aches, but I nod. She raises her hand over my heart, as if she knows where it’s most painful for me.
“Rhys and his panic attacks, your mother’s difficulty with accepting you, your dad being lonely? None of that is on your shoulders, you know?”
“I know.” I don’t, but I’m trying to remind myself.
“What Ethan did to me isn’t something you could have stopped. Now or before you knew me.” She smiles despite her words. “Though I know that big brain and big heart in your big body have tried to come up with endless reasons you could have—somehow.”
I shake my head at her, but it’s true. The thought spirals have been extraordinarily brutal since finding out what Ethan did to her. What I allowed to—
“If you blame yourself,” she says quieter now, “then I have no choice but to blame myself. Because I didn’t tell you.”
“No, P—”
Her harsh look shuts me up and I nod.
“You can’t skip out on therapy anymore, Bennett.” Paloma reaches up and holds my jaw in her hand, thumb dusting across the stubble of my beard. “Your beautiful big brain and heart are too important. You have to take care of them.”
I cover her hand with my own, rubbing gently over her skin. “All right, P. I will.”
“I love you,” she breathes, and it’s like she’s pressing the words into the muscle of my heart.
“Let me touch your hair,” I whisper, reciting the poem I wrote for her months ago as I tangle my hand into her hair. “Wrap it around my fingers, tightening the farther from my grasp you wander. Let me inside you.”
Paloma lets me push her into the mattress, rolling easily beneath me, the game half-forgotten on the laptop as I push it away from us. I feel more than see Seven get up at the movement, opting for his real bed in the corner of my room here.
I kiss her mouth, her hair, her neck, leaning in to her ear once more.
“Let me sew my soul to yours like some great patchwork quilt across a sandless beach,” I whisper, tugging at the shoulder of my hockey sweater, sinking my mouth into her shoulder. “Just you and me. And the water between us.”