25. Kieran
TWENTY-FIVE
KIERAN
The first thing I did when I woke up was reach across the bed.
My hand landed on a cold sheet. I lay there for a second staring at the ceiling before letting out a quiet laugh at myself. Thane had left yesterday. It wasn't exactly shocking that he wasn't there.
I rolled onto my side and reached for my phone on the nightstand. A message waited for me.
Thane: Morning, Kier. Game day. I'll text when I can. Make sure to have breakfast first thing.
A smile tugged at my mouth. The hockey player, currently preparing to play in front of thousands of people, had somehow found time to remind me to eat breakfast.
That felt very Thane. I read the message a second time.
Me: Morning, Thane. I’ll definitely have breakfast.
Me: Good luck tonight.
Me: Try not to get into any fights. *laughing emoji*
Then the silence of the apartment settled around me again.
For the better part of a week, I'd gotten used to another person occupying my space.
Conversations over coffee. A hand finding mine.
The sound of his laughter from another room.
A casual reminder to grab my jacket before going outside.
The strange thing was how quickly those small moments had become normal.
I pushed the blankets aside and climbed out of bed. The apartment was exactly as I'd left it. Clean. Quiet.
Nobody was standing at the stove making hot chocolate or asking whether I'd slept well. Nobody was reminding me to wear thicker socks because, apparently, I was one bad decision away from freezing to death according to one very opinionated professional hockey player.
A few minutes later, I opened my closet and immediately spotted the navy Seattle Orcas hoodie hanging from the inside of the door.
Technically, it belonged to Thane. Technically, I'd never asked if I could keep it. Technically, he knew exactly where it was because he'd watched me walk away with it in Juniper Hollow and hadn't made the slightest effort to stop me.
I pulled it over my head. The sleeves hung slightly past my wrists. The familiar scent of laundry detergent mixed with something that was simply Thane settled around me. For a moment, some of the quiet eased. That was ridiculous. The hoodie was a hoodie. Nothing more. Still, I left it on.
I made coffee and a sandwich and carried the mug and plate into the living room. The December sky outside the window was gray and overcast, and the city looked considerably less charming than Juniper Hollow had.
I curled up in one corner of the couch and wrapped both hands around the mug.
At some point, I was going to have to find out what kind of hot chocolate mix Thane had bought at Sugar & Spice. The stuff should have been illegal. I took a sip of coffee instead. It wasn't the same.
My phone buzzed against the cushion beside me. For half a second, my pulse jumped. Then I looked at the screen. It wasn’t Thane, but a university email reminding students about registration for the upcoming semester.
I set the phone aside and picked up my sandwich. A few minutes later, I realized I'd eaten the entire thing. A smile tugged at my mouth. Thane would probably consider that a victory.
Nearly four hours passed before my phone buzzed. My heartbeat sped when I saw who the message was from.
Thane: No promises.
Thane: Heading into meetings.
Thane: Talk after?
I typed back.
Me: Deal.
The message was sent.
I watched the screen for a second. There wasn’t any indication he’d seen it. Which wasn't surprising. He was working. Understanding it didn't stop me from glancing at my phone ten minutes later anyway. Or half an hour later when I was standing in the kitchen trying to decide what to make for lunch.
The afternoon passed slowly.
I managed to start a load of laundry and answer a handful of emails that had been sitting in my inbox longer than they should have. None of it required much concentration, which was probably a good thing because my attention wasn't exactly at its sharpest.
I was folding a stack of clean towels when my phone buzzed on the coffee table. This time, I didn't immediately assume it was Thane. I picked up the phone. A familiar name appeared on the screen.
Janelle: Thinking of you, kiddo. I hope you had a good Christmas.
I stared at the message for a few seconds. The corner of my mouth lifted despite myself. I typed a reply.
Me: I did. Hope you did too.
The response came back a minute later.
Janelle: We did. Quiet one this year. Glad to hear you had a good Christmas.
That was it. Just Janelle being Janelle.
I set the phone down and returned to folding laundry, but my thoughts had already drifted elsewhere. For a few years, Christmas had meant Janelle's house.
I remembered decorating sugar cookies at her kitchen table one December afternoon. I remembered falling asleep during a Christmas movie and waking up with a blanket tucked around me. I remembered how she never forgot things. Birthdays. School events. The name of a teacher I'd liked.
Janelle had a way of making people feel important. Not with grand gestures. Just a hundred small things that told you she was paying attention.
Looking back, I think that's what I remembered most.
I picked up the novel I had started reading a while back and tried to follow the storyline.
Eventually, I gave up and got up to make lunch.
All the while, I kept thinking that for years I'd done exactly what I wanted, when I wanted, without checking in with anyone.
Now I kept catching myself reaching for my phone to tell Thane something. A joke. A random observation.
That should not have happened this fast. Yet, Thane had become woven into my routine.
The game started at seven o'clock. By six-thirty, I'd already given up pretending I was going to accomplish anything productive. I carried a blanket into the living room. Then I settled onto the couch and turned on the television.
Before meeting Thane, hockey was just another sport.
If we'd never sat down together that night at the bar, I probably would have checked the final score online and called it a night.
Instead, I found myself on the couch before the pregame coverage had even started, waiting for the players to take the ice.
Apparently, this was my life now.
The ridiculous part wasn't that I was watching hockey. The ridiculous part was that I was actually excited about it.
The broadcast opened with highlights from around the league before cutting to the arena. Players skated through warmups while commentators discussed standings, injuries, and playoff projections despite the fact that it was only December.
My attention immediately found number nineteen. Thane circled through a drill before gliding toward center ice. A few seconds later, the camera moved elsewhere.
I found myself waiting for it to come back to Thane.
That realization was mildly embarrassing.
The game started, and there wasn’t much that I missed about Thane.
His positioning. The way he tapped his stick against the ice when calling for a pass.
The way he leaned forward on the bench while listening to his coach.
The way he immediately skated toward a teammate after a bad turnover.
I knew enough about hockey now to follow the game.
The game remained close all night. By the middle of the third period, I was sitting forward on the couch. LA scored with less than four minutes remaining. Seattle pushed hard after that. They pulled the goalie and spent the final minutes throwing everything they had at the net.
Twice, I thought they had it. Twice I was wrong. When the final horn sounded, I found myself letting out a disappointed breath. Apparently, losing bothered me now, too.
The camera lingered briefly on the Seattle bench before the players headed for the locker room. My attention found Thane immediately.
He sat for a moment with his elbows resting on his knees, staring out at the ice while the arena buzzed around him. He didn't look angry. Just disappointed. The kind of disappointment that came from knowing you could have played better.
The broadcast moved into its post-game coverage, but instead of reaching for the remote, I stayed where I was. A few minutes later, one of the reporters caught up with Thane near the tunnel.
What went wrong tonight?
What needs to change before tomorrow's game?
How would the team respond?
The usual questions. The kind athletes probably answered so often they could do it in their sleep.
Then the reporter smiled. "One more before I let you go. There has been a lot of attention on your personal life lately. Do you think all the extra media attention has made things more difficult this season?"
I felt myself straighten. The question wasn't surprising. That didn't make me like it.
Thane's expression barely changed. "No." The answer came immediately. "The media attention comes with the job. We lost because we didn't execute well enough tonight. That's on us as a team."
The reporter tried again. "So you don't think the distractions have affected your game?"
"No." Thane's tone remained calm. "I know people like easy explanations. Hockey usually isn't that simple."
The interview ended a few seconds later. Part of me felt relieved. Another part couldn't stop thinking about the question. Not because of what Thane had said, but because somebody had asked it in the first place. As though a relationship automatically became a problem that needed to be managed.
I picked up my phone.
Me: Sorry about the game. You okay?
My thumb hovered over the screen for a second before I hit send.
The message delivered. I stared at it for a moment. Then I set the phone down again.
I left the television on for another twenty minutes before finally giving up and turning it off. The apartment immediately felt quieter.
I rinsed out my mug, checked that the doors were locked, and spent a few minutes wandering around doing small tasks that didn't actually need doing. Straightening a stack of books. Wiping down a clean countertop.
Anything to avoid admitting I was waiting for my phone to buzz. By the time I got ready for bed, there was still no reply. That wasn't unusual.
The game might have ended, but Thane's night hadn't. There were post-game meetings, travel back to the hotel, treatment, media obligations, and probably a dozen other things I didn't know about. Professional hockey didn't stop when the final horn sounded.
I set the phone on the nightstand and pulled the blankets up.
Mr. Maple sat in my closet. For a second, I considered getting up and bringing him into bed with me. Instead, I left it where it was. My eyes drifted to the phone one last time.
Eventually, exhaustion won.
Sometime later, the vibration of my phone pulled me out of a light sleep. I blinked at the darkness and fumbled for the screen. The brightness made me squint. A social media notification sat at the top of the lock screen. Beneath it was something else. A missed call from Thane.
I sat up a little straighter. Checked the time.
1:17 a.m. The call had come through less than ten minutes earlier.
I considered calling him back. Then I imagined him having to drag himself back to the hotel, exhausted after the loss and from the post-game obligations he still had, and tried to call before passing out.
I lowered the phone.
Tomorrow.
We'd talk tomorrow.