Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Mac
The smell of antiseptic still clings to my clothes three days after the accident—a sharp, medicinal scent that catches in my throat every time I move.
It's embedded in the fibers of my flannel shirt, woven into the leather of my jacket, a constant reminder of how close I came to losing her.
I adjust the pillow behind Delaney's back for the third time in ten minutes, my hands trembling slightly as I try to make her comfortable on her faded floral couch.
"Better?" I ask, smoothing the throw blanket over her legs with careful precision.
This is how it's been since we got back from Rhode Island Hospital—me hovering like an overprotective mother hen, and my guilt refusing to loosen its stranglehold on my chest even the slightest bit.
"I'm fine, Mac," Delaney sighs, that small, patient smile playing on her lips as she watches me fuss. "You really should try to relax. All this pacing is making me dizzy."
I force myself to stop adjusting her pillows and actually look at her.
Really look at her. Her honey-brown hair is pulled up in a messy bun secured with what appears to be a pencil, and there are dark purple circles under her bright green eyes that makeup can't quite hide.
She's drowning in my oversized Boston Howlers hoodie, the black fabric making her skin look paler than usual, her bare thighs peeking out from beneath the hem.
Her constellation of freckles stands out more prominently against her wan complexion, and there's a small bandage on her temple where she hit the window.
She's beautiful and hurt and alive, and the overwhelming relief of that last part nearly brings me to my knees every time I think about it.
The sharp chime of her doorbell echoes up the narrow staircase, saving me from having to respond to her concern. I take the steps two at a time, grateful for any distraction from the weight of my own thoughts.
Maya stands on the doorstep holding a covered casserole dish, her dark hair whipping in the December wind. Her usual polished appearance is slightly disheveled, and her expression is particularly severe.
"How is she today?" She demands without preamble, pushing past me into the small entryway.
"Better than yesterday. Still tired." I step aside to let her pass, following her up the creaking wooden stairs. "Stubborn as hell about following doctor's orders."
She walks directly past Delaney, who waves weakly from her nest of blankets on the couch, and disappears into the tiny kitchen. I hear the soft thud of the casserole dish hitting the counter and follow behind.
"The whole town's been by with food," I tell her, gesturing toward the refrigerator that's now packed with covered dishes and containers. "I don't think she'll have to cook for a month."
"Good," she says curtly, setting her hands on her hips. "She needs to focus on healing, not worrying about mundane things like meals."
Something in her clipped tone makes my stomach clench with unease. "Maya, is everything–"
"We need to talk," she interrupts, her dark eyes sharp and assessing. "Privately."
The way she emphasizes that last word stops me cold. I study her face, noting the tight line of her mouth and the way she's standing with her shoulders squared, like she's preparing for battle.
"About what?"
"About you, Marcus Sullivan."
The use of my full name hits like a physical blow. I haven't been called that since the day I signed my first NHL contract. Maya's voice carries the weight of information, of secrets uncovered, and I feel my carefully constructed anonymity crumbling around me.
"Look," Maya continues, crossing her arms over her chest, "I know exactly who you are.
Forward for the Boston Howlers. Thirty-seven goals and twenty-two assists last season before your accident.
Lily died in July in a car crash that also left you with a separated shoulder and mild traumatic brain injury.
You've been hiding out here in our little town for months, playing at being a regular person. "
My mouth goes completely dry, and I sink heavily into one of Delaney's mismatched kitchen chairs. The wooden seat creaks under my weight.
"And?" I scowl. "All of that is public knowledge. Anyone with common sense and a simple Google search could find those facts."
"Then, how about this? I also know about your reputation as a heartless playboy," she continues matter-of-factly, settling into the chair across from me.
"The man who was photographed leaving a Boston nightclub with two different women on the same night he was supposed to be at his girlfriend's birthday party.
I know that your publicist has more than earned her considerable salary covering for your various scandals and indiscretions over the past two years. "
I shake my head, eyes squinting at her in question.
"What's your point, Maya? You going to chase Delaney away from me? Tell her what a piece of shit I used to be?" The words taste bitter in my mouth. "Because that was a lifetime ago. I'm not that person anymore."
Maybe she should tell Delaney everything. Maybe that would make this impossible situation easier to navigate. Take away my options, and I won't be paralyzed by them anymore.
"That's not my information to share," Maya says, her voice softening slightly. "But I need to know what your intentions are with my best friend."
I roll my eyes toward the ceiling, begging whatever higher power from above to give me the strength to get through this conversation. "You know what they are. We have a bet. Ten dates to prove romance exists. It's all very straightforward."
"Cut the shit, Mac." Maya's voice turns sharp enough to cut glass.
"You're falling for her. Anyone with functioning eyes can see it written all over your face.
You both have practically admitted it to yourselves and each other.
The bet stopped being about winning or losing weeks ago, and we both know it. "
I stare down at my hands, trying to find words for feelings I barely understand myself. How do I explain that being near Delaney feels like coming back to life after months of just existing? That she makes me want things I thought died with Lily?
"The question," Maya continues relentlessly. "Is what are you going to do about these feelings?"
"I don't know," I finally admit, the words scraping my throat raw.
"That's not good enough." Maya leans forward, her elbows on the small table.
"Not nearly good enough. Delaney has been through enough heartbreak to last several lifetimes.
Her ex-fiancé strung her along for two years before deciding she wasn't ambitious enough for his precious career trajectory.
Her grandmother died, leaving her to run this bookshop completely alone.
This town has been struggling economically for the past few years, and she's blamed herself every single time another local business closes its doors. "
Each revelation hits me like a body check against the boards. I knew some of this—the grandmother, the struggling town—but hearing it laid out so starkly makes my chest tighten with protective fury.
"She doesn't need some playboy NHL player treating her like an amusing distraction while he figures out his real life," Maya continues, her voice deadly quiet now.
"What about how you've all been treating me?
" The words explode out of me before I can stop them, fueled by weeks of simmering resentment and very little sleep.
"Like another marketing scheme to bring tourists to your dying town?
A convenient attraction to get people spending money?
I'd say you all made out pretty nicely with our arrangement, regardless of how it ends. "
Even saying the words out loud makes me furious. As much as this town likes to claim they're Team Love, they've all got their own angles. They've only been rooting for us because my presence here puts money in their pockets.
Maya doesn't even have the grace to look ashamed.
"Maybe it started off that way," she admits with brutal honesty.
"But there are people here who genuinely care about you now, Mac.
People who want to see you happy, not just profitable.
Mrs. Henderson asks about you every day. Old Pete saves your favorite beer."
Her voice softens again. "If you're not serious about Delaney… If this is just some kind of emotional tourism for you… Then, end it now. Before she gets hurt any worse than she already has been. Before any of us get more invested in your happiness than we should be."
"And if I am serious?" The question slips out before I can stop it, raw and vulnerable.
Maya's expression transforms, the hard edges melting into something almost hopeful. "Then you better be prepared to fight for her, Mac. Because she deserves someone who chooses her completely and unconditionally, not someone who runs at the first sign of real commitment or difficulty."
“What do you think I’m doing here?”
The sound of uneven footsteps on the hardwood floor interrupts our tense conversation. Delaney appears in the kitchen doorway, leaning heavily on the metal crutches the hospital provided, her face flushed with the effort of moving around.
"What are you two talking about in here?" she asks, her green eyes moving suspiciously between us. "It sounded pretty intense from the living room."
"Just discussing your recovery plan," Maya says smoothly, rising from her chair with practiced ease. "I brought you my mom's famous tuna noodle casserole. She sends her love and strict instructions that you're supposed to eat actual protein, not just survive on crackers and ginger ale."
Delaney's face lights up despite her obvious discomfort, transforming her pale features with genuine joy. "You're absolutely the best friend in the world. Everyone else has been trying to feed me nothing but soup and bland toast."