Chapter 9 #2
“No.”
Too fast. Too sure.
He noticed.
I zipped my bag with unnecessary violence. “He’s not the problem.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you’re not asking the next question.”
“I’m always asking the next question.”
“Well, don’t.”
Roman leaned back against the stall beside mine, arms loose. He didn’t look offended. That made me feel worse.
“Fine,” he said. “But if this turns into you detonating in public, I’m charging for cleanup.”
“I’ll Venmo you.”
“You will forget.”
“I’ll set a reminder.”
“You will ignore it.”
I almost smiled.
Dinner with Vanessa was at my apartment because she had an early content shoot the next morning and said she wanted something quiet.
She showed up with takeout from the Thai place I liked, a bottle of wine for herself, and a reusable bag full of candles she said would make my place “less bachelor panic.”
“That’s a design category?” I asked.
“For you, yes.”
She moved around my kitchen like she belonged there, opening cabinets, finding plates, lighting one candle on the counter. She looked pretty in black jeans and a soft cream sweater, hair pulled back, makeup softer than usual. Not dressed for photos. Not performing.
That made the guilt worse.
We ate on the couch with containers spread over the coffee table. She told me about her shoot, about a brand asking her to approve a caption that sounded like it had been written by a drunk robot, about her mom calling to ask if Jace could get tickets for a cousin’s boyfriend’s brother.
I laughed in the right places. Mostly.
Halfway through, she nudged my knee with her foot. “Hey.”
I looked over. “Yeah?”
“Come back.”
My stomach dropped.
“I’m here.”
“Your body is.” She smiled a little, but it didn’t reach far. “Sorry. That sounded like Roman.”
“He said the same thing today.”
“Then maybe listen to both of us.”
I set my container down. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.” She tucked one leg under herself. “I’m not mad. I’m trying not to be mad. There’s a difference.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Sorry again felt too small. Telling her the truth was impossible because I didn’t even have the full truth in my own hands.
She traced the rim of her wineglass. “Is it me?”
“No.”
“You answered fast.”
“Because it’s not.”
Her eyes searched my face. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”
I wanted to be the kind of person who could say yes and deserve it.
“I’m just in my head,” I said.
Vanessa nodded slowly. “You’ve been there a lot lately.”
“I know.”
She leaned forward and kissed me. Soft. Familiar. A little careful.
I kissed her back because she was my girlfriend and she was trying and I was not a monster, even if I was starting to feel like one. Her mouth was warm. Her hand rested against my jaw. I waited for my body to catch up to the moment.
It didn’t.
Not the way it should have.
When she pulled back, there was no accusation in her face. Just a kind of tired knowledge I didn’t want to look at.
“I’m going to head home,” she said. “Early morning.”
“You can stay.”
“I know.”
But she didn’t.
After she left, my apartment felt too quiet and too full at the same time. The candle she’d lit was still burning on the counter, making everything smell like cedar and smoke. I blew it out, then stood there in the dark kitchen with my phone in my hand.
Do not text him.
I put the phone down.
Walked to the bedroom.
Came back because I forgot to lock the door.
Picked up the phone.
Put it down again.
Opened the fridge. Closed it. Checked tomorrow’s schedule even though I already knew it. Seven a.m. optional skate. Team meeting at nine. Media later. I had it. I knew it.
I opened Declan’s thread.
Last message from him: Goodnight, Holloway.
My thumb moved before my good sense could tackle it.
On the low support drill today, when their weak-side D cheats up, do you want me holding lower longer or coming across once Lowell secures possession?
I stared at it.
Hockey question. Legitimate. Boring, even.
I sent it.
The regret was instant and useless.
I paced. Sat. Stood again. Took three drinks of water too fast and almost choked. Checked my phone. No reply. Checked again thirteen seconds later because apparently I thought time worked differently if I bullied it.
Finally, the screen lit.
Be at the rink at seven.
That was it.
I stared.
Another message appeared.
Don’t be late.
No answer to the question. No extra words. No flirtation. No softness. Nothing I could point to and say there, that’s why I reacted.
Still, my whole body answered.
Heat curled low in my stomach, sudden and humiliating. My breathing changed. I gripped the edge of the counter and looked at those four words until they stopped being words and became a line drawn in front of me.
Be there.
On time.
Do what you’re told.
I typed, Okay.
Deleted it.
Typed, Got it.
Deleted that too.
Finally, I sent, I won’t be.
His reply came after a minute.
See that you aren’t.
I set the phone face down like it had burned me.
For a while, I just stood in my kitchen, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the distant traffic below my window.
My head was not quiet. Not completely. It still moved, still grabbed at guilt, confusion, Vanessa’s tired smile, Roman’s worried eyes, the fact that Declan had a wife and I had no business reacting to him like this.
But underneath the noise, there was a line.
Seven.
Don’t be late.
I liked being challenged. That wasn’t new. I had built a career on people telling me I couldn’t do something and then making them watch me do it twice.
I liked being corrected when the correction was fair. That was harder to admit, but true. The right correction didn’t make me smaller. It gave the chaos somewhere to go.
And approval.
God, I wanted to earn it from him.
Not applause. Not cameras. Not the league calling me electric or difficult or whatever word they used when they wanted my talent without the rest of me attached.
His approval.
Specific. Measured. Not easy.
I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes until colors sparked behind them.
This wasn’t about hockey.
It wasn’t about organization.
It wasn’t even about my ADHD, not entirely.
My brain was part of it, sure. The racing, the spiraling, the way direct instruction could cut through a storm that other people didn’t even know was happening.
But that explanation didn’t hold the whole thing.
It didn’t explain my mouth going dry when he said sit.
It didn’t explain the way my body waited for his voice.
It didn’t explain why being told not to be late felt less like a schedule reminder and more like a hand at the back of my neck, even though he hadn’t touched me at all.
I picked up the phone and checked the time.
Set three alarms.
Then a fourth across the room.
Then I laid out my clothes, packed my bag, put my keys inside my sneakers so I couldn’t leave without finding them.
I did all the things I knew how to do. All the systems that sometimes worked and sometimes didn’t, depending on sleep and stress and whatever else my brain decided to turn into static.
Seven.
Don’t be late.
I got into bed but didn’t sleep.
The apartment was dark. My phone was face down on the nightstand. Vanessa’s scent still lingered faintly on my hoodie where she’d leaned against me. Declan’s words sat heavier.
I liked being challenged.
I liked being corrected.
I liked earning approval from a man who never handed it out just to make me feel better.
And then came the thought I absolutely did not want.
What would happen if Declan stopped treating me like a player and started treating me like a man?