Chapter 30
“I’m just saying, you bought the wrong kind of pasta.”
“There is no wrong kind of pasta, Angie.”
“There absolutely is. You got penne. I specifically said rigatoni.”
“They’re both tubes,” I told her.
“They are not both tubes. Rigatoni has ridges. The sauce sticks better. This is basic pasta science, Matthew.”
I shifted the grocery bags in my arms, trying to get my keys out of my pocket. “Pasta science isn’t real.”
“It is to me.” Angelica dug through her own bag as we walked up to our building. “Oh my god, you also got the wrong cheese. I said parmesan, you got—”
“That is parmesan.”
“It’s the cheap kind. The kind that comes in a plastic container and tastes like sawdust.”
“It tastes fine.”
“You have no standards.”
I was laughing as I finally got the keys out, and it felt good. We’d spent the afternoon running errands like regular people, hitting up the grocery store, pharmacy, that weird kitchen supply place Angelica wanted to check out for her future dorm room.
It had been a good day. The kind of day I hadn’t had in weeks.
Andrew and I had been. . . talking.
Texting, mostly. Nothing heavy. A meme. A you alive? text. A couple late-night you home? messages here and there. It was all very careful and polite.
I told myself that was enough for now, until we had time for a real conversation.
Angelica stopped mid-complaint about the cheese. I looked up, and Andrew was sitting on the front steps of our building.
Angelica looked at me, then at Andrew, then back at me.
“Oh,” she said quietly.
Andrew stood. Slowly, like he wasn’t sure he should.
“Hey,” he said. His voice was rough.
“Hey,” I managed.
Silence stretched between us.
Angelica cleared her throat. “Hi, Andrew.”
“Angelica. Hey.” Some of the tension left his shoulders. “How’s school?”
“Good. Great, actually.” She shifted her grocery bag. “I got into MIT.”
Andrew’s whole face changed. “Are you fucking serious?”
Angelica flinched, startled by the intensity.
“That’s—fuck yeah! That’s incredible!” He was grinning now, genuine and unguarded. “Full ride?”
“Um, yeah—”
“Of course. You’re a fucking genius. Holy shit, that’s—”
Andrew stopped and stared at her, seventeen years old, holding a bag of groceries, staring at him like he’d just transformed into a completely different person.
He cleared his throat. “Sorry. I mean—that’s really great. Good job.”
Angelica smiled. “Thanks. It’s okay. You can be excited.”
“I am. I just—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You worked really hard for that.”
“Yeah, well.” She nodded in my direction. “Had a good role model.”
Andrew’s eyes flicked to me, then back to her. “You’re going to do great there.”
“Thanks.” She looked between us again, clearly reading the room. “I’m going to. . . head inside. Put this stuff away.”
“I can help—” I started.
“Nope. You’re good.” She took both grocery bags from my arms before I could protest. “I’ve got it. You two should talk.”
She was already moving past Andrew toward the door, keys in hand. “It’s good to see you, Andrew. Don’t be a stranger.”
Then she was gone, and it was just us.
Andrew shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. I stayed where I was, a few feet away, trying to figure out what to say.
“How long have you been waiting?” I asked finally.
“I don’t know. A while.” He looked down at the steps. “I didn’t know if you’d be home. Didn’t know if I should. . . fuck. I should’ve called first.”
He looked miserable.
I softened slightly. “What’s going on?”
“The hearing’s tomorrow.”
Oh. Right.
“I know,” I said.
“Right. Chappell has been up my ass about it all week.” Andrew’s jaw worked. “He’s been talking about it nonstop. How nervous he is. How he hopes I get cleared. How the team needs me back.”
I didn’t say anything.
Andrew looked up at me. “I’m. . . I’m fucking terrified, Matthew.”
The admission seemed to cost him something. He looked away immediately, like he regretted saying it out loud.
I recognized this. The spiral. The way anxiety built until it consumed everything. I’d experienced it many times myself.
“That’s normal,” I said. “It’s a huge deal.”
“I can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t fucking sleep.
Can’t train without my brain just—” He gestured sharply.
“Every worst-case scenario on loop. They could ban me from the league entirely. Or they could clear me completely. I have no fucking idea which way it’s going to go, and I’m just sitting here losing my goddamn mind. ”
He was breathing hard now, all that energy with nowhere to go.
I’d dealt with this before. With Angelica, when she spiraled about college applications. With myself, more times than I could count.
“What are you most afraid of?” I asked.
Andrew looked at me like I’d asked something in a foreign language.
“What?”
“The worst-case scenario. What is it? Sometimes saying it out loud helps.”
He stared at me for a long moment. Then his shoulders sagged slightly.
“That they’ll say I’m right. That what I did was justified, defending Morrison, standing up to that piece of shit Archibald. And it won’t fucking matter. They’ll ban me anyway because I’m too much of a liability. Too unpredictable. Too—” He stopped. “Too me.”
“And the best case?” I asked.
“They clear me. I go back. Everything goes back to normal.” He met my eyes. “Except it won’t. Because you won’t be there.”
The words hung between us.
“It’s not like I’m far away. I’m just working for Kirk now,” I said.
“I know. He won’t shut the fuck up about how great you are. How organized. How you actually answer his questions instead of just telling him to figure it out himself.” Andrew’s mouth twisted. “He’s right. You are great. I was an idiot for letting you go.”
“You didn’t let me go. You fired me.”
“I know.” He stepped closer. Just one step, but it closed some of the distance between us. “I thought I was removing barriers. I didn’t realize that I was creating one. I can be stupid, Matthew.”
Another step. We were close now, close enough that I could see the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw.
“I miss you,” Andrew said, voice dropping lower.
“You don’t have to say anything. I just—I needed you to know.
Before tomorrow. In case it all goes to shit.
” He was so close now I could smell his cologne, could see the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.
“I’m sorry. For all of it. For firing you.
For making choices without you. I’m sorry. ”
My chest tightened.
I wanted to kiss him. I wanted it badly enough that my hands curled into fists at my sides.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I stepped in, just enough that he had to meet my eyes.
“Okay,” I said. Calm. Grounded. “Here’s what’s going to happen.”
He blinked.
“You’re going to go home,” I continued, voice steady, no room for argument. “You’re going to eat something real. You’re going to sleep. And tomorrow, you’re going to walk into that hearing and handle your shit.”
His brow furrowed. “Matthew, what if—”
“No.” I shook my head once. “You don’t get to spiral tonight. You’ve done the work. You know what happened. You tell the truth. You answer the questions. You don’t apologize for existing, and you don’t beg.”
He swallowed. Hard.
“You don’t need me to hold your hand,” I went on. “You need to show up as yourself and let them deal with that. Whatever they decide, that’s on them. But how you go in? That’s on you.”
“And after?” he asked quietly.
I held his gaze. Didn’t soften. Didn’t retreat.
“After,” I said, deliberate, “you come find me. When this is done. When you know where you stand. Then we talk.”
His voice was barely there. “You mean that?”
“Yes.” Simple. Certain. “I can’t fix this for you. This is yours.”
He reached for my hand. I let him.
Our fingers laced, warm and solid.
“After,” he said.
“After.”
The next day crawled by.
I went to the rink with Kirk. The atmosphere was wrong the moment we walked in. Players who usually chirped at each other during warmups were subdued. Even the trainers moved with their shoulders tight, checking phones between drills.
Everyone knew about the hearing.
Morrison caught up with me near the bench during a water break. The rookie looked nervous, twisting his water bottle cap. “Hey, Matthew?”
I glanced up from Kirk’s schedule. “Yeah?”
“So like—” He scratched the back of his neck. “I just wanted to say, whatever happens with Knox’s hearing, the boys are all pulling for him.”
Something warm settled in my chest. “Thanks, Morrison. I’ll tell him.”
“Knox’s a bastard but also the best. We need him back.” Morrison hesitated, then added, “This whole suspension thing is so fucking stupid. Knox doesn’t deserve this. He was just. . . he was standing up for me.” He stopped. “It’s not fair.”
“Morrison—”
“I feel like shit about it.” He finally looked at me, eyes a little red.
“Hey.” I kept my voice steady. “Knox made his choice. He’d do it again.”
“I know, but—” Morrison shook his head. “He shouldn’t have had to, y’know?
It’s giving bullshit that he’s the one getting punished when Archibald’s the one who said—” He cut himself off.
“I’m sure you know what he said. So yeah.
I just wanted you to know we’re all rooting for him. And tell him. . . tell him I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”
“Still feels like I do.”
“Wes!” The assistant captain’s voice echoed from the ice, sharp and annoyed. “Get your ass back here! Coach is waiting!”
Morrison glanced over his shoulder at his older brother Dylan, then back at me. He held out his fist and I bumped it. “Thanks, Matthew.”
He skated back to the ice, shoulders hunched. Dylan grabbed his jersey and said something too quiet for me to hear, but his hand stayed on his little brother’s shoulder for a moment before they both got back in line.
Voss was already gathering the team for another drill. But I noticed that more than a few players glanced toward the tunnel, like they expected Andrew to walk through it any second.
Practice ran long. Coach kept them on the ice an extra twenty minutes, maybe trying to distract them, maybe just needing the routine himself. When they finally filed off, Kirk caught my eye and mouthed, “Anything?”
I shook my head.
I kept myself busy after that. I helped Kirk navigate the rest of practice, answered emails, coordinated with his agent about an upcoming sponsorship deal.
I kept myself from checking my phone every five minutes.
The hearing was at two o’clock. I’d seen the notice. I knew Andrew would be there with the Wardens’ lawyers, facing the league disciplinary board.
Three o’clock came and went. No word.
I watched Kirk’s phone light up with a text. He read it, jaw tight, then looked at me. “Voss wants to know if we’ve heard anything.”
“Not yet.”
Four o’clock. Nothing.
The athletic trainer passed by, muttering into his phone. “Yeah, still nothing. I know, it’s bullshit. He should’ve heard by now.”
Kirk kept glancing at his phone too, but he didn’t say anything directly. Just shot me sympathetic looks when he thought I wasn’t watching. When his own phone rang and it wasn’t news about Andrew, he looked almost guilty answering it.
At 4:47, I was staring blankly at my laptop screen when my phone rang.
Andrew’s name.
My hand shook as I answered.
“Hey.”
“The suspension’s fucking lifted.” Andrew’s voice was rough, unsteady, but there was something else underneath—relief. “I’m back, baby.”