Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty Two
Finn
I stared at my phone for a full minute before I called.
Brody picked up on the second ring. “Hey.” His voice was flat, like he already knew.
I swallowed. “Did you see the press this morning?”
He laughed, sharp. “It’s all anyone’s texting me. My old college roommate sent the link twice, as if maybe I missed it the first time.”
I tried to keep my voice steady. “They said there are pictures. I’ve already seen so many of us, it’s crazy.”
He went silent. I heard him breathing, fast, as though he’d just finished a sprint.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“At the gym,” he said, but the echo was wrong—tinny, like the inside of a stairwell.
“You want to talk in person?”
Another pause. “No. Yes. I don’t know.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Can you come to the rink? It’s empty, mostly.”
He grunted. “Give me fifteen.”
***
He showed up twenty minutes later, hoodie up, hands jammed deep in the pockets. He didn’t look at me as he crossed the training room, just walked past and started slamming stuff around—restocking tape rolls, tossing ice packs into the mini freezer.
I closed the door, the lock thudding home.
“We need to figure this out,” I said, softer than I meant.
He whipped around. “There’s nothing to figure out. We say it’s not true. I’ll tell the league I was helping you with rehab, that you’re just a friend. They’ll believe me.”
I stepped closer. “You think that’ll stop them? They’ve already decided. If there are photos, it doesn’t matter what we say.”
He shook his head, almost pleading. “It matters to my job, Finn. To my whole fucking life. I need this. More than you do.” He stopped and sucked in a breath. “Finn, you shouldn’t have made that comment.” He shook his head.
I didn’t need to ask which comment he was talking about. “Brody, we are in love. I can’t just hide my feelings.”
“Why not? I do,” Brody sneered.
I hated that we were fighting. This isn’t what was supposed to happen. I should say I’m sorry and he should forgive me. That’s what couples who truly love one another do. They push past the hard parts of their relationship.
“You don’t have to. Don’t you understand? We can be together, and if you get fired, then you can just come live with me. I can pay for everything. You wouldn’t need to work. Just take care of our home and Winne,” I tried to argue.
I had pictured so many times a life where Brody and I lived together with Winnie. We could be a family.
Brody’s mouth fell open and tears filled his eyes. “I don’t want or need you to just take care of me. I love working. I can’t just take your money,” he yelled. He turned and threw his arms up in the air. “I don’t need this!”
I snapped back, sharper than I wanted. “You think I don’t need this? You think I’m just coasting along? Do you think I enjoy living my life in secret?”
His jaw clenched. “You’re the golden boy. If they out you, you’ll be a hero. They’ll build a statue. I’m just the trainer who gets fired. At the end of the day, I’m nobody."
I almost laughed, but it died halfway out. “You really believe that?”
He moved fast.
Too fast.
Shoving a box of gauze into the cabinet so hard, it rattled. “You have options. I don’t.”
I gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white. “So, what do you want to do? Lie forever?”
He stopped, breathing hard. “I do not want to have to choose. I want one fucking thing in my life that doesn’t blow up if I touch it.”
I tried to reach for him, but he pulled away, flinching. I felt sick. Everything was falling apart and I couldn’t fix this. I felt helpless.
“You want to end it?” I asked, and my voice shook.
He stared at the wall. “I want it not to hurt so much.”
For a second, neither of us moved. The room was all chemical tang and burnt-out fluorescent. I heard the pop of the overhead, the tick of a clock, every heartbeat amplified.
Then the handle rattled. The door swung open.
Dylan.
He walked in, slowly, dragging the moment out. He looked at Brody, then at me, then at the little table between us.
“Am I interrupting?” he asked, voice syrup-thick with bullshit innocence.
Brody snapped to, reaching for the nearest roll of tape. “Just wrapping his wrist. He’s got tendinitis.”
Dylan smiled, wolfish. “You might want to ice that down. Wouldn’t want the star player to miss any action.”
I bristled. “Do you need something?”
He shrugged. “Just checking in. Coach said you two were in early. I figured there was a reason.”
He let the silence stretch, eyes darting between us. Then, too loud: “Secrets never stay secret long, huh?”
I wanted to punch him. Instead, I kept my face blank. “You’re right. Want to tell us yours while you’re here?”
He grinned wider. “My secrets are boring.”
He turned, but not before he shot Brody a look—a challenge and a promise, all rolled into one.
The door shut. I heard his footsteps echo down the hall.
Brody slumped, all the fight gone. He stared at the tape, not moving.
I reached out, drawn out this time. He let my hand rest on his.
“What do we do?” he whispered.
I didn’t have an answer.
So, I just held on.