Chapter 25
~
Carissa
I found Dawson in his bedroom because that was the only place left to look.
The house had been restless all afternoon, the kind of tension that settled into the walls when everyone was waiting for the clock to move faster.
Gear bags sat by the front door. A suit jacket was draped over the back of a chair like it had been abandoned mid-thought.
Boone and Gage were somewhere downstairs, voices low, giving us space without saying so out loud.
Dawson’s door was half open.
I knocked anyway, because barging in felt like it would tip this into something I couldn’t pull back from.
“Yeah,” he said, distracted, already moving.
He was packing. Not frantically, not carelessly. Methodical. Socks folded into perfect rectangles. His suit laid out on the bed with surgical precision. He didn’t look at me when I stepped inside, just kept his focus on the bag like it had offended him and needed to be put in its place.
“We need to talk,” I said.
His shoulders shifted. Barely. Enough that I noticed.
“I’ve got a game,” he replied, voice even. Controlled. The same tone he used when reporters tried to corner him with loaded questions.
“I know,” I said. “That’s not an answer.”
He zipped the bag with a finality that made my stomach sink. Then he straightened, finally turning to face me, arms crossing over his chest like a barrier he’d practiced building.
“What is it you want, Carissa?”
There it was. Distance wrapped in politeness. Days of it condensed into six words.
I crossed the room, stopping short of the bed because it felt too intimate to sit on it right now. “I want to know why you’re shutting me out.”
“I’m not,” he said immediately.
I laughed, sharp and humorless. “Don’t insult me like that.”
His jaw tightened. A familiar tell. “This isn’t the time.”
“You’ve been saying that for days,” I shot back. “There’s always a game. A practice. A flight. A reason.”
He exhaled through his nose, a slow release that told me he was already done with this conversation. “I told you. I don’t want to complicate things.”
“You don’t get to decide that on your own,” I said, my voice shaking despite my effort to keep it steady. “You don’t get to rewrite what happened and pretend it didn’t matter.”
His gaze flicked away, just for a second, landing on the window. The sky outside was turning that flat gray that always came before evening storms.
“It mattered,” he said quietly. “That’s the problem.”
The words hit harder than I expected. I took a breath, grounding myself in the room. The faint scent of his soap. The muted hum of the house. The bedspread smoothed within an inch of its life.
“Then why are you treating me like I did something wrong?” I asked.
“You didn’t,” he said, too fast.
“Then why does it feel like I’m being punished?” My hands curled at my sides, nails biting into my palms. “I live here, Dawson. I work here. I can’t keep doing this thing where I pretend not to notice you avoiding me.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line. “You’re with Boone and Gage now.”
“Yes,” I said. “And you’re still part of this house. Of this family. You don’t just disappear because it’s easier.”
He turned fully away from me then, picking up his watch from the dresser, fastening it with care. The ticking sounded loud in the quiet room.
“I’m trying not to hurt you,” he said.
I stared at his back, disbelief curdling into something heavier. “You already are.”
That made him pause. Just a fraction. His hands stilled at his wrist.
“I’m not built for this,” he said finally. “I never was.”
“For what?” I demanded. “For wanting something?”
“For wanting too much,” he said. He turned back to me then, eyes dark, guarded. “You deserve someone who won’t disappoint you.”
The words landed like a door slamming shut.
Something in me cracked.
“I didn’t ask you to decide what I deserve,” I said, my voice breaking despite myself. “I asked you to talk to me. To stop pretending I’m some mistake you need to manage.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“I can’t,” he said. “Not right now.”
The room felt too small. Too full of everything we weren’t saying.
“Then maybe I need to leave,” I said.
The words escaped before I could soften them.
His eyes snapped to mine. “What?”
“I can’t keep living like this,” I said, emotion rushing up, hot and relentless. “Walking on eggshells. Wondering what I did wrong. If this is how it’s going to be, maybe I should resign. Find somewhere else to work. Somewhere I’m not constantly reminded of what I’m not allowed to have.”
Silence swallowed the room.
For a moment, I thought he might argue. Might tell me I was being dramatic. Might reach for me.
Instead, the door behind me creaked.
A small sound followed. Not loud. Not dramatic.
A sniffle.
I turned just as Henry appeared in the doorway, eyes red, lower lip trembling. He took in the room in one sweeping glance, confusion and fear battling it out on his face.
“You’re leaving?” he asked, voice breaking.
My heart dropped straight through the floor.
“Oh, buddy,” I breathed, moving toward him immediately. “No. No, that’s not what I meant.”
He backed up a step, shoulders hunching like he was bracing for impact. “You said you were going to leave. Is it because of me?”
Dawson swore under his breath.
I crouched in front of Henry, reaching for him. He let me pull him into my arms, his small body shaking as he pressed his face into my shoulder.
“No,” I said firmly, stroking his hair, my own eyes burning. “Never because of you. I promise. This is grown-up stuff. It has nothing to do with you.”
He clutched my shirt like it was the only solid thing left. “I don’t want you to go.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said, even as doubt gnawed at me. “I’m right here.”
Dawson stood frozen near the bed, conflict etched into every line of him. His gaze flicked to the clock on the wall.
“I don’t have time for this,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
I looked up at him, anger flaring through the ache. “You don’t have time to comfort your foster child?”
His jaw clenched. “I have to leave.”
“You’re just going to walk out?” I asked, incredulous. “Right now?”
“What do you want me to do?” he snapped, the control finally cracking. “I have a game.”
The words echoed in the room, heavy and final.
He grabbed his bag and moved for the door, pausing only long enough to brush a hand over Henry’s head.
“We’ll talk later,” he said, already halfway gone.
The door shut behind him with a soft click that felt anything but gentle.
Henry sobbed into my shoulder.
I held him, rocking slightly, my own chest aching as the house seemed to exhale around us, the fallout settling in slow, painful waves.
The game started with the volume too loud.
Henry had the remote clutched in both hands like it was a life raft, his knees tucked up under his chin on the couch, eyes bright despite everything that had happened upstairs.
The Avalanche logo flashed across the screen, followed by the Golden Knights skating out under a wash of white light and roaring crowd noise.
The commentators’ voices filled the living room, confident and buoyant, like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong.
I stood behind the couch longer than I meant to, one hand braced on the back cushion, my gaze skimming the screen without really landing anywhere. The house felt too big without Dawson in it. Too quiet in a way that didn’t soothe, only amplified every echo of the afternoon.
“Is Uncle Dawson starting?” Henry asked, craning his neck toward the screen.
“Yeah,” I said, then corrected myself when my voice wavered. “Yeah, he is.”
The camera cut to the starting lineup, Dawson’s name rolling across the bottom of the screen. He skated into frame, helmet already on, jaw set. He looked the same as always from a distance. Big. Solid. Unshakeable.
Except I knew better now.
I sat down beside Henry, close enough that our shoulders touched.
He didn’t comment on it, just leaned into me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I wrapped an arm around him and focused on the rhythm of his breathing, using it as an anchor while the puck dropped and the game surged to life.
Colorado came out aggressive. Fast transitions. Relentless pressure in the neutral zone. Even I could tell the Golden Knights were scrambling earlier than usual, passes just a fraction off, timing not quite there.
Henry narrated everything like he always did, filling the spaces where my thoughts wanted to spiral.
“That guy’s really fast,” he said, pointing at the screen. “The one with the long hair.”
“Mm-hm,” I replied, eyes fixed on Dawson as he chased the play back into their zone.
He was a step late. Not badly. Just enough that it caught my attention.
I shifted on the couch, the leather creaking under me. “Hey, bud, why don’t you sit back? You’ll miss the replay.”
“Oh,” Henry said, scooting closer, his socked feet brushing my thigh.
The first period ticked by in uneven bursts. Colorado scored first on a messy rebound that left the Knights’ goalie sprawled and frustrated. The crowd noise surged, red jerseys leaping against the glass.
Henry groaned dramatically. “That wasn’t fair.”
“No,” I said, swallowing. “It wasn’t.”
The camera cut to Dawson on the bench. He pulled off his helmet, ran a hand through his hair, then stared straight ahead, eyes unfocused. The shot lingered a beat longer than necessary, like even the broadcast sensed something off.
My chest ached.
I wondered what he was thinking. If his mind was still back in his bedroom, the door closing between us. If he was replaying Henry’s face, crumpled and hurt. If he was blaming himself, or me, or both.
“Carissa?” Henry nudged me with his elbow. “You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?” I asked, forcing a smile.
“The quiet thing,” he said. “You do it when you’re worried.”
I squeezed him closer. “I’m okay.”
The lie tasted thin.
The Knights answered back with a goal late in the period, Boone crashing the net and shoving the puck through traffic. Henry jumped to his feet, arms in the air, yelling Boone’s name like he could hear him through the screen.
I laughed despite myself, the sound shaky but real. “Easy, tiger. You’re going to knock the lamp over.”
“Worth it,” he declared, collapsing back onto the couch.
At intermission, Henry demanded popcorn. I let him drag me into the kitchen, grateful for the movement, the excuse to look away from the screen. The microwave hummed, the smell of butter filling the space, grounding me in something ordinary.
When we came back, Dawson was already skating laps for the second period. The camera caught him mid-stride, and this time there was no mistaking it. His shoulders were tense. His movements were rigid, like he was holding himself together by sheer force.
Colorado capitalized on it.
A turnover at the blue line led to a breakaway. Dawson chased after it, stick extended, but the Avalanche forward slipped past him and buried the puck top shelf. The crowd exploded.
Henry went still.
I felt it in my gut, a sinking certainty that settled deep and refused to budge.
The commentators started circling the moment immediately, replaying the turnover from three angles. “Uncharacteristic mistake there,” one of them said. “You don’t usually see him caught flat-footed like that.”
The camera cut back to Dawson, hands on his knees, head bowed. When he looked up, his face filled the screen, eyes dark and distant, mouth set in a hard line that did nothing to hide the strain there.
He looked lost.
My throat tightened.
I imagined myself in the stands. Imagined Henry beside me, waving his sign, yelling Dawson’s name. Imagined catching his eye, giving him something solid to lock onto.
Then I imagined the look he’d given me in his bedroom, guarded and weary, and the uncertainty crept back in.
Would he even want me there?
Henry shifted beside me. “He looks sad.”
“I know,” I said quietly.
“Is it because you guys were fighting?” The question was small. Careful.
I took a breath. “Sometimes grown-ups have a lot going on in their heads,” I said. “Even during games.”
The third period started with the Knights down by one. Gage threw his body into every check. Boone took chances, driving the play forward with reckless determination. They tied it up midway through the period, and for a brief, fragile moment, hope flared.
Henry bounced on the couch. “See? They’re gonna win.”
I wanted to believe him.
But Colorado answered back almost immediately, a perfectly placed shot off the rush that silenced the broadcast crew for a beat before they recovered.
Dawson was on the ice when it happened.
The camera didn’t need to find him this time. I felt it, a sharp pull behind my ribs, as if something vital had been yanked loose.
The final minutes dragged on. The Knights pulled their goalie. The puck skittered dangerously close to the line twice, only to be cleared away. When the final horn sounded, the score held.
Colorado Avalanche: 4. Golden Knights: 2.
The commentators launched into speculation before the players even reached the bench. “You have to wonder what’s going on with Dawson tonight,” one said. “He just didn’t look like himself out there.”
The camera zoomed in on him again as he skated off, helmet dangling from his hand. His eyes flicked up toward the stands, scanning, searching.
My finger jabbed the power button on the remote.
The screen went black mid-sentence.
Henry looked up at me, startled. “Hey.”
“It’s time for bed,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Come on.”
“But—”
“Tomorrow’s a school day,” I added gently. “We can talk about the game in the morning.”
He frowned, then nodded, trusting me even when he didn’t understand.
I guided him down the hall, helping him through his bedtime routine with practiced ease, my mind already racing ahead to the sound of the front door opening.
To Dawson coming home. To the weight of everything unsaid settling back into the house.
When Henry was tucked in, I lingered a moment longer than usual, brushing his hair back, smoothing the covers.
“Goodnight,” he murmured, already half asleep.
“Goodnight, buddy.”
I turned off the light and stood in the hallway, the silence pressing in from all sides.
I wanted to be in my room. I wanted to be asleep before Dawson got home. I wanted to rewind everything to before it had become this complicated.
Instead, I stood there, wondering if leaving was the only way out, and how everything I’d thought was simple had twisted itself into something I could barely recognize.