Chapter Twenty-Seven
SCOTTIE
I don’t remember falling asleep last night.
I remember lying there, staring at the ceiling in the dark, telling myself she didn’t mean it.
Telling myself there had to be something, anything, that would make sense of the way she’d looked at me in the hallways outside of the locker room.
Like we were strangers again.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and for one stupid, reckless second, I think—Please be her.
It’s not.
It’s my mom.
I rub the sleep from my eyes. “Hey, Ma.”
She doesn’t even say hello. She sounds breathless. “Scottie—” And right away, I brace.
Good news never sounds like that from my mother.
But then she laughs. The kind of laugh that wavers like she’s crying.
“Sweetheart, the clinic called.”
“What? Why?” Confusion starts first. Why would they be calling when they turned us down, and the waitlist is a mile long?
“They—they have a sponsored spot.” Her voice cracks. “Your father got in. They’re giving him the position. Completely paid.”
I sit up too fast, dizziness washing over me.
“What?” I say again, like I didn’t hear her right. “Ma—Ma, are you serious?”
“They called this morning,” she says. “Apparently, they reserve a few funded positions each cycle for strong candidates. Your father qualifies.” She’s crying now, happy tears, overwhelmed crying, and it has tears prickling in my eyes too. “They want him in Munich by next month.”
Jesus Christ.
I press my fist to my mouth, eyes slamming shut. My dad finally has a chance.
“He’s right here,” Mom says, voice wobbling. “He wants to talk to you.”
There’s a shuffle, then—“Son?”
It’s barely a whisper. My father doesn’t cry, but right now his voice is thick with it. The last time he got this emotional was when I was drafted into the NHL.
“I—I don’t know how this happened,” he says. “But your mother said to stop arguing and accept the damn blessing, so…”
I laugh a little, except it comes out broken with my own emotions. “Dad. This is, this is everything. This… it’s a chance. Please tell me you’re going to take it.”
“I know. And I am. I’m going to take it,” His breath shudders. “I wish I could see the look on your face right now.”
If he could, he’d see me with my hand pressed over my eyes, trying not to entirely lose it.
Trying to imagine him walking again, even if it’s with a cane or a walker…
anything at this point would be a win. Imagine him standing next to my mom in their kitchen, rather than rolling up beside her, brings more emotion clogging my throat.
“Dad,” I choke out. “You deserve this. More than anyone I know.”
He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s soft. “Thank you, son.”
When the call ends, I rest on the side of the bed for a long time, phone in both hands, trying to breathe through the sudden, dizzying relief.
And then, before I can talk myself out of it, I text the one person I want to tell this news to more than anyone on this planet.
Me: Just thought you might care. My pops got a spot in the trials.
I stare at the screen, stupidly hopeful.
One second passes, then two, then five, until my phone dings, half surprising me. I open it so fast I almost drop it.
KitKat: Tell him I say congratulations. He deserves it. You both do.
That’s it. Maybe I wished for more. Like, “I’m proud of him,” or “I’m happy for you. Or, “I miss you.”
I type something, and then erase it. Then type again, and erase that too.
She doesn’t want to talk. Not to me, or Luka, or even the girls who she’s become close with. She shut us all out, and I have no idea why. If she no longer wants me, fine… but what about everyone else? Are we so easy to forget?
I toss the phone onto the bed and press both palms into my eyes.
I don’t know what I expected. That she’d suddenly realize she made a mistake and come running back to me? That my father getting into the trials change anything between her big break in New York?
I’m an idiot.
A loud knock at my door jerks me out of it. “Scottie.” Luka’s voice.
I open the door. He looks stressed, hair damp from rain or sweat, jaw tense.
“I’ve been trying to get into the penthouse,” he says, still panting as if he ran here. “My grandmother’s bodyguard wouldn’t let me in to see my own damn sister. They slammed the door in my face.”
My stomach drops.
“It’s been almost a week,” Luka continues. “She hasn’t answered my calls or texts. The girls can’t reach her. Irina finally talked to her, but she’s not in New York yet, and she seemed closed-lipped about telling me anything she knows.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice flat. “I gathered.”
He studies me, frowning. “Did you talk to her?”
“Not really. She replied to a text.”
“That’s it?” he asks.
“That’s it.”
“Fuck,” he mutters, pacing a tight line. “This is my sister, but she’s acting like she’s in lockdown. This is Popovich-level shit. This is—this is what it looks like when my grandmother reels someone back in.”
My pulse spikes. “What does that mean?”
“It means she’s being handled.” Luka stops pacing. “And if she’s being handled, she can’t make her own choices right now.”
A slow, sick dread coils in my gut.
“Scottie…” Luka’s voice drops, serious. “If she walked away because she was forced—”
“She told me she didn’t want me anymore,” I snap. “She said she missed New York. She said we were always temporary.”
He blinks. “You believe that?”
“I have no choice.”
Luka’s jaw flexes, but he doesn’t argue.
“What about your dad?” he asks after a moment, softer.
I take a slow, steadying breath. “He got into the trial.”
Luka’s eyes widen. “What? How? That’s—holy shit—Scottie, that’s amazing.”
“Yeah.”
“So? You should be celebrating. Tell Kat. She’d—”
“I told her.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
“They emailed me,” I say quietly, staring at the floor. “Her grandmother’s lawyer. She’s signing the divorce papers tomorrow.”
The words physically hurt.
Luka closes his eyes.
“Scottie…”
“She didn’t even wait,” I whisper, with a non-comical chuckle. “Didn’t even give us a chance to talk. She didn’t even wait for the flesh wound where she tore out my heart to scab over before signing papers.”
Luka blows out a breath, shakes his head. “I’m sorry, man.”
“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “Me too.”
After he leaves, I sit alone for a long time.
Her last show is coming up. The premiere of the winter season.
Our team will be in town, and though I know she doesn’t want to see me, maybe I need to see her.
Closure, even if I get it in a crowd of hundreds of other people.
I need to see her one last time. I won’t bother her or even send flowers backstage.
I’ll just say my goodbyes to the stage and let her leave without knowing I was even there.
I open my laptop and find tickets.
It’s in the nose bleeds, but it’s all they have left. I book two tickets. Maybe Luka wants a last look at her, too.
I buy the tickets, close the laptop.
And sit in the dark, waiting for a night I never want to come.