Chapter 17 #3
Not because I don't want him. God, I want him so badly it terrifies me. I want his hands, his voice, his stupid protective scowl. I want the way he looks at me like I am still something worth holding onto. But I also want the pain, the need, the obsessive desire.
That is the problem.
I don't deserve Angela's kindness.
I don't deserve Dante's loyalty.
I don't deserve Ash looking at me like I am breakable and precious and his.
I am not precious.
I am not his.
I am the ugly thing that survived.
My breath comes too fast as I shove a hand through my sweaty hair. My knuckles sting where the skin split earlier, but the pain barely registers beneath everything else. On the far table, tucked half behind a stack of old paperwork, sits Coach's hidden box of cigarettes.
I know it's his because everyone knows it's his. He thinks he's subtle.
He isn't.
I grab the box before I can think better of it, shove my feet into my shoes, and storm out of the room.
The arena hallways are quieter now. The game is over. The crowd has begun emptying into the cold night. Somewhere beneath me, reporters are gathering, teammates are showering, and Noah Grove is probably getting his broken nose looked at while everyone decides what kind of monster I am this time.
Let them.
I find the stairwell and start climbing. One flight. Then another. Then another. By the time I push through the rooftop door, the city air hits my face cold and sharp enough to make my eyes burn.
Or maybe that part is already me.
The roof is empty.
I walk until I reach the far side, stopping at the edge. I swing my legs over the wall and look down at the ground below me. I'm not ready yet.
I fumble with the cigarette box until I manage to get one between my fingers. My hands are shaking so badly it takes three tries to light it. The first inhale burns all the way down. I cough once. Then laugh, because apparently even falling apart comes with poor technique now.
I quit before training camp and yet here I am like a moth to a flame.
Smart decision.
Healthy decision.
Another version of myself must have made it.
I take another drag anyway and watch smoke curl into the night air before disappearing.
Below me, the city glows like nothing terrible has ever happened here.
Cars move through the streets. Office lights flicker in distant windows.
Somewhere, people are leaving bars and laughing too loudly on sidewalks.
Somewhere, someone is going home to a person who loves them and doesn't flinch at the word forever.
I wonder what that feels like.
To live without a ghost sitting inside your chest. To wake up and not immediately remember the worst thing you've ever done. To be loved and believe you deserve it.
My throat tightens.
Ash loves me.
He hasn't said it, but I know.
I saw it in his face tonight. That should make me feel safe. Instead, it makes me feel sick with terror.
Because if Ash loves me, then one day he is going to see all of me. Not the pretty parts. Not the obedient parts. Not the version that blushes when he calls me prince or makes him dinner because he doesn't know how to feed himself properly.
All of it.
The guilt.
The anger.
The ugly resentment that still rises in me when people say William's name too softly.
The part of me that listened to Noah call me pathetic and thought, finally, someone honest.
I press the cigarette between my lips and close my eyes.
Am I ever going to be free of this?
Free enough to breathe without counting reasons I shouldn't.
Free enough to hear William Grove's name and not feel the ice open beneath me.
Free enough to let Ash love me without wanting to punish him for choosing wrong.
The rooftop door opens behind me. I don't turn around. For one stupid, hopeful second, I think it's Ash.
Then Coach's voice cuts through the night. “Those better not be mine.”
I stare out at the city. “They were unattended.”
He sighs. “Hayes.”
I take another drag. “Fine me.”
The door closes softly behind him. Footsteps approach, then stop a few feet away.
Coach doesn't sit. Doesn't crowd me.
He simply stands there, quiet and heavy and disappointed in a way that somehow feels worse than yelling.
After a long moment, he says, “You broke Grove's nose.”
“I know.”
“He's furious.”
“Good.”
“You're lucky the refs didn't toss you earlier.”
“I know.”
“You're lucky the league isn't already calling.”
“I know.”
Silence.
Then, quieter, “You're lucky Grant found me before anyone else did.”
My fingers tighten around the cigarette. That makes me look over. Coach's face is unreadable in the glow from the rooftop lights.
“Ash told you?”
“He told me you needed someone and that if I sent security up here, he'd break their hands.”
Despite everything, a laugh escapes me.
Small.
Ruined.
Coach's mouth twitches. “That's not funny.”
“It's a little funny.”
“It's a little funny,” he admits. Then the almost-smile fades. “You can't keep doing this.”
The words land softly.
I look away. “Hence why I'm sitting up here.”
“What, you're going to throw yourself from the roof of the rink and haunt this place?”
The cigarette burns low between my fingers. “Yeah, maybe.”
Coach finally sits beside me, knees bent, forearms resting on them as he looks out over the city too.
For a while neither of us says anything.
Then he holds out his hand. I stare at it.
“The cigarette, Hayes.”
I hesitate. Then hand it over.
He tosses it off the roof, I watch the long descent.
“Rude.”
“I'm your coach. It's my job.”
I inhale. “I'm so tired.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean…” My voice cracks before I can stop it.
Coach doesn't look at me. That helps.
“I'm so tired of being him.” I close my eyes. “The fucking guy who survived.”
The silence that follows is brutal. Then Coach exhales. “Then stop trying to do it alone.”
I laugh once. It sounds awful. “Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Maybe everyone has a point.”
I don't answer.
Because if I do, I might cry.
And I am so tired of crying.
“Hayes, you didn't kill William. You didn't plot a murder and frame your skate. It was an accident.” The older man sighs. “It's happened before you and I'm sure it'll happen after.”
I don't say anything.
“Grief is a nasty thing. It can cloud your mind, make you act like someone you're not, until it's choking you. But it also tells you that you cared. It reveals how strong you can be despite it. But it's a heavy cross to bear. So don't bear it alone.”
I look out at the city, missing the cigarette that was robbed from me.
“Also, if you kill yourself, everyone is gonna call you a pussy.”
I snort. “What the fuck? That's evil.”
“It's true.”
Coach climbs off the wall to safety, offering me a hand. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“Inside.”
“I don't want to go to the hospital.”
“I know.”
“I'm not gonna apologize to Noah, either.”
“You're definitely not talking to Noah.”
I look up. “Then where?”
Coach's expression softens. “Grant's waiting downstairs.”
The ache in my chest sharpens. “I told him to leave.”
“Yeah.” Coach offers me a hand. “He didn't listen.”
For a long moment, I stare at his hand.
I don't feel better.
I don't feel fixed.
But Ash is downstairs.
Waiting.
Still.
So I take Coach's hand and let him pull me to reality.