Chapter 19
Kai
Sonia's office has started feeling familiar.
The first time I came here after everything with Ash, I'd spent almost twenty minutes sitting in my car trying to convince myself to leave. Now I walk in without thinking about it, nodding to the receptionist before making my way down the hallway.
The room looks exactly the same as it did last week.
Soft lighting.
Bookshelves lined with psychology texts and novels.
Two chairs angled toward one another instead of directly across. Sonia once told me that people were more honest when conversations felt collaborative instead of confrontational. At the time I'd rolled my eyes.
Now I understand.
She smiles as I sit down. “How has this week been?”
I lean back in the chair and think about the question. “Better.”
She nods, waiting.
“Still hard.”
“I imagine it is.”
I rub my palms together. “I've been sleeping better.”
“That's good.”
“I'm eating three meals a day thanks to Ash.”
“Also good.”
I smile faintly. “I'm cooking.”
She smiles back. “Ash still enjoying that?”
I laugh under my breath. “I don't think he's eaten this many vegetables in his entire life.”
“How are things between the two of you?”
The question makes me pause.
“They're…” I search for the right word. “Good.”
“But?”
I sigh. “He's treating me like I'm made of glass.”
Sonia tilts her head slightly. “What does that look like?”
“He hovers.” I smile despite myself. “He asks if I'm okay every fifteen minutes. He won't let me carry groceries. He insists on driving everywhere. He checks that I've eaten.” I shake my head. “It's sweet.”
“But?”
“I miss him.”
She waits.
“I mean…” Heat creeps into my face. “I miss us.”
Understanding settles across her expression.
“You've stopped being physically intimate.”
I nod. “We haven't had sex since…” I don't finish the sentence. I don't need to. Sonia already knows.
“He won't even start a kiss anymore.” My shoulders lift helplessly. “I'll kiss him. He kisses me back. But if it starts getting heated…” I snap my fingers softly. “He changes the subject.”
“What do you think is happening?”
I think about Ash. About the way he watches me now. Like he's constantly waiting for me to break.
“I think he's scared.”
“Of?”
“Hurting me.”
Sonia nods slowly. “That seems likely.” She folds one leg beneath herself. “Kai, from everything you've told me, Ash cares very deeply about you.”
I smile before I can stop myself. “Yeah.”
“He also discovered something frightening about someone he loves.”
The word loves still catches me off guard.
“He probably feels a tremendous amount of responsibility.”
I look toward the window. “He does.”
“And responsibility often makes people become overly careful.”
I nod.
“He's trying to protect you.”
“I know.”
“But protecting someone can accidentally become distancing them.”
The sentence lands somewhere deep inside my chest. “I hadn't thought about it like that.”
“What would you like instead?”
I don't even have to think. “I want him to stop looking at me like he's waiting for another breakdown.”
“What could you do to help him feel safer?”
I blink. “Me?”
She smiles. “Relationships aren't one-way streets.”
“I know.”
“You're asking Ash to trust that you're healing. Maybe he also needs to see you trust yourself.”
I sit quietly.
“You don't have to wait for him to lead every conversation. You don't have to wait for him to initiate affection.” A tiny smile appears. “Perhaps it's your turn.”
I laugh softly. “You make that sound easy.”
“I didn't say easy.”
She glances down at her notebook before looking back up. “I have another question.”
I nod.
“Have you watched the video yet?”
The smile disappears. I know exactly which video she means.
“No.”
“Why not?”
I stare at my hands. “Because I already know what happened.”
“Do you?”
The question catches me. “I see it every night.”
“In your nightmares.”
“Yes.”
She nods thoughtfully. “Dreams aren't recordings, Kai.”
I frown.
“They're interpretations. They're memories filtered through fear, guilt, trauma, and the stories we've been telling ourselves.”
Silence settles between us.
“What if the version you replay every night isn't entirely accurate?”
My throat tightens. “I don't know if I can watch it.”
“You don't have to.”
Another pause.
“But I wonder whether seeing it with today's eyes instead of the eyes of a grieving twenty-three-year-old might offer you a different perspective.”
I don't answer.
Because part of me already knows she's right.
An hour later, I sit alone in my car outside her office. The engine isn't running. My phone rests in my lap. I stare at it for almost ten minutes. Then I type: William Grove accident.
Hundreds of videos appear. News clips. Sports coverage. Commentary.
I pick the raw broadcast.
My thumb hovers over the play button.
Then presses.
The arena fills my speakers. I recognize it immediately.
The crowd.
The commentators.
The uniforms.
I remember every detail.
The play develops quickly.
A rush through the neutral zone.
William cuts toward the middle.
I skate backward.
Everything happens exactly the way I've remembered.
Until it doesn't.
I lean closer.
My breathing slows.
I'm watching myself.
Not through memory.
Not through guilt.
Through a television camera hanging high above center ice.
I look...
Young.
God. I look so young.
The collision happens in less than a second. Neither of us hesitates. Neither of us makes an unusual play. William loses an edge as we're both changing direction.
My skate comes up.
Then… Everything changes.
I don't see malice.
I don't see recklessness.
I don't see a murderer.
I see two hockey players colliding in a way that happens dozens of times every single game.
Only this time, the impossible happened. The commentators go silent. The arena follows.
Then the screaming starts.
The sound makes every hair on my arms stand up.
For two years, those screams have lived inside my head. I thought I'd remembered them perfectly.
I hadn't.
What surprises me isn't the crowd, but me.
The camera stays on me after the collision. I stumble backward. My stick falls from my hands.
My helmet comes off.
I'm screaming too. I drop to my knees.
Not because anyone tells me to. Because my legs stop working.
I watch younger me trying to crawl toward William before trainers pull me away.
His face…
God.
His face. The horror on it isn't guilt.
Not yet.
It's shock.
Complete disbelief.
Like his brain simply refuses to understand what just happened.
I pause the video. My own face fills the screen.
Twenty-three years old. Terrified. Covered in someone else's blood.
I begin to cry. Not the violent sobbing I've become used to. Quiet tears. Steady.
Because for the first time in two years, I'm looking at that kid the way I would look at anyone else.
If Dante had been in that video…
If Tyler had been…
If Noah…
I would've said exactly the same thing.
It was an accident. Hockey is dangerous. It could have happened to anyone. The realization crashes into me so suddenly I bend forward over the steering wheel. A sound escapes me somewhere between a sob and a laugh.
It could have been anyone.
Not because William's death doesn't matter.
Not because my guilt disappears.
Not because grief suddenly makes sense.
But because for two years, I've been asking one impossible question:
Why me?
Watching the video gives me a different answer. It wasn't me. It was hockey. A terrible, impossible accident inside a game all of us chose to play.
I don't feel healed.
I don't feel absolved.
But for the first time, the certainty that I've been carrying begins to crack.
Maybe, just maybe, the boy crying on my phone screen deserved compassion too.
And if he deserved compassion… Maybe the man sitting in this car does as well.
By the time I get back to Ash's condo, the familiar comfort of the place settles over me almost immediately. Somehow, without either of us ever deciding it, I've started living here more often than my own apartment.
Part of it is convenience.
The other part is Angela and Dante.
I love both of them dearly, but they've become… enthusiastic.
Angela wasn't exaggerating when she said the walls in our building were thin. After the third night of hearing muffled laughter followed by noises I had absolutely no interest in identifying, Ash had simply looked at me over breakfast and said, “You know you can just stay with me.”
I'd been staying here ever since.
The condo is quiet when I unlock the door. A hockey game hums softly from the television. Ash is asleep on the couch, one arm draped across his stomach while highlights play across the screen. He must have fallen asleep waiting for me.
Something in my chest softens. I kneel beside him and kiss him slowly.
His lips answer mine almost immediately.
Half asleep, he smiles against my mouth before opening his eyes. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
His hand cups my jaw for a second before he pulls back. “How was therapy?”
“It was good.”
“I'm glad.” He kisses my forehead instead.
Then he lets me go.
Again.
I smile anyway, but disappointment settles quietly in my stomach. He's still doing it. Every kiss has an invisible finish line now. Every touch stops before it can become something more.
Sonia's words drift back into my mind.
Maybe he's waiting for you.
Maybe he needs to know you're okay.
I glance toward Ash as he settles back onto the couch.
Alright.
Let's see if she knows what she's talking about.
The first test is easy. I set my hockey bag down beside the front door. Not in the hall closet where it always goes.
Right beside the door.
Ash notices immediately.
His eyes flick to it before they find me. “Prince.”
“Mhm?”
“Bag.”
I pretend to look confused. “What about it?”
“It goes in the closet.”
“I'm tired. I'll do it later.”
Ash studies me for a second. Normally, he would've insisted.
Instead, he sighs. “I've got it.”
He carries the bag into the closet himself.
Interesting.
Twenty minutes later, he's watching the third period of the game. I casually wander into the living room and drop onto his side of the couch.
His spot.
The one closest to the armrest. The one he always sits in.
Ash walks back in carrying two glasses of wine. He stops. “You're in my seat.”
I look up innocently. “Oh.”
Silence.
He smiles. “Move.”
“No.”
His eyebrow lifts. “No?”
“I like this seat.”
“It has my ass print in it.”
“It fits me too.”
For a second, I think he's finally going to argue. Instead, he lets out a long breath. Then sits on the opposite end of the couch. Another point for Sonia.
We watch hockey in relative silence. At least, Ash watches hockey.
I mostly watch him.
Every now and then he mutters something about defensive coverage or a blown breakout.
I nod like I'm listening.
Eventually he disappears into the kitchen. When he comes back, he hands me a fresh glass of wine before sitting down beside me. I take a sip. It's good.
Better than the cheap stuff I usually buy.
Ash gets distracted by a replay on television.
Without thinking— Or perhaps thinking very deliberately— I finish my own glass.
Then I reach over, pick up his, and drink the rest of it too. Ash looks down. Then at the now-empty glass in my hand. Then very slowly back at me.
“Kai.”
I smile. “What?”
“You drank my wine.”
“You weren't drinking it.”
He makes a shocked face. “I most definitely was!”
“You were watching hockey.”
“I can do both.”
His jaw tightens. “Kai.”
I shrug. “What?”
He sets his own empty glass on the coffee table with exaggerated care and stands slowly. His temper making his jaw tight.
My heartbeat picks up.
Good.
Finally.
He walks toward me with deliberate, measured steps. I stay exactly where I am, looking up at him from his seat.
When he reaches me, he doesn't say anything. He simply places one hand on the back of the couch beside my shoulder. The other lands on the armrest.
I'm boxed in before I realize what's happening.
He isn't touching me.
Not yet.
He's just there.
Close enough that I can smell cedar and laundry detergent.
His expression is equal parts frustrated and confused.
“What,” he asks quietly, “is with you today?”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“Don't.”
“What?”
“I've known you long enough to know when you're doing something.”
“I'm doing lots of things.”
“You left your hockey bag by the door.”
“I was tired.”
“You stole my seat.”
“It was comfortable.”
“You finished my wine.”
“You seemed done with it.”
His eyes narrow. I should probably stop.
Instead, I notice how good he looks when he's annoyed. His hair is slightly messy from sleeping on the couch. His jaw is tight. His hazel eyes haven't left mine.
It's… distracting.
“What?” he asks.
“Hm?”
“You're smiling.”
“I am?”
“Kai.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
He exhales sharply through his nose.
“You owe me an apology.”
“For what?”
“My sanity.”
“I think you're exaggerating.”
He leans a little closer. “I'm waiting.”
I meet his eyes then smile as sweetly as I can. “Make me.”
Everything changes. The frustration disappears from his face so quickly I almost miss it.
Understanding dawns. His head tilts ever so slightly.
A slow smile begins spreading across his face. “Oh.”
I blink innocently.
“You little menace.”
“I don't—”
“Prince.” His voice has changed.
Lower.
Warmer.
Far too amused.
“Are you being a brat...” He leans in just enough that our foreheads almost touch. “...so I'll take you to my bed?”
Heat rushes into my face. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
“I've just been very busy healing.”
“Mhm.”
“I haven't noticed my behavior.”
“No?”
“I'm an innocent victim.”
“Of course.”
“I've been working very hard.”
For a second neither of us speaks. Then I let the teasing slip away. “And I miss you.”
The words come out much quieter than everything else. Ash's expression changes instantly.
The amusement remains but something softer settles underneath it.
He closes his eyes briefly. “Oh, baby.” His hand finally reaches up, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “You could've just said that.”
“I tried.”
“No.” A smile tugs at his mouth. “You declared war on my organizational system.”
“It got your attention.”
“It certainly did.” Without another word, his arms slide around my waist.
I let out a startled laugh as my feet leave the floor. “Ash.”
“What?”
“I thought I was in trouble.”
“You are.”
“Oh.”
He presses a quick kiss against my temple. “But I'm also very proud of you.”
“For what?”
“For coming back to me.”
My chest tightens.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders automatically. “I wasn't very far.”
“I know.”
He carries me down the hallway toward the bedroom. “I'm still collecting that apology.”
He nudges the bedroom door shut behind us with his foot.