Chapter 18
Ben
I stood on the sidewalk in front of a narrow, brick walk-up in Brooklyn. The address Jax had managed to wheedle out of Rook (who had apparently stayed in touch with Ivy because he was a better human being than me) was scribbled on my hand in Sharpie.
I looked up at the building. It was dark. Most of the windows were black, save for a flickering TV light on the second floor.
I was exhausted. My ribs felt like they were held together by duct tape and prayers. I hadn't slept in twenty-four hours. I was still wearing the jeans and hoodie I’d put on in the locker room, and I probably smelled like a cross between a gym bag and a panic attack.
But I was here.
I checked my watch. 3:15 AM.
I couldn't buzz. If I buzzed now, she’d think I was a serial killer. Or worse, she’d know it was me and ignore it.
I had to wait.
I sat down on the front stoop. The concrete was cold, seeping through my jeans. I pulled my hood up.
I waited.
I watched the sun come up over the city. It turned the grey sky a bruised purple, then a watery orange. The city woke up. garbage trucks rumbled by. People started walking dogs.
At 7:00 AM, the front door opened.
My heart hammered against my bruised ribs.
A guy walked out. He was tall, wearing a suit, looking at his phone. Not her.
7:15 AM. An older woman with a poodle.
7:30 AM.
The door opened again.
And there she was.
She was wearing black leggings, leg warmers, and a puffy coat that looked too big for her. She had a dance bag slung over her shoulder and a coffee cup in her hand. Her hair was in that severe bun I knew so well.
She looked... tired. Thinner. The spark in her eyes seemed dimmed, replaced by a dull determination.
She stepped onto the sidewalk and turned left, not seeing me sitting on the stoop tucked behind the railing.
I stood up. My legs were stiff.
"Ivy."
She froze.
She didn't turn around immediately. Her shoulders went rigid. She gripped her coffee cup so hard the lid popped off, spilling a little brown liquid onto her hand.
Slowly, she turned.
When she saw me, the color drained from her face. She looked like she had seen a ghost.
"Ben?" she whispered.
I walked down the steps. I stopped five feet from her. I wanted to close the distance. I wanted to grab her. But I didn't have the right. Not yet.
"Hi," I said. My voice was a wreck.
"What are you doing here?" Her voice hardened instantly. The shock turned to anger. "You're supposed to be in Boston. Celebrating."
"I left."
"You left?" She let out a harsh laugh. "Of course you did. You leave. That's what you do."
"Ivy—"
"No. Don't 'Ivy' me. Get away from me, Ben. I have to go to work. I have a class to teach."
She turned and started walking fast.
I followed her.
"Ivy, wait. Please."
"Go back to your trophy!" she yelled over her shoulder, not stopping. People on the street stared. "Go back to your dad! You got what you wanted!"
"I don't want it!" I shouted, limping to keep up with her. My knee was screaming, my ribs were burning, but I didn't care. "I don't want any of it without you!"
She stopped abruptly. She spun around so fast her bag swung and hit me in the chest.
"Don't lie to me!" she screamed. Tears were streaming down her face now. "Don't you dare come here and lie to me again! You told me I was poison! You told me I broke everything I touched!"
"I lied then!" I stepped closer, ignoring the people stopping to watch the drama. "I lied to save you! My dad... he was going to destroy your life. He was going to make sure you never danced again. I had to make you leave!"
"So you broke my heart to save my career?" She wiped her face furiously. "How noble. How heroic. Did you ever think to ask me? Did you ever think that maybe I would have chosen you over the career?"
"I couldn't let you do that," I said, my voice cracking. "I couldn't let you sacrifice everything for a guy who was... who was a ghost."
"You're not a ghost!" she sobbed. "You're an idiot! A stubborn, controlling idiot!"
"I know! I'm an idiot! I'm the biggest idiot on the planet!"
I reached for her hand.
She snatched it away.
"It's too late, Ben. You made your choice. You chose the game. You chose the legacy. Go enjoy it."
She turned and ran.
She ran toward the subway entrance on the corner.
"Ivy!"
I tried to run. But my knee buckled. I stumbled, catching myself on a lamppost. Pain shot up my leg, white-hot.
I watched her disappear down the stairs into the subway station.
No.
I pushed off the lamppost. I limped as fast as I could. I practically fell down the subway stairs.
I saw her. She was swiping her card at the turnstile.
I didn't have a card.
I jumped the turnstile.
"Hey! You! Stop!" A transit cop yelled from the booth.
I ignored him.
I ran onto the platform.
The train was there. The doors were closing.
"Stand clear of the closing doors, please."
Ivy was inside. She was standing by the door, holding the pole, looking out at the platform. She saw me. Her eyes widened.
I lunged.
I jammed my arm between the closing doors.
The rubber bumpers hit my forearm. The doors bounced back open.
I stumbled inside the car.
The doors hissed shut behind me.
The train jerked forward.
I stood there, panting, clutching my ribs. The car was packed with morning commuters. Everyone was staring at me—the crazy, limping guy in a hoodie who just fought a train.
Ivy was standing three feet away. She was pressed against the door, staring at me like I was insane.
"You jumped the turnstile," she whispered. "You fought a door."
"I told you," I wheezed, straightening up. "I'm persistent."
"You're going to get arrested."
"Worth it."
The train rattled through the tunnel, the lights flickering.
"Why are you here, Ben?" she asked, her voice tired. "Really. Why?"
I looked around the train. Fifty strangers. Tired people going to work. Reading papers. Listening to music.
This was my audience.
"I'm here," I said, raising my voice so it carried over the rattle of the tracks, "because I realized something last night. I was standing on the ice. I had the trophy in my hands. I had the contract waiting. I had my dad telling me I was a good son."
Ivy watched me, her breath hitched.
"And I felt... dead," I admitted. "I felt absolutely nothing. Because I looked up at the stands, and you weren't there."
A woman sitting nearby lowered her book to listen.
"I spent my whole life trying to be enough," I continued, stepping closer to Ivy. "Trying to earn my spot. Trying to prove I wasn't weak. And I thought... I thought if I won, the hole inside me would fill up."
I shook my head.
"It didn't. It just got bigger. Because the only time that hole was ever filled... was when I was with you. When I was taping your ankle in my bedroom. When we were eating pizza in a motel. When you looked at me and didn't see the Butcher. You just saw Ben."
Ivy’s lip trembled. A tear slid down her cheek.
"I lied to you, Ivy," I said, my voice rough with emotion. "I told you that you were a distraction. I told you that you were a liability."
I dropped to my knees. Right there on the dirty subway floor.
The car went silent. Even the guy listening to headphones pulled them off.
"You weren't a distraction," I said, looking up at her. "You were the anchor. You were the only real thing in my life. And I was too scared to admit that I needed you more than I needed the game."
I reached into my pocket.
I pulled out the ring. The silver band with IV engraved inside. The one she had left on my dresser.
"I don't care about the NHL," I said. "I don't care about my dad's money. I walked away from it all last night. I left the trophy with Jax. I told my dad to go to hell."
Ivy gasped. "You... you walked away?"
"I walked away," I confirmed. "Because I would rather be a broke physical therapist living in a studio apartment with you than a millionaire hockey star without you."
I held up the ring.
"I love you, Ivy St. James. I love your chaos. I love your stubbornness. I love the way you eat bagels. And I am begging you... please... give me another chance. Let me be your team again."
Ivy stared down at me. Tears were flowing freely now. She put a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob.
"You're crazy," she choked out.
"About you. Yes."
"You fought a train for me."
"I'd fight an army for you."
She looked at the ring. Then she looked at the commuters watching us.
An older man in a suit nodded at her. "He seems sincere, honey. And he's got good knees to kneel on that floor."
Ivy laughed. A wet, shaky sound.
She dropped her bag. She dropped her coffee cup.
She fell to her knees in front of me.
"You idiot," she sobbed, throwing her arms around my neck. "You giant, stupid, wonderful idiot."
"Is that a yes?" I asked, burying my face in her neck, breathing in her vanilla scent. It was home.
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes. I love you."
I pulled back just enough to find her mouth.
I kissed her.
It wasn't a polite kiss. It was frantic. It was messy. It was salt and tears and desperation. I poured everything I had into it—my regret, my hope, my promise.
The train car erupted in applause.
People cheered. Someone whistled.
We broke apart, breathless, foreheads resting together.
"You made a scene," Ivy whispered, wiping my tears with her thumbs. "You hate scenes."
"I don't care," I said. "Let them look. Let them see who I belong to."
I took her left hand. I slid the ring back onto her finger.
"Don't take it off again," I warned softly.
"Never," she promised.
The train screeched to a halt.
"This is my stop," she realized, looking at the sign. "I have to teach."
"I'm coming with you."
"You can't teach ballet, Ben."
"I can be the best damn assistant you've ever had. I know ankle anatomy."
She smiled—that bright, sun-breaking-through-clouds smile that I lived for.
"Okay," she said. "Come on, Assistant Sterling."
We stood up.
I grabbed her bag. I grabbed her hand.
We walked off the train together.
My knee hurt. My ribs were screaming. I had no job, no team, and no plan.
But as we walked up the stairs into the sunlight of New York City, holding Ivy’s hand... I felt like I had just won the Stanley Cup.
Because for the first time in my life... I wasn't playing a game.
I was living.
One Hour Later
I sat in the corner of a dance studio in Brooklyn. It was small, with scuffed floors and a mirror that was cracked in the corner. It smelled like rosin and sweat.
Ivy was in the center of the room, teaching a class of five-year-olds in pink tutus.
"Okay, plié!" she called out, clapping her hands. "Knees over toes! Pretend you're holding a beach ball!"
She looked radiant. Happy. Free.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out. It was Jax.
Jax: Dude. You're a legend. You walked out on the draft? Dad is furious. But guess what?
Me: What?
Jax: Davids called me. He asked where you went. I told him you went to get the girl. He laughed. He said, "That kid's got guts. Tell him when he's done being a romantic hero, the offer still stands. Montreal needs a defenseman with heart."
I stared at the screen.
The offer stood.
I looked up at Ivy. She was helping a little girl tie her shoe. She looked up, caught my eye in the mirror, and winked.
I smiled.
Me: Tell him I'll think about it. But my signing bonus needs to include a dance studio.
I put the phone away.
I watched her dance.
And I knew, with absolute certainty, that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.