23. Brashe
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
brASHE
Early morning, I sat in the back of the team bus, watching the away-team’s city blur past. My hip felt perfect. No pull or ache. Nothing but the ghost of what Ellie had fixed.
My body worked fine now.
Everything else was fucked.
The team buzzed around me, my teammates high on last night’s win. 5-0. A shutout. I’d played the best hockey of my life.
Because I’d had nothing left to lose.
Every save last night had been me trying to punish something. The ice, maybe. Or the voice in my head that kept replaying what I’d said in the hallway. The puck hit my glove, and I wanted it to hurt. It didn’t. Nothing did. That was worse.
I appreciate everything you did. Getting me back on the ice. That’s your job, right?
Victory tasted like sour sweat on my tongue.
She hadn’t been there.
My phone sat in my hand, her text thread open. I’d been staring at it since we’d left the hotel.
I don’t know how to be less broken either.
She’d sent it yesterday, before I’d stepped onto the ice and played like I was trying to die.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard, but I wasn’t sure how to reply. Was this her saying goodbye or was she saying she understood? I didn’t dare hope this meant she thought there was still a chance for us.
I typed a message. I miss you.
My thumb hovered over send. My chest felt like someone had laced my ribs too tight.
Delete.
Can we talk?
That sounded desperate. Or distant. I couldn’t tell anymore. My hand was shaking.
Delete.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please—
The cursor blinked at me. “I’m sorry” were words that meant everything and nothing. Words I’d already said. Words she’d already heard.
Delete.
Nothing could capture what I needed to say.
I settled on something simple. How are you?
I hit send before I could second-guess it.
The message delivered.
I stared at the screen, willing her to reply. Waiting for the three dots that would mean she was typing.
They didn’t come.
Five minutes felt like hours. My phone turned into a grenade in my hand, something that could explode at any second and destroy what was left.
“Are you alright, Kedish?” Veskar’s voice came from across the aisle.
I grunted.
“That’s a no.”
I didn’t answer. My brain was stuck on the text, cycling through hope and panic and terror.
She’d sent it yesterday morning. Don’t know how to be was past tense. Did that mean she was done trying?
But she’d texted. That had to mean something.
My seat dipped, and I looked up.
Crim loomed over me, his knee on the edge of my seat. “Move over.”
“The seat’s taken.”
“By your misery? Slide over.”
I did, and he dropped into the seat. We sat, staring forward, the rest of the team’s noise fading into the background.
“You were amazing last night,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“Do you want to tell me why you looked like you were trying to die on the ice? Every save looked suicidal. You were playing like nothing mattered.”
I stared out the window.
“I assume because nothing does matter,” Crim said. “Right now. To you.”
I gnashed my tusks. “We won the game.”
“And you looked miserable doing it.”
I showed him her text. My unanswered question.
He read it, his face reflecting both relief and concern.
“What does it mean?” I asked.
“It means she’s as fucked up about this as you are.”
“That doesn’t help me.”
“It should.” He handed the phone back. “It means she’s still thinking about you.”
His phone buzzed. When he checked it, his face went carefully blank.
My stomach dropped. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Your face looks weird.”
The bus hummed. Someone laughed up front.
“Ellie’s in Denver,” Crim said.
The word Denver hit me like a cross-check. Pure impact.
“Why?” My voice sounded like someone else’s.
“She had a job interview at Denver Sports Medicine Institute, and she just said it went very well.”
I couldn’t breathe. Job interview?
“She flew out yesterday morning, and she’ll be home tomorrow afternoon,” he said.
My vision tunneled, everything disappearing except the three words on his phone screen.
She was leaving me.
“She got the initial email Wednesday,” Crim said. “We talked about it.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“It wasn’t my place. It still isn’t.” He met my eyes. “But you need to know.”
“I destroyed the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“She hasn’t decided yet.”
Hope hurt worse than any puck to the face and was equally impossible to breathe through. “Why would she stay?”
“I don’t know.”
“I told her she was just doing her job.” The words tasted like acid. “I made her feel worthless.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Denver’s offering her everything I can’t.”
Crim listened while I destroyed myself with words until I ran out of them.
Then his voice went hard. “Are you done feeling sorry for yourself?”
“I’m not.”
“You are, and I get it. You fucked up. Massively.”
“Thanks for the reminder.”
“But you’re sitting here acting like it’s over.”
“It is over. She’s in Denver.”
“For an interview, not a funeral.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is you can still fight for her, you idiot.”
My brain started working again. Slowly. Like rusty gears grinding back to life. “Fight for her?”
“Grovel. Beg. Whatever it takes.”
“She won’t even talk to me.”
“Then make her listen.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.” He leaned back in the seat. “But you’ve got until she gets back to figure that out.”
My competitive instinct kicked in. Game six tonight was a home game. If we won, we’d advance to the next round. Lose, and we’d face game seven on Monday.
I just needed to play the game of my life, win, track her down, and show her the biggest grovel in history.
“What if she takes the job?” The question hurt to ask.
“Then you didn’t grovel hard enough.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“Want helpful? Stop being scared of wanting her.”
“I’m not.”
Crim lifted one eyebrow.
“Alright,” I said. “I’m terrified.”
“Use it.” He shifted in the seat, his voice going quieter. “You know why I gave you that nod in the parking lot?”
“Because you felt sorry for me.”
“Because I watched you spend a year asking about her. Casual questions, but they had meaning.”
“I was making conversation.”
“You were trying to figure out if you had a shot.”
I couldn’t deny it.
“I told you to stay away from her,” Crim said. “And you did. She spent ten months thinking you didn’t want her. No, you spent ten months thinking you didn’t deserve her. Both of you were too afraid to try.”
The truth sat between us.
“She’s my sister,” he said. “The only family other than my parents that matters. I’d do anything to make sure she’s happy.”
“What if I can’t make her happy?”
“You already do. You just need to show her.”
“After game six.”
“Why wait?”
“Because I need to prove something first. To myself.”
“And if you don’t prove it? Will you wait for the next game or the one after that, always waiting for the one chance to prove…whatever it is you feel you’re lacking? She likes who you are, win or lose. Don’t throw that away. Don’t wait until it’s too late.”
He got up and headed back to his seat up front.
I sat with my phone, staring at her text.
My brain stopped spinning and started working like it should. Game mode.
I had to earn the right to grovel. If I couldn’t be the goalie she deserved to watch, how could I be the male she deserved to keep?
Veskar leaned over the seat from beside me. “You look less dead than before.”
“Crim gave me a talking-to.”
“More like a slap.”
“Same thing.”
“Are you going to get her back?”
“I’m going to try.”
“She’s too good for you, but you’re too gone for anyone else.” He grinned. “Win the next game. Show her who you are.”
Tolrek got up from a few seats ahead and walked back down the aisle. Stopping beside me, he handed me a protein bar. “Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat anyway. You need your strength for the game and whatever comes after.”
He walked back to his seat.
I unwrapped the protein bar and ate it, though it had turned to sawdust in my mouth. Everything did lately.
The bus pulled into the facility a little after noon. The team filed off, buzzing about the next game.
I went to the locker room and sat at my stall, my phone in my hand.
I typed another message. I’ll wait for you forever.
After hitting send, I stared at the screen.
She didn’t reply.
“Kedish.” The coach’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Do you have a moment to talk?”
I stood, following him to the corner of the locker room.
“Is everything all set?” he asked quietly.
“I’m feeling good.”
“You look like hell.”
I shrugged.
“This about the doc?”
I froze. “How did you know about that?”
“I’m not blind. Most of the team knows.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “Does that—Is that a problem?”
“Is what a problem? That my goalie found someone who makes him care about something other than his save percentage?” Coach’s expression softened. “That’s the opposite of a problem, son.”
The word “son” did something to my throat I wasn’t ready for.
“I’m going to win the next game,” I said.
“You always do when it matters.” He paused. “But Kedish? Win or lose tonight, don’t lose her.”
He left me standing there, trying to figure out how wanting Ellie could make me anything but terrified.
I pulled my phone. No message.
I typed. Game six tonight. Wish you were here.
Sent it, but got no reply.
That’s when I realized she might not come back.
My stomach collapsed like I’d taken a hit to the gut. The protein bar threatened to come back up.
Win or lose, I needed to find her. Wherever she was. However long it took. I’d make her listen. She wasn’t just my physical therapist. Not the person who fixed my hip so I could play.
She was the coffee in my stall when I got there early. The smiley face on an instruction sheet I’d laminated because it was too special to let it fall apart. The only person who’d ever looked at me and seen something worth keeping.
She was everything, and I’d thrown her away.
Players started getting ready. I did too, donning my uniform. Pads. Skates.
“Let’s do it,” Crim called out. He paused beside me, not saying a thing. His presence was enough.
I checked my phone one last time before I had to shut it off.
A message lit up the screen. Good luck tonight.
I stared at the three words. Good luck tonight. Not “I hope you lose.” Not silence. She’d wished me luck.
That had to mean something.
Or maybe it meant she was professional enough to put personal stuff aside. That was worse, somehow. The idea that I’d become another player she was tracking. That I’d made myself small enough to fit back into the box labeled “patient.”
My fingers moved before my brain caught up, and I typed out a reply. Thank you. I’m going to win tonight.
I also wanted to type, I love you.
My thumbs hovered over the keyboard. It would be so easy and so hard to do.
The crowd's roar echoed down the hallway. My team was on the ice, warming up. The game would start soon. Win this, and maybe I’d earn the right to beg. Lose, and I’d beg anyway.
I thought, This one’s for you.
I turned off my phone and tossed it into my locker.
My equipment bag sat open at my feet.
I reached in and pulled out the instruction sheet. The original, not the backup I kept at home.
Her handwriting covered the margins. 3 sets. Hold 30 sec. No cheating.
The smiley face she’d drawn sat in the bottom corner, faded but still visible.
I traced it with my thumb.
It was warm from being in my bag all day. Or maybe from my hands. I’d taken it out twenty times since we left the hotel. Each time telling myself I’d put it back and leave it alone.
I never did.
She’d believed I could heal. That I was worth the effort of those early mornings and late nights.
I’d spent weeks proving her right about my body.
Tonight, I had to prove her right about everything else.
I tucked the sheet back into my bag and straightened. My hip pulled slightly, though it wasn’t pain, just the deep muscle work she’d warned me about. Progress, she’d called it.
The stretches came automatically now. Hip flexor first, feeling the tug along the front of my thigh. I held it for thirty seconds, counting in my head the way she’d taught me.
Breathe through it, Brashe. Don’t hold your breath. Her voice echoed in my skull.
I switched to the adductor work, lying on the floor beside my stall, the cold concrete pressing against my back.
I extended my right leg, holding the stretch, and felt her hands ghost over the muscle.
She wasn’t here, but I knew exactly where she’d press, where she’d adjust my angle, and where she’d tell me to go deeper.
Feel that? That’s the adhesion releasing. You’re doing great.
I finished the third set and sat up. My hands were steady now. The shaking from earlier was gone, replaced by something solid.
She’d put me back together. Not only my hip, but all the broken parts I’d been carrying since I was a kid who thought his only value was stopping pucks.
I stood, grabbed my mask, and headed for the tunnel toward ice that smelled like cold rubber. The crowd’s roar got louder with every step. Purple jerseys everywhere, fans screaming, the energy crackling through the building.
I paused at the tunnel entrance, one hand on the gate.
Weeks ago, I’d walked into a treatment room and sat on a table while a woman with green eyes and a tight bun put her hands on my hip and made me believe I could heal.
She’d looked at me like I was worth the effort of early mornings and purple sticky notes and hands that knew exactly where I was broken.
I pushed off the wall and headed out onto the ice.