24. Ellie
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ELLIE
Denver had offered me everything. The physical therapist position. Internationally ranked athletes. A salary that made my current paycheck look like an allowance. The CEO had walked me through their facilities like she was selling me a dream.
And I’d sat in that glass-walled office overlooking the Rockies, nodding in all the right places, asking the appropriate questions, while my phone burned in my pocket with the text I’d sent before I’d put it in airplane mode.
I don’t know how to be less broken either.
Now I sat in my car in the arena parking lot at 11:04 PM, staring at his truck three rows over, and wondered when exactly I’d turned into a person who flew across the country to avoid a conversation.
I’d watched game six on my phone during the layover in Chicago.
Crammed into an airport seat between a businessman who smelled like coffee and a woman watching cooking videos without headphones, I’d pulled up the stream and watched Brashe Kedish play like he was trying to prove something to the world.
Eleven saves in the first period alone, each one more impossible than the last. Diving, splitting, catching pucks that should’ve been goals with a desperation that made my throat close up.
He’d played like he had nothing left to lose.
My heels clicked too loud on the pavement when I got out. The blazer pulled tight across my shoulders, professional armor I’d buttoned up that morning before leaving for the airport while telling myself I could act casual about all this. Denver was about exploring options. Being smart.
The building looked haunted without the crowd. Security lights cast long shadows across the glass entrance. Somewhere inside, faint music played. A celebration, probably. They’d won. Advanced to the next round of the playoffs.
I used my keycard on the side entrance. The hallway echoed with my footsteps, each click of my heels announcing exactly how much I didn’t belong here at this hour.
I’d get what I came for and go home to Marzipan.
That’s what I’d been telling myself since I’d pointed my car toward the arena instead of my condo after leaving the airport.
I flicked on my office light. Patty’s desk was cluttered with family photos, stacks of paper, and a coffee mug that said World’s Best Mom. My own desk looked sterile by comparison. Organized. Professional. Like the person who sat there had everything together.
The team photo hanging on the wall caught my eye. Last season’s roster, everyone grinning at the camera. Brashe stood in the back row, his goalie mask tucked under one arm, his expression neutral.
I’d studied that photo a hundred times since I’d started.
My hands moved on autopilot, gathering things I didn’t actually need. A pen. A notebook. The instruction manual for the ultrasound machine I’d already memorized.
I was crying.
“Fuck.”
The word echoed in the empty office. I wiped my eyes, smearing mascara, and stared at my organized desk that was about to become someone else’s problem.
Denver wanted an answer on Monday.
I already knew what I was going to say. I’d known my answer before the plane even landed in Denver.
I’d sat across from the CEO in her glass office, looking at the Rockies through floor-to-ceiling windows, and all I could think about was how Boston didn’t have mountains.
How the Denver facility didn’t smell right.
How none of the athletes would know that I arrived at 7:15 every morning or that I picked tomatoes out of my salads or that I’d spent ten months believing I wasn’t enough.
They’d see my resume. My credentials. The rehabilitation protocol that had gotten Brashe Kedish back on the ice in record time.
They’d never see me.
And maybe that should’ve been enough. Competence should’ve been sufficient.
But then I’d realized something that made my chest ache: I was tired of being seen for what I could do instead of who I was.
Brashe had noticed the purple sticky notes and the smiley faces. He’d brought me coffee and asked if I’d eaten breakfast.
And then he’d reduced me to my job title because he was scared.
Just like I’d run to Denver because I was scared.
We were both cowards. Both of us so terrified of being vulnerable that we’d spent months hiding behind professional boundaries and late-night texts that said everything except what mattered.
After locking the office door again, I started down the hall.
A crack of yellow spilled through the partially open door of the treatment room, and I could hear the sound of water running inside.
Walking over, I pushed the door open and stepped into the room.
Brashe stood at the sink, his back to me, water running over his hands. He wore compression shorts and a team t-shirt, and he’d scattered his gear around the room like he’d decided this was the best place to strip after a game. Shoulder pads on the bench. Skates unlaced beside them.
He saw my reflection in the mirror above the sink, and we both froze.
The water kept running.
He turned off the faucet and turned around slowly, leaning back against the sink.
We were both breathing too hard for people who were standing still.
His eyes drifted over me, taking in my blazer. The pencil skirt. The heels I’d been wearing for twelve hours. Everything about me that screamed I was somewhere else today.
I’d stood in this room hundreds of times, my hands knowing exactly where to press to make pain go away.
Now I didn’t know where to put them.
“You came from the airport,” he said.
“I had an interview.” The professional mask tried to snap back into place. Old habit. “It went well.”
Something flickered across his face. Not quite hope. Not quite devastation. Somewhere in between where people lived when they were trying not to break.
“That’s good.” His voice scraped out. “You deserve that.”
“Don’t.” I held up one hand, the other still clutching the doorframe. It was the only thing keeping me upright. “Don’t do the noble thing where you pretend to be happy for me.”
“I am happy for you.”
“Liar.”
His jaw worked. “I’m terrified. But I’m still happy for you.”
The honesty punched through my ribs. This was the Brashe who’d sent me texts at 11:43 PM. Who’d laminated instruction sheets because he wanted to preserve them. Who’d looked at me in a therapy pool and traced a freckle on my face that probably no one else had noticed.
“Why are you here?” he asked. “Really?”
“I needed to get something from my office.”
“Bullshit.” He took one step toward me.
“Excuse me?”
Another step in my direction. “You could’ve gotten whatever it is on Monday.”
“Don’t do that.”
His voice went rough. “You mean don’t notice you’re here at 11 PM on a Saturday after flying back from Denver?”
The treatment room felt smaller with each step he closed between us. I could see the exhaustion in his face now, the shadows under his eyes that matched mine. He’d played a full game of playoff hockey and then come here instead of going home.
“Did you accept?” His voice came out careful.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Ellie—”
“Dr. Lundrig,” I corrected automatically, then hated myself for it.
“You flew home instead of staying the weekend to celebrate.”
“Maybe I hate celebrating.”
“You don’t.”
“How would you know?”
“Because I know you.” The words came out rough, scraped raw.
“I know you order the salad on Mondays and pick out the tomatoes. I know you arrive early and use a coffee cup that says World’s Okayest Doctor.
I know you chew your stylus when you’re thinking and that you draw smiley faces when you think someone needs encouragement. ”
“Stop.” My voice broke.
“I know you research treatment protocols at midnight because you care too much to do anything halfway. You stayed late to watch my practice even though you aren’t on the clock. I know—”
“Stop!” The word echoed off the tile. “You don’t get to list things you’ve noticed about me like it erases what you said.”
“I’m not trying to erase it.” He took another step, putting us three feet apart now. Close enough I could see his chest rising and falling too fast. “I’m trying to show you that I lied.”
“About what?”
“When I said you were just doing your job.” His hands flexed at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for me. “I lied because I was terrified of you seeing me the way I saw myself.”
His face cracked open before he could lock it down again. He took a step forward. I took a step back.
“I pushed you away because I’m a fucking coward,” he said.
“I know that already.”
“Then why are you really here?”
“I told you. I needed to get something.”
“Stop lying.”
“Don’t even go there.” My voice came out too soft to be a real barrier.
He closed the distance between us, placing himself close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
“You watched the game,” he said.
“I didn’t.”
“Be honest with me about this.”
My mask cracked. “Fine. Yes. I watched.”
“And?”
“And you played like you were trying to kill yourself.”
“I was trying to prove that I’m worth keeping.”
The rawness in his voice made my knees weaken.
“I spent weeks with your hands on me, Ellie.” He wasn’t looking at me anymore, but staring at the floor like the words were being dragged out of him. “Weeks watching you arrive early and stay late. Weeks of you believing I could heal when I didn’t believe it myself.”
“My name is—”
“No.” His eyes met mine. “You don’t get to Dr. Lundrig me right now.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Everything. I want everything.”
“You can’t have it.”
“Why not?”
“Because you already threw it away!” The words came faster, louder, ten months of swallowed-down feelings erupting all at once. “You made me feel like I was only valuable for what I could do. Like fixing you was the only thing I was good for.”
“I did.” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“And the worst part? I already believed it. I’ve always believed it. I’m not useful. I’m not worth keeping. You just confirmed it.” Tears streamed down my face. “So Denver makes sense. It’s a new city, a fresh start, and a chance to prove my worth to people who already see it.”
“I see all of it, Ellie. Every single piece of you. That’s the problem.”
“That’s not a problem.”
“It is when you think you’re only worth what you can do.” His hand lifted, hovering near my face, not quite touching. “It is when I’m terrified that the second you figure out I’m just a weapon in the net, you’ll realize you deserve better.”
“I already know you’re not just a weapon.”
“Do you?” His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “Because I’ve spent my whole life being told that’s all I am. If I can’t do that, I disappear.”
My throat closed up. Because I understood.
“I built my whole identity on being competent,” I said. “On being the person who arrives early and stays late and never needs help because needing help means admitting I might not be enough on my own.”
“You’re more than enough.”
“So are you.” The words came out fierce.
“You’re the male who laminated instruction sheets.
Who asks if I’ve eaten breakfast. Who sends ice photos at 9:41 every single night because you wanted me to trust you.
You’re the person who buys sandwiches for strangers and shows up fourteen minutes early.
You made me believe I was only valuable for fixing you, and I made you believe you were only valuable for stopping pucks. We’re both wrong.”
His hand finally touched my face, his palm warm against my cheek, his thumb finding the freckle at my temple.
“I see all of you,” he said. “The competence and the late nights and the research. But I also see the woman who wears my hoodie like it means something.”
“It does mean something.”
“I know.” His forehead touched mine. “That’s why I’m terrified.”
I grabbed the front of his shirt, trying to shake him, but his feet had been solidly planted on the floor. “Why did you hurt me?”
“Because I’m broken,” he said against my lips. “I thought if I pushed you away first, it would hurt less when you figured out I’m nothing outside of hockey. That’s all I’ve ever been.”
I pulled back to look at him. Tears tracked down his cheeks. His face crumpled, his mouth twisting and his eyes squeezing shut like he couldn’t bear to look at me while admitting it.
“You’re such a fucking fool.”
I pulled him down and kissed him.
He made a soft sound. I turned and backed him into the wall, and he opened his mouth and let me in.
The kiss was teeth and tusks and tongue and too many days of wanting and being afraid to want.
His hands found my waist, gripping hard.
I stepped back, holding his gaze, and shrugged my blazer off, letting it fall to the floor. I wore a silk blouse underneath. A pencil skirt. Heels that hurt. But the armor was disappearing.
“Better?” I asked.
“Getting there,” he rasped.
We crashed back together. Desperate now, his hands everywhere, mine pulling at his shirt. The kiss turned frantic, weeks of suppressed wanting breaking through every carefully maintained boundary.
“Is the door locked?” I gasped between kisses.
He pulled away long enough to flip the lock. “Everyone’s gone.”
“I don’t care.”
“Good.”
He cupped my face in his big, warm hands, and kissed me.