Chapter 47
Rina
It takes a full twenty-four hours for the storm inside me to calm.
I’m not fine, but at least I can breathe again without my chest seizing from the ache.
Mom and I make dinner together, falling into an easy routine we haven’t had in years. She makes lasagna—the kind she used to bake when I was a kid, back when everything felt simpler.
It doesn’t take long for the scent of simmering sauce and melted cheese to fill the kitchen.
Each time I open the oven door, a wave of heat spills out, wrapping around me until the kitchen smells like Sunday night dinners from my childhood.
The overhead light illuminates the counters and catches the faint swirl of steam rising from the pot on the stove.
For a little while, our conversation and the gentle clatter of utensils are enough to quiet the thoughts spinning in my head.
When there’s about twenty minutes left on the lasagna, I open the oven and peel back the tinfoil so the cheese can brown. That’s when my phone buzzes on the counter, the sound startling in the otherwise calm space.
Lilah: Where are you? You’re missing the game. Is everything okay?
A pang of guilt hits me. I probably should’ve texted to let her know I wouldn’t make it.
In the four years I’ve worked for the team, I’ve never missed a home game.
Normally, by the time the Railers take the ice, I’m perched in the suite, tracking social media, keeping an eye on the players and their stories, making sure nothing slips past me.
But tonight…
There was no way I could show up and pretend it was business as usual.
I set my phone down and try not to picture Oliver, but it’s useless. An image forms of him dragging a hand through his hair before tugging his helmet into place. The way he skates through warm-ups, his jaw tight and eyes razor-sharp with focus.
I’ve spent years watching him from behind glass, always pretending the heat between us didn’t exist. Denying what bubbled beneath the surface until it was impossible to ignore.
Until it exploded.
And nothing about my life has been the same since then.
Mom sets her wineglass on the counter and studies me before nodding toward the family room. “If you’re going to worry about him, you might as well see how he’s doing.”
“That’s not necessary.”
Ignoring me, she reaches for the remote and turns on the TV.
The broadcast slices through the quiet like a crack of thunder as the announcers’ voices drift down the hall, followed by the rumble of the crowd. I linger in the doorway, telling myself I’ll only peek.
Just one look.
It only takes a single play before I’m moving closer, drawn to the screen like gravity. The Railers are midgame, tied at two. The camera pans across the ice, there’s a blur of jerseys and skates streaking past the boards, until it lands on Oliver.
From his first season on the team, he’s been a fan favorite.
He’s all strength and precision, every motion efficient and deliberate. Power radiates through him, driving each stride like he’s trying to outrun something. He’s playing with more intensity than I’m used to seeing from him.
He’s faster.
Meaner.
Heat stirs at the bottom of my belly.
Even through the screen, I feel a visceral pull toward him.
“Van Doren—number ninety-one—looks like he’s got something to prove tonight,” one of the announcers says. “He’s usually more composed than this. Whatever’s fueling that fire feels personal.”
The camera cuts to him again as he lays a clean but punishing hit on an opposing player before stealing the puck with ruthless ease.
My fingers curl around the edge of the couch as he charges down the ice, every stride smooth and powerful.
He skates like a man possessed. Fast, focused, and desperate to outrun something only he can see.
The crowd roars, the sound vibrating through the speakers and filling the otherwise quiet room.
As I watch him, it occurs to me that I’ve been doing the same thing in my own way. I’m trying to outrun the fear of what it means to love him.
In one fluid motion, his stick flashes and the puck rockets toward the goal. It hits the pipe at the back of the net with a ringing clang that sends a shiver up my spine.
Fans surge to their feet, a thunderous roar growing as sticks pound the boards in celebration. The noise grows, swelling through the arena like a wave.
But Oliver doesn’t crack a smile. He simply glides to a stop, chest rising and falling, sweat glinting under the rink’s bright lights. His eyes lift, scanning upward, searching the suite I’ve occupied every game for the past four years.
I can almost feel the weight of his gaze, as if he’s looking straight through the camera and crowd.
Through everything standing between us.
A moment passes.
Then another.
His shoulders drop a fraction before he turns toward the nearest camera and points once before tapping his heart twice and skating away.
The announcers chuckle.
“Looks like that goal might’ve been for someone watching at home,” one says.
“Guess we’ll have to wait for the postgame interview to find out who,” the other replies.
But I already know.
Every bone in my body knows.
The realization hits hard as my throat burns and my eyes sting. I blink, refusing to let the tears fall. If I start crying now, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.
Mom sits beside me, silent at first. When she finally speaks, her tone is gentle. “You look like me after your father walked out. As if you’re terrified of needing anyone.”
The comment drops like a stone into calm water, the ripples spreading until I can’t ignore them.
The difference is, she was brave enough to stop running from what she wanted.
And I’m still halfway out the door.
After a few beats of silence, she asks the one thing I’ve been trying so hard to avoid. “Do you love him?”
The question lands like a whisper and a challenge all at once.
With my throat tight, I nod. “I do. But is it enough?”
She glances toward the television before answering. “I think it’s a pretty good start.”
For the first time since I ran away, the panic in me loosens its grip.
Maybe this isn’t about being sure.
Maybe it’s about being willing to risk the fall.
Long after the game ends, a muted replay flashes across the screen.
Oliver in the locker room, helmet off, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends.
His eyes are steady and unreadable, heart on full display even when he tries to hide it.
I see it in the way he stands and the tension that brackets his mouth.
Every part of him still feels tethered to me.
Maybe love doesn’t fix everything.
Maybe it just makes you brave enough to try.