Chapter Ten
Brinley
I wake to the sound of water running from the sink in the bathroom and a low voice on the other side of the thin wall.
For a few disoriented seconds, I don’t know where I am. The bed is comfortable. The air smells like clean soap and wood instead of stale carpet and cigarettes. The ceiling above me isn’t the one from my childhood bedroom or the motel room I’ve mentally tried to erase from my memory.
Cooper.
The hockey house.
I lie still, my body heavy and warm under the blanket. The water shuts off, and there’s a pause before I hear his voice again.
“I know,” he says. “I should’ve been out there sooner. I should be doing more.”
I try to swallow past the lump in my throat.
I roll onto my side, the blanket tucked under my chin. I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but the walls don’t give me much of a choice.
“No, I get it. I do,” he continues. “I’m not saying you’re wrong.”
There’s a long pause, filled only by the low murmur of voices drifting up from downstairs. I imagine him standing there, phone pressed against his ear, shoulders tense like they get when he’s trying to make his point.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he says finally. “I promise. I’ll be there to finish chores, and I’ll help. I just… I’ve had something come up.”
Something.
His voice drops low. “Yeah. I get it’s a lot to ask, but I’ll take care of it. Okay?”
Something twists in my stomach.
Another long pause stretches. I stare at the wall, studying the Rixton Wolves hockey poster hanging there.
“I owe you,” Cooper adds quietly. “I’ll be out this weekend. We’ll get caught up, I swear. You can consider it done.”
The call ends shortly after. The bathroom door opens, and I quickly close my eyes, feigning sleep as I hear him moving around. I stay where I am, my thoughts drowning out anything he said.
He missed helping with chores because of me.
That’s the conclusion my brain latches onto. He had responsibilities he was putting off because he was stuck here with me. He’s rearranging his life to help me.
I never asked him to, but that doesn’t matter.
I’ve been here before, on the wrong side of someone else’s generosity. I refuse to become a burden for anyone again.
When Cooper steps out of his room into the hallway, I hear the door shut behind him. The quiet feels heavier now than before.
I sit up slowly, rubbing my palms over my face, dragging myself out of the warmth of the bed.
I grab my backpack from the floor and dig through it until I find my notebook.
The cover is bent from being shoved into it one too many times, the corners soft from use.
The pages inside are filled with half-written notes and lists that never went anywhere.
I tear out a clean sheet of paper.
For a moment, I stare at the page, my pen hovering over the blank space. There’s too much to say. Instead of overthinking it, I keep it simple.
Thank you for letting me stay with you. I know you didn’t have to, and I really appreciate it. More than you’ll ever know.
It doesn’t feel like enough, but it’s honest.
I fold the note carefully and set it on the nightstand, weighing the corner down with the watch so it won’t slide or get overlooked. Then I shoulder my backpack, slip on my shoes, and ease out of Cooper’s bedroom.
The house is quiet now—nothing like the night before. Voices drift from the kitchen, as I take the stairs slowly and cut across the living room toward the front door, careful not to draw attention to myself.
Outside, the cool air hits my lungs and steadies me.
I tell myself I’ll handle this on my own. Whatever this is between Cooper and me, I won’t make it something he has to answer for.
As the door clicks shut behind me, one truth settles in anyway—I already care too much for that promise to be easy.
I’m grateful I wore tennis shoes. The walk back to my loft isn’t far, but it would’ve been miserable in anything else. The morning air feels clean, the sky pale with streaks of blue and yellow just starting to wake up. Gravel crunches beneath my steps as I head down the drive.
Once I’m far enough away and sure Cooper isn’t coming after me, I drop my backpack and fish out my earbuds. Music helps drown out my thoughts, and I let it carry me the rest of the way home.
I tell myself I’ll figure this out without anyone’s help.
I always do.
***
The weekend passes quietly.
I spend most of Saturday working, and what little time I have left holed up in the loft. I haven’t spoken to Cooper since I left his place, but not because he hasn’t tried.
Sasha texts me to say he stopped by the bar Saturday night and asked about me. She adds a question mark I don’t answer. On Sunday, he shows up at the loft. I don’t open the door.
I haven’t figured out what to say to him yet.
The guilt sits low in my stomach, but I let it. It feels easier than opening something I don’t know how to close again.
Monday is my day off, except for one early class.
Afterward, I head to the student center with my backpack and laptop and claim a corner table.
It’s the only place I can reliably check my email without fighting the internet.
The Wi-Fi I leech from the bar has barely worked over the past couple of days, and while I could add a hotspot to my phone plan, that would mean spending money I don’t really have.
Rent comes first.
I log on and skim through my inbox. Same as always—class notifications, automated alerts, confirmation that my phone bill went through. I’m already half checked out when I see it.
A new notification from Dead Zone, the game I haven’t touched in weeks.
I open it before I can talk myself out of it.
Rowdy87: Haven’t seen you online in a bit. You good?
I stare at the message longer than I should.
Rowdy’s the only person I’ve played with consistently for years. Most of the guys on Dead Zone make it unbearable once they realize there’s a woman on the other end. Mostly snide comments and jokes, garbage that makes it easier to keep my headset muted and bounce between squads.
Rowdy’s different.
We’ve never exchanged real names. I don’t know much about him beyond the fact that he’s a farm kid with a sister. Our conversations stay at a surface level about the game. Whatever he was fixing that day. Whether I’m tired or just off my rhythm.
I know he’s athletic—at least I assume he is. He’s always talking about chores and having practice or a game the next day. I’ve never asked questions, never pushed for details.
It was safer that way. Asking questions invited them in return.
So it makes sense he noticed my absence. We usually run together when we’re both online.
I move over to the web browser and log in, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, hesitating on how much of myself to share.
Before I even open the chat, I hear a familiar voice drift from a few tables over.
“Rowdy, good luck in your game tonight.”
I freeze.
My pulse jumps as I turn my head, peer past the shelf to see a group gathered at another table across the room.
“It’s against Braysen. Should be an easy win.” Cooper’s mouth curves into a knowing smirk.
My eyes flick back to my screen as I click on the Inbox tab, seeing one unread notification from Rowdy87 staring back at me.
My thoughts start racing, pieces snapping together to the nights he talked about his practice schedules, how he’d log in late at night and would mention getting back to town from a game.
And suddenly, the quiet of the student center feels too loud. My screen glows at me like it’s holding a secret I don’t know what to do with.
I haven’t even opened the message. I’m too busy staring at my notebook. The same one I used to leave the note before I took off from the hockey house.
“Why didn’t you let me give you a ride home?”
I flinch, my heart jumping straight into my throat.
I look up.
Cooper stands in front of me, his backpack over one shoulder. He’s wearing his Rixton U hockey jersey. His jaw is tight in a way I’ve learned he does when he’s been holding something in that’s on his mind. His hair is damp, eyes fixed intently on me. Not accusing, just curious.
“I overheard you on the phone and knew you had some things to take care of.”
“I didn’t realize you could hear me. It wasn’t a big deal,” he says. “I was talking with my dad.”
I figured it was someone in his family when he mentioned chores. Still, it doesn’t do much to ease the tight knot in my chest.
“I came by your place yesterday,” he adds. “I was hoping we could talk.”
I blink, scrambling to shut my laptop. His brows furrow.
“We must’ve missed each other. I was out for a bit. Errands, that sort of thing.”
It’s all technically true. I did go out and run a couple of errands. Mostly to grab a few groceries and other essentials to get me through the week with the tips I made recently.
“I’m sorry, though,” I say softly. “For everything. And… I’m okay. Really, I am.”
He exhales heavily, his nostrils flaring as he studies me.
“Brinley,” he says, lowering his voice. “You don’t look okay.”
I flinch. What’s that supposed to mean?
“Well, I am,” I insist. “Listen, what happened the other night freaked me out, yes, but nothing has happened since. I’m fine.”
I sound rehearsed even to myself.
He drags his hand through his hair, his jaw clenching like he’s biting back something sharp. He doesn’t believe me, not even a little.
“I don’t like you being alone there.”
My stomach drops.
“What?”
“I came over to tell you I want you to stay at my family’s place,” he says, the words coming out faster, like he’s committed to getting this out before I run. “We have an apartment above our barn. It’s safe there. We have cameras on the property. My parents will be there. You wouldn’t be—”
“No.”
The word comes out loud, and I notice a few heads turn to look at us. I don’t care, though.
I stand abruptly, shoving my laptop and notebooks into my bag. Heat floods my neck and chest now. “Absolutely not.”
“Brinley—”
“I don’t need to be saved, Cooper,” I snap, the edge in my voice surprising even me. “And I don’t need you to swoop in every time something goes wrong, trying to be the hero.”
That stops him. The look on his face shifts. It’s not anger or pride.
It’s hurt.
“Listen, I appreciate what you’ve done for me,” I continue, my voice coming out shaky now despite my best efforts to stay calm. “I really do, and I meant it in my note too. But this”—I gesture back and forth between us—“this isn’t okay. You don’t get to come in here and try to take control.”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” he says, frustration bleeding into his words. “I’m just trying to make sure you’re safe.”
“I am safe,” I say, pushing the words past the knot in my throat. Even though part of me doesn’t entirely believe it to be true. “And I need you to stop treating me like I’m incapable of taking care of myself.”
I shift my bag over my shoulder. “Thank you,” I say again —because I mean it, and because I don’t know how else to end this without fracturing whatever this is between us permanently.
Then I turn and walk out of the student center.
Halfway down the hallway, something nags at me to look back at him, and I do. His last name and number are printed across the back.
Rowden. #87.
I exhale a heavy breath, confirming what I already suspected to be true.
Cooper is Rowdy87.
My only thought as I walk down the hallway, through the doors, and out toward the parking lot is that he isn’t wrong.
And I hate that part of me knows it too.
Hate that the safest place I’ve felt in weeks, maybe even years, was when I chose to stay with him. Hate that walking away from him now feels less like choosing my own independence and more like I’m choosing uncertainty.
Hate that even now, my instincts are pulling me back toward him.
No matter how hard I push it down, I can’t shake the feeling that what happened that night wasn’t random.
And pretending it was won’t make it any easier.