Chapter 28 #2
“And then I threw it away.” The words taste like ash. “Nash made a joke and I—” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I told them it wasn’t serious and she heard every word.”
The silence stretches. When I open my eyes, Rook is watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Not pity, exactly. Something closer to familiarity. Then, when he’s sure I’m not going to say anything else, Rook lets out a long breath.
“Yeah,” he says. “I know that feeling.”
My head comes up. “What?”
“I know exactly what that feels like.” He shifts on the chair, and for a moment, he looks tired. “Different girl, different circumstances, but I know how it feels.”
I remember hearing about his performance at the athletic gala last semester—whispers in the locker room, fragments of gossip I was too socially anxious to piece together. Something about Morgan. Something about a speech. “What happened?”
“Morgan was dealing with the funding for women’s hockey.” For a second he looks embarrassed. “I decided I was going to fix it for her.”
“That sounds… annoyingly mature of you?”
His laugh is humorless. “That’s what I told myself. I was being supportive. I was helping. Except she never asked for my help. She had a plan. A good plan. But I couldn’t stand watching her struggle, so I hijacked an entire fundraising gala to make this grand public gesture.”
The confession settles into the space between us. Rook, golden boy of PBU hockey, admitting he screwed up with the love of his life. It’s like finding out Superman has a therapist and a complicated relationship with boundaries.
“Almost lost her,” Rook continues on quietly. “She was furious because I’d made it about me and about my need to save her, instead of her need to save herself. I treated her like a problem to solve instead of a partner to support.”
The words hit somewhere in my chest and stick there.
Because that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. Lying awake at 3:00 a.m., running scenarios like debug sequences. If I apologize the right way, with the right words, in the right order, in the right setting, then she’ll forgive me. Like there’s a formula or she’s a broken circuit I can troubleshoot.
“But then how do I—” I stop. Swallow. “How do I fix this?”
“You don’t.”
“What?”
“You don’t fix it.” He leans forward, eyes intense. “That’s the whole point. You can’t ‘win her back.’ That framing is about you—your ego, your need to feel like you’ve done something to earn redemption—when in reality, you fucked up, and she doesn’t owe you anything.”
My chest tightens. “So I just… do nothing? Let her hate me forever?”
“No.” Rook disagrees, staring me down. “You do the work. On yourself. You stop trying to fix her situation and start being the kind of man who deserved her in the first place. Not because it’ll win her back—maybe it won’t—but because it’s the right thing to do.”
“I—”
He holds up a hand, stalling me. “Looks to me like you already started that process by barking back at Stiles and Nash. And, honestly, it’s partly my fault, for going along with them and the others and treating you like a team mascot. I’m sorry about that.”
I swallow hard, shocked by the unexpected apology. “Thanks,” I manage. “That… that actually means a lot.”
He nods, waiting. Because apparently, I’m not getting off that easy.
“It’s been hard,” I admit. “Trying to fit in with you guys and still be… whatever the hell I actually am. That’s not all the other guys’ fault, though.” I laugh, but it’s hollow. “I spent so long trying to be what I thought you all wanted that I forgot how to be who I actually am.”
Rook’s expression softens. “Well,” he says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Consider this your official permission to be yourself. Push back, lob jokes at Nash and Stiles and me and whoever you like. Or don’t. Just be yourself, man. We’ll adapt. We love you.”
My mouth falls open a bit, and no words come out.
“You’re a good dude, Kellerman, so be proud and strong.” He stands, pushing the chair back toward the desk. “Now, I need to get out of here, but don’t give up on the girl. Figure out what fixing this looks like for you and then do the work and then let her decide.”
Then he’s gone.
The silence rushes back in to fill the space Rook left behind. I sit there for a long moment, turning his words over in my head. And, for once in my whole life, the next move feels simple: fix the amp, return it to her, and then back away.
Don’t try to explain or make excuses.
Don’t try to force her to listen.
Don’t do anything public.
Just do what I said I’d do and then leave room for her to decide.
Whatever that looks like.
And, at that point, if she wants to talk, we can talk.
I reach for my laptop on the desk, to pull up the schematics I’d made for the fix. But when the screen flickers to life, it’s still open to my inbox, and in it there’s a new email from the Pinebox Mailing List, which I’d signed up for a few weeks earlier in a bout of lovesick enthusiasm.
Subject: Battle of the Bands at The Firehouse!
I click into it.
And yep, they’re playing it a few days from now.
My heart stops, because I know that venue’s reputation. Faulty wiring, terrible PA system, acoustics designed by someone who actively hates musicians. It’s a proving ground for raw talent and a death trap for anyone whose sound isn’t tuned perfectly.
And, suddenly, I know that just fixing the amp won’t be enough.