27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Tate
Cold air, sharpened steel, damp gear, and the faint bite of disinfectant that the trainer’s spray across the locker room floors every morning. It’s the kind of smell that sticks to your skin no matter how many times you shower.
Usually, it feels like home.
Today it just feels loud.
Pucks crack against the boards in sharp echoes as the guys finish warm-ups. Someone laughs across the locker room. A stick clatters to the concrete floor.
Life keeps moving.
Even when yours doesn’t.
I sit on the wooden bench in front of my stall, slowly wrapping tape around the blade of my stick. The ritual is automatic at this point. Pull, wrap, smooth. Pull, wrap, smooth.
My hands know the motion without thinking.
Which is good.
Because thinking lately is a fucking disaster.
Five weeks.
Five weeks since Celeste looked at me with that tight, guarded expression and told me we moved too fast. That things got complicated. That maybe it was better if we took a step back.
A step back.
God, I hate that phrase.
Because it wasn’t a step back.
It was a wall.
A sudden, confusing wall that I slammed into without warning.
And she wouldn’t explain why.
I pull the tape tight around the blade harder than necessary.
The adhesive squeaks against the fiberglass.
Something is wrong.
I’ve known that since the second the words left her mouth.
Celeste Parks doesn’t pull away for no reason.
She doesn’t lie either.
But she did that night.
I heard it in her voice.
Saw it in her eyes.
And I haven’t figured out why.
Across the locker room, Parker tosses his bag into his stall and plops down heavily on the bench.
“You look like you’re planning a murder,” he says casually.
I glance up.
“What?”
“You’ve been staring at that stick for like five minutes.”
I look down.
The tape job is already finished.
Shit.
Parker leans back against the lockers, studying me with the kind of quiet awareness that comes from years of playing together.
“You heard from Cel lately?”
My chest tightens automatically.
“Not really.”
Not really is a lie.
We text sometimes.
Short messages.
Polite.
Surface level.
The kind of communication strangers have.
Not the kind that two people who shared a bed and whispered promises in the dark should have.
“And the kid?” Parker asks.
That question hits differently.
Because the answer is complicated.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I still call him.”
Parker’s eyebrows lift.
Every night after games and sometimes after practice, too.
Not because Celeste asked me to, but because I need to.
Ro in a short amount of time has turned my world upside down in the best way.
Fuck I miss him, playing legos, watching hockey highlights, him teaching me more and more about type one.
And more importantly being there the days he's sad because of his diabetes, holding him when he saids "Why can't I just be normal, why can't I be like other kids"
Rowen answers the phone as if nothing has changed.
Like the world didn’t shift beneath his feet.
“Hey, Tate.”
Always the same greeting.
Always that little burst of excitement in his voice.
He tells me about school.
About the Lego spaceship we started building.
About the slap shot I showed him.
Last night, he told me his Dexcom arrow pointed straight down during movie time, and he had to drink apple juice really fast.
I stayed on the phone until his numbers came back up.
Just in case.
Parker watches me quietly.
“You’re still in deep, huh?”
I shrug.
But it’s a useless gesture.
Because yeah.
I am.
‘Deep’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.
I didn’t just fall for Celeste.
I fell for the life that came with her.
The messy, complicated, beautiful life that included a five-year-old kid with stubborn curls and a glucose monitor.
The idea of walking away from that?
It feels like ripping something vital out of my chest.
Coach whistles from the ice.
“Let’s go, boys.”
Practice.
I grab my helmet and stand.
Routine kicks in.
Muscle memory takes over.
Skates bite into the ice with that familiar satisfying scrape as I step onto the rink.
Cold air rushes against my lungs.
Usually, this is where everything clears.
Where the noise in my head shuts off.
But today?
Even the ice can’t quiet it.
Two hours later, I’m back in the locker room, sweat cooling across my skin.
My phone sits inside my open locker.
I shouldn’t check it.
I know I shouldn’t.
But my hand reaches for it anyway.
The Dexcom Follow app opens automatically.
I stare at the screen.
Rowen’s name sits at the top.
The little graph beneath it shows a steady line.
180 up arrow
Yellow.
Worry settles into my chest.
I shouldn’t still have access.
Celeste could remove it anytime she wanted.
But she hasn’t.
And I don’t ask why.
Because seeing that number means I know he’s okay.
Across the room, someone turns on music.
Bass thumps through the speakers.
The guys start joking around again.
Normal locker room noise.
But I’m still staring at the graph.
Five weeks.
Five weeks of pretending I’m not still invested.
Five weeks of pretending I didn’t imagine a future that included both of them.
A small text notification appears above the Dexcom screen.
Celeste: hi tate, it’s Ro
I smile before I can stop myself. He often uses voice to text, and sometimes, okay, most of the time it’s trying to decipher a third language with all the mixed up words and misspellings, but I’ll take what I can with him and her right now.
My fingers move quickly.
Tate: Hey little man. How was your day? Do you want me to call?
Three dots appear immediately.
Rowen: good mom says i'm sick
My stomach tightens.
Tate: What’s wrong?
A pause.
Then:
Rowen: mom just said im sick.
Tate: I'm sorry buddy. Listen to mom, she'll take good care of you.
Celeste doesn’t mess around with sick days especially with how it can effect his diabetes.
Still.
Something about the message unsettles me.
Maybe it’s the way the graph looks.
Maybe it’s just that quiet instinct in the back of my brain that keeps whispering something is wrong.
Parker slaps my shoulder as he walks past.
“Bus leaves in twenty.”
I nod.
But my eyes drift back to the screen.
Rowen’s number flickers.
160 Down arrow
Back to green.
He’s okay.
Still…
I stare at the graph a second longer.
Then, I finally lock my phone and shove it back into my locker, making a mental note to check his numbers more often.
Trying not to think about the strange, uneasy feeling sitting in my gut.
Trying not to wonder why Celeste hasn’t been at the rink this week.
Trying not to question why everything feels…off.
Because if I start pulling on that thread, I have a feeling the whole damn thing will unravel.
And right now?
I’m not sure I’m ready to find out what’s on the other side of it