29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Tate
Everything has felt wrong for weeks.
Ever since Celeste ended things.
I sit on the padded training table while Elara wraps fresh tape around my wrist. The tight pull of it grounds me a little, the steady rhythm of her hands precise and practiced.
“You’re overcompensating again,” she says calmly.
“I’m fine.”
She pauses mid-wrap and gives me a look.
The kind that says she’s known me too long to buy my bullshit.
“Your left side is doing most of the work,” she says. “You’re protecting the right without realizing it.”
I shrug.
“Doesn’t hurt.”
“That’s not what I said.”
The tape pulls tighter.
“Whatever’s going on in your head,” she adds quietly, “it's showing up in your body.”
I look away.
Across the training room, the rest of the guys are scattered around—stretching, joking, taping sticks for practice.
Everything feels normal.
Except for the hollow space that’s been sitting in my chest since the night Celeste told me we shouldn’t see each other anymore.
She said it like it was logical.
Like it made sense.
But nothing about it made sense.
Not the way she wouldn't look at me when she said it.
Not the way her hands shook.
Not the way Rowen cried on the phone last week when I told him I wasn’t coming home.
My phone buzzes in my locker.
For a split second, my heart jumps.
Maybe it's her.
Maybe she changed her mind.
Maybe… But when I check the screen a minute later, it's just a team group chat.
I drop the phone back inside.
The familiar heaviness settles again.
Four weeks.
Four weeks since I've seen Rowen.
Four weeks since I've heard Celeste laugh.
Four weeks of pretending I'm fine while something inside me keeps pulling toward them like gravity.
“Done,” Elara says, pressing the tape smooth.
“Thanks.”
I slide off the table.
The guys start heading toward the locker room.
Preston throws an arm over my shoulders as we walk.
“You look like shit, man.”
“Thanks.”
“Seriously though,” he says. “You haven't slept.”
“I'm good.”
He snorts.
“Yeah, okay.”
We push through the locker room doors to the all-athlete gym, the sound of clanging lockers and loud music filling the space.
I move toward my locker I had put my things in when voices drift from the hallway just outside.
Familiar voices.
Football guys.
I barely register them at first.
Until one of them laughs.
“Dude, you look dead. What's your excuse?”
Another voice answers.
Sharp.
Annoyed.
“Because I've been at the fucking hospital every night this week.”
My body goes still.
I know that voice.
Brett.
The name hits my chest like a dropped weight.
I haven't seen him since that night at the diner.
The night I stepped between him and Celeste.
The night he looked at me like I was something temporary.
My jaw tightens automatically.
One of the other guys whistles.
“Hospital? What happened?”
Brett sighs dramatically. “My kid.”
The words make something in my chest twist.
I shouldn't care.
But I do.
“Kid’s diabetic,” he continues, like he's explaining something mildly inconvenient. “Gets sick and suddenly it's a whole fucking situation.”
My stomach drops.
Another guy laughs.
“That sounds like a nightmare.”
“You have no idea,” Brett mutters. “Three fucking hospital visits this week because Celeste can't stop crying every time his numbers spike.”
The name slams into my chest.
Celeste.
For a second, I think I misheard him.
But then he keeps talking.
“It's like, Jesus, handle it. The doctors know what they're doing.”
Everything inside me goes cold.
Hospital visits.
This week.
Rowen.
My mind starts racing.
The Dexcom app.
I pull my phone out instantly, fingers already moving.
The screen loads.
Rowen's profile.
Last reading
No Data
My stomach twists harder. I have been trying not to check as often, feeling like it’s an invasion of their privacy.
That's not normal.
Even when numbers fluctuate, there's always data.
Unless…
Unless the sensor's been removed.
Unless he's somewhere they're using hospital monitors instead.
Unless he's…
My chest tightens so hard it hurts to breathe.
Outside the locker room, Brett keeps talking.
“Kid’s numbers were like four hundred yesterday,” he says casually.
Four hundred.
The number slams into me like a punch.
That's dangerous.
That's hospital level.
My heart starts pounding.
“He's probably going to be staying another few days,” Brett continues. “So guess who gets to drive across town after practice and play dad.”
One of the guys groans sympathetically.
“That sucks.”
“Yeah,” Brett mutters. “All because Celeste can't keep it together.”
The words feel like gasoline hitting a flame inside my chest.
My fists curl automatically.
Together?
She built that kid's entire life around stability.
Carb ratios.
Insulin schedules.
Overnight alarms.
She barely slept to keep him safe.
And this asshole is standing here complaining about visiting his own kid in the hospital.
Something hot and furious starts burning under my skin.
But beneath the anger sits something worse.
Fear.
Because if Rowen's numbers are that high…
If he's being admitted…
That means he's really sick.
And she didn't tell me.
Four weeks.
Four weeks of silence.
While Rowen's been in the hospital.
My throat tightens painfully.
Why wouldn't she call me?
The answer comes immediately.
Because she pushed you away.
Because you weren't supposed to be part of their lives anymore.
The thought makes my stomach turn.
Another laugh echoes from the hallway.
“Dude,” one of the football players says. “At least the hockey boyfriend is out of the picture now.”
Brett chuckles.
Low.
Satisfied.
“Yeah,” he says. “That problem solved itself.”
The words land like a spark on gasoline.
My vision goes red.
Because suddenly everything clicks into place.
The breakup.
The distance.
The way Celeste looked terrified the last time I saw her.
Brett.
This has something to do with Brett.
And Rowen is in the hospital.
My feet are already moving before I fully register the decision.
“Tate?” Preston calls behind me.
I ignore him.My feet move before I consciously decide to move them.
The locker room door slams open as I step into the hallway.
Brett is leaning casually against the wall with three of his teammates, his helmet tucked under his arm and his football bag slung over one shoulder. He looks relaxed.
Comfortable.
Like he didn’t just stand here talking about Rowen like he’s some inconvenient responsibility.
The moment he sees me, his expression shifts.
Just slightly.
Recognition.
Annoyance.
“Well,” he mutters under his breath. “Speak of the devil.”
His teammates glance between us, immediately sensing tension.
I walk straight toward him.
Slow.
Controlled.
My jaw is tight enough to hurt.
“You got something you want to say to my face?” I ask.
Brett lifts a brow.
Calm.
Always calm.
“I didn’t realize you were eavesdropping.”
“You were loud.”
One of the football players shifts awkwardly.
“Uh… we’re gonna head out,” he mutters, grabbing his bag.
The other two follow immediately.
Within seconds, the hallway clears.
Now it’s just us.
Brett straightens away from the wall, looking mildly amused.
“You still hanging around?” he asks. “I thought Celeste handled that situation already.”
My fists curl automatically.
“Rowen’s in the hospital,” I say.
Not a question.
A statement.
Brett shrugs like it’s nothing.
“He gets sick sometimes. Comes with the territory.”
The casual tone makes my stomach twist.
“You’ve been there all week.”
Another shrug.
“His mother panics.”
I take a step closer.
The air between us tightens.
“You were complaining about it like a fucking asshole.”
“Because it's exhausting,” Brett says flatly. “You’ll understand someday when you have responsibilities.”
Something sharp laughs inside my head.
Responsibilities.
“You mean like knowing his numbers?” I say quietly.
Brett’s eyes narrow.
“You don’t know shit about raising a diabetic kid.”
“Don’t I?” The words come out low. Controlled.
“You didn’t even know what green meant on his Dexcom the first time you saw it.”
His jaw tightens.
I keep going.
“You didn’t know his carb ratios. You didn’t know he drops overnight during growth spurts. You didn’t know he hates orange glucose tablets, but he'll take the grape ones.”
Brett’s expression hardens. “You’re getting real comfortable for someone who isn't actually his parent.”
The words hang there.
“Maybe not biologically,” I say, my voice eerily calm. Flat in a way that surprises even me. “But Ro will grow up knowing I showed up for him. That’s more than you’ve ever managed.”
The hallway falls into a suffocating silence.
Brett’s expression darkens, something sharp flashing in his eyes.
“You think playing house with them makes you important?” he asks quietly. “You’re temporary.”
The word lands like a blade. But it doesn’t cut the way he wants it to.
Because right now the only thing I can think about is a six-year-old kid hooked up to hospital monitors.
“You can tell yourself whatever you need to help you sleep at night.” I say.
My voice drops lower. “But the kid you just stood here complaining about?”
My chest tightens. “He calls me after my games.”
Brett’s jaw clenches.
“He asks me if his numbers look good. He asks me when I’m coming back home. He wants me in his life. Not his piece of shit “father” who hasn’t shown his face in over five years.”
I take one final step closer.
“He trusts me. And I will do everything in my power to protect that trust, to show him what a real fucking man looks like.”
The words land heavy between us.
For a second, Brett doesn’t respond.
Then he scoffs.
“You’re delusional.”
Maybe.
But I don’t have time for this.
Rowen is in the hospital.
And suddenly that’s the only thing that matters.
I step back, already turning toward the exit.
Brett’s voice follows me.
“You think you matter in that kid’s life?”
I stop for half a second.
Just long enough to answer.
Without turning around.
“I know I do.”
Then I keep walking.
Because Brett isn't the fight that matters.
Rowen is.
And if that kid is lying in a hospital bed right now
I’m not wasting another second standing in this hallway.
I shove my gear bag into my locker and grab my keys.
My heart is hammering now.
Every instinct in my body is screaming the same thing.
Go.
Because whatever is happening, whatever Celeste has been trying to handle alone. Rowen shouldn't be fighting it without me there.
And Celeste shouldn't be either.