32. Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Two
Tate
The first thing I notice is the quiet.
Not the peaceful kind. The kind that only exists in hospitals at four in the morning, too still, too sterile, like the whole building is holding its breath.
The hospital coffee tastes like burnt cardboard.
I still drink it.
Mostly because it gives my hands something to do.
Rowen has been asleep for almost an hour now, curled into the thin hospital blanket like the whole day finally caught up to him.
His tiny fist is wrapped around the edge of the fabric, lashes resting against flushed cheeks that finally look more pink than red.
The fever broke sometime around three in the morning, and his numbers are finally starting to settle.
The monitor beside the bed blinks quietly.
Stable.
Good.
My chest loosens a fraction every time I look at it, like my lungs remember how to work again for a few seconds before the worry creeps back in.
Celeste is asleep in the chair beside him.
Or at least she finally passed out.
Her head is tilted back against the wall, curls spilling across her face, one hand still resting lightly on Rowen’s leg like she fell asleep mid-check. Her arms are wrapped tight around herself, shoulders drawn in, like even in sleep she’s bracing for something else to go wrong.
She looks exhausted.
Like someone who has been carrying too much weight for way too long.
And yeah.
I’m still pissed she tried to carry it without me.
But watching her sleep like that?
It’s hard to stay angry.
The door to the room creaks open quietly.
I glance up automatically.
And my entire body tenses.
Brett.
He walks in like he owns the place.
Like this room is his.
His letterman jacket is thrown over one shoulder, football logo bright against the black fabric. His hair looks freshly styled, as if he came straight from campus instead of the hospital.
He stops when he sees me sitting beside the bed.
The surprise on his face only lasts half a second before that smug calm slides right back into place.
“Well,” he says casually.
My jaw tightens.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask quietly.
His gaze flicks to Rowen sleeping in the bed.
“I came to see my son.”
My hands curl into fists.
“Your son. Funny how that word only shows up when there’s an audience.”
Rowen shifts slightly in his sleep.
Celeste stirs in the chair.
Her eyes open slowly.
For a split second, she looks confused.
Then she sees Brett.
And all the color drains from her face.
“Tate…” she whispers.
“I’ve got it,” I murmur without looking away from Brett.
He leans casually against the wall like this is just another normal conversation.
“I heard he was staying another night again,” Brett says, glancing toward the monitors.
My vision goes red.
Brett shrugs, like this is nothing. Like the last twenty-four hours haven’t been hell for everyone in this room.
“I’ve had to come up here three times because Celeste can’t stop panicking.”
Celeste flinches behind me.
It’s small. Barely noticeable if you aren’t looking for it. But I feel it like a spark hitting gasoline.
That’s it.
I stand.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The chair legs scrape softly against the tile, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Every muscle in my body is tight with the effort not to swing first. My pulse pounds heavily in my ears, heat climbing the back of my neck.
I take one step closer.
Then another.
“You want to repeat what you just said?” I ask.
My voice comes out low. Controlled. The kind of calm that sits right on the edge of something violent.
He studies me for a second, eyes flicking over my face like he’s measuring exactly how far he can push this.
Then he smirks.
Just slightly.
“I said I’ve had to waste a lot of time up here lately.”
That word.
Waste.
Like sitting beside a sick kid is an inconvenience. Like Rowen is something on his schedule he wishes he could cancel.
My hands curl tighter at my sides, fingers digging into my palms.
“You don’t get to talk about him like that.”
Brett tilts his head, completely unbothered. Like this is entertaining for him. Like watching me get angry is the whole point.
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
The anger in my chest finally cracks open.
“You weren’t there when he got diagnosed.”
Brett’s expression hardens slightly.
“You weren’t there for the nights his numbers dropped, and Celeste had to stay up watching that damn Dexcom like it was a heartbeat monitor.”
I step closer.
Close enough that he has to look up slightly to meet my eyes.
“You don’t know his carb ratios.”
Silence.
“You don’t know what green means on his screen.”
Nothing.
“You don’t know the difference between a fast drop and a slow one.”
Brett’s jaw tightens.
“But I do,” I finish quietly.
Because that’s the truth.
I know every one of those things.
His gaze flicks toward Rowen again.
Not soft. Not worried.
Assessing.
Like he’s looking at a problem he hasn’t decided whether to deal with.
“You’ve known him what?” Brett scoffs. “A few months?”
There’s something ugly in the way he says it. Like time is the only thing that counts. Like the nights, the scraped knees, the laughter, the quiet moments on the couch, somehow don’t.
“Doesn’t take long when you actually show up.”
That one lands.
I see it.
His eyes darken instantly, something sharp flashing behind them before he can hide it.
“You’re not his father,” he says sharply.
The words echo in the quiet room.
Behind me, Rowen shifts slightly in the hospital bed, the blanket rustling softly. The monitor gives a slow, steady beep.
And something inside my chest locks into place.
Cold.
Certain.
Because maybe he’s right.
Maybe I didn’t get the first steps. The baby photos. The sleepless newborn nights.
But I was there for the nightmares. The scraped elbows. The quiet moments when Rowen crawls into my lap like it’s the safest place in the world.
I know the way he insists dinosaurs can absolutely beat sharks in a fight.
The exact cartoon he asks for when he’s sick. The way his small hand reaches for mine without even looking.
That’s not nothing.
“No,” I agree calmly.
Then I step even closer.
“But Rowen will be more my kid than he has ever been yours.”
The room goes dead quiet.
The words hang there, heavy and sharp.
Behind me, I hear Celeste inhale sharply, the sound thin with shock and something else, fear, maybe.
Brett’s expression snaps.
For the first time since I’ve known him, the smug confidence cracks. The easy arrogance that usually sits on his face slips just enough to show the anger underneath.
“You should watch yourself,” he says quietly.
“Or what?”
My voice doesn’t rise.
Doesn’t shake.
His jaw tightens, teeth grinding like he’s deciding how far he wants to take this.
“You think being a hockey prospect makes you untouchable?”
For a second, I just stare at him.
Then I laugh.
Actually laugh.
“You think your dad’s money scares me?”
His eyes flash.
“That money pays for the best lawyers in the country.”
Good.
Perfect.
Because that means we’re finally done pretending.
I lean in slightly.
“Then you should probably call them.”
Brett frowns.
“Why?”
I shrug.
“Because my parents are lawyers too, and they’re the best on the West Coast, with connections here in Boston. So if you want to lawyer up, we’re ready.”
Behind me, Celeste sits up straighter.
“And unlike you,” I add quietly, “they actually enjoy a good fight.”
The silence that follows is thick.
Heavy.
Brett studies me now.
Really studying.
Trying to figure out if I’m bluffing.
I’m not.
Not even a little.
Rowen shifts again in the bed.
A small sound escaping him.
Instantly, both Brett and I look over.
But I’m the one who steps forward.
Adjusting the blanket.
Checking the monitor.
Making sure the IV line isn’t tangled.
When I turn back around, Brett is watching me.
His expression is unreadable.
“You’re overstepping,” he says finally.
“No,” I reply calmly. “You’re just late.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to push it further.
But instead, he exhales sharply and shakes his head. “This isn’t over.”
He reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a folded envelope.
He sets it on the table beside Rowen’s hospital bed.
“Consider this a courtesy,” he says calmly.
Celeste goes pale beside me.
“Brett…” she whispers.
“Custody filing,” he says lightly. “My lawyers thought you should see it before the court does.”
The room goes very, very quiet.
Then he looks at me again.
“And you?” he adds, voice sharp.
“You might want to start learning where the line is.”
Then he walks out.
I shrug again.
“Good.”
Because for the first time since all this started, I’m not reacting.
I’m ready.
Brett turns and walks out of the room.
The door shuts behind him with a quiet click.
The tension slowly drains out of my shoulders.
Behind me, Celeste whispers my name.
“Tate…”
I turn.
Her eyes are wide.
A mix of shock and something else.
Something warmer.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says softly.
I walk back over and sit beside her again.
“Yeah,” I reply. “I did.”
She studies me for a long moment.
Then her hand slides into mine.
Small.
Warm.
Familiar.
And this time… neither of us pulls away.
Rowen sleeps peacefully between us.
The monitor continues its steady rhythm.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
For the first time since Brett showed up again, it finally feels like the ground beneath us is steady.
And tomorrow?
We start the real fight.
Together.