Chapter Twenty-One
It’s been nearly a week since Gale rejoined the starting lineup. The Regals just touched down after a grueling game in Anaheim.
As I work on a late-night diagnostic in my lab, my phone suddenly vibrates. I smile when I see his name.
“Hi there! Great game and—”
“Harriet.” The way he says my name . . . his voice is a mix of exhaustion and something else. “I know it’s late, but can you
meet me?”
An hour later, I push through the doors of Bluebonnet Care Center, my heart racing. The familiar scent of disinfectant hits
immediately. I spot him by the nurse’s desk, his tall frame unmistakable even with his shoulders slumped as he speaks to a
doctor. The tension radiating off him is palpable, like static electricity before a storm.
Hanging back, I watch as the doctor’s words drift over. “. . . rapid decline . . . organ failure . . . prepare for the worst . . .”
Gale’s face is a mask, but I catch the slight tremor in his hands, the clench of his jaw. It’s the look of someone barely
holding it together, and it makes my chest ache.
As the doctor walks away, I approach. “Gale?” I say softly.
He turns, his eyes finding mine. For a moment, his mask slips, and the raw pain I see makes my breath catch. But there’s something
else there too—a hardness, a bitterness that speaks of years of anger and resentment.
“Hi,” he says, his voice rough. “I’m sorry I made you come.”
“Where else would I be?” I reply simply.
A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. “Thanks,” he murmurs.
I want to hug him, to promise everything will be okay. But false hope isn’t what he needs right now. Instead, I ask, “What
can I do?”
He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that would’ve been endearing under different circumstances. “They’re
saying . . . they’re saying it’s bad. That I should . . .” He trails off.
“Say goodbye,” I finish gently.
He nods, a mix of emotions flashing across his face—grief, anger, confusion. “Yeah. That.”
My heart breaks for him. Jim Knight had been a hockey star once, just like his son. But he’d let fame go to his head, abandoning
his family for a life of partying. The drunk driving accident that left people dead and him with a traumatic brain injury
was just the final act in a long play of selfishness and irresponsibility.
“Do you want me to come with you?” I ask, half expecting a no.
But Gale surprises me, reaching for my hand. “Please,” he says quietly.
I squeeze his hand, hoping to convey what words can’t. I’m here. You’re not alone.
As we walk down the corridor, our footsteps echoing in the quiet, I feel Gale’s grip tighten. Approaching his father’s room,
he slows as if heading into quicksand.
“Hey,” I say softly, making him look at me. “Whatever you’re feeling in there . . . it’s okay. You don’t have to forgive him
or make peace if you’re not ready.”
A storm of emotions rages in his eyes. “I don’t know if I can do this,” he admits, his voice cracking slightly.
“After everything he did . . . leaving us with nothing, watching Mom work herself to death. The doctors said it was cancer but I saw how the stress ate her alive, how the pain lived in her body long before they found the tumors . . .” His hands clench into fists.
“She spent years holding us all together while he was out there living his new life, and it killed her. It fucking killed her.”
“You can,” I say firmly. “And you’re not doing it alone. Whatever you need—to yell, to cry, to sit in silence—I’m here.”
He takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s do this.”
We step into the room together. Jim Knight lies motionless in the hospital bed, a shadow of the larger-than-life figure he’d
once been—he looks small now, fragile.
I hear his sharp breath, feel the slight tremor that runs through him. I want to say something, anything, to make this easier.
But what can you possibly say in a moment like this?
Gale moves forward slowly. When he reaches the bedside, he just stands there, staring down at the man who’d caused so much
pain.
“Dad,” he says, his voice barely audible. “It’s just me. But I . . . I’m here.”
I hang back, giving him space. I watch as he tentatively reaches out, then pulls his hand back, as if afraid to touch his
father.
“I don’t know if you can hear me,” Gale continues, his words coming out halting and unsure. “Part of me hopes you can’t. Because
I . . . I don’t have a fucking clue what to say to you. Sorry for swearing, but maybe I shouldn’t be. You always knew your
way around colorful language.” He pauses, taking a shaky breath. I want to go to him, to offer some kind of comfort. But I
know this is something he needs to do on his own.
“You left us,” he says suddenly, his voice gaining strength.
“You left us with nothing. Do you know what that was like? Watching Mom work herself to the bone, moving from our home to that small house, how she struggled to keep even that roof over our heads? Seeing her heart break over and over every time another woman came forward, every time your face was plastered across the tabloids?”
I feel like an intruder, witnessing this raw moment. But I can’t look away, can’t leave Gale to face this alone.
“She died thinking you never loved her,” Gale continues, his voice cracking. “The cancer . . . the doctors said stress can’t
cause it, but I know. I know it was you. Your betrayal, your abandonment—it broke her.”
His shoulders shake, and I have to fight every instinct not to rush to him.
“I wanted to hate you,” he says, softer now. “God, I wanted to hate you so much. It would have been easier. But . . . but
you’re still my dad. And I . . . I don’t know how to reconcile that with everything you’ve done.”
I hold my breath, half expecting—hoping? dreading?—some kind of response. But there’s nothing. Jim remains still, lost in
a place we can’t reach and retreating further by the minute. There will be no Hollywood closure here. No grand apology or
explanation. Whatever answers Jim holds, whatever words might have bridged the gap between him and his children, they’re lost
now, trapped in the labyrinth of his unresponsive mind.
Gale turns to me, his eyes red-rimmed and turbulent. “What am I supposed to do?” he asks, his voice raw. “How am I supposed
to feel?”
I wish I had an answer, wish I could tell him how to navigate this impossible situation. But all I can offer is my presence
and my honesty.
“I don’t know,” I say softly, moving to his side and taking his hand. “But whatever you feel—be mad, be sad, or even confused,
all of it—it’s valid. You don’t have to have it all figured out right now. There’s no statute of limitations with this.”
He nods, squeezing my hand like it’s a lifeline. “Yeah,” he says, sounding exhausted. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
We stand there in silence, hand in hand, watching the shallow rise and fall of Jim’s chest, listening to the rhythmic beeping
of the machines. I don’t know how long we stay like that, but as the sun begins to set, painting the room in soft oranges
and pinks, I feel some of the tension leave his body.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, turning to me. “For being here. For . . . for everything.”
I meet his gaze, seeing the vulnerability there, the gratitude. “Always,” I reply simply.
As we leave the room, Gale casts one last look at his father. I can’t decipher the expression on his face—it’s too complex,
too layered with years of hurt and anger and love. His grip on my hand tightens, and I squeeze back. There’s so much between
us we still need to figure out, and explain to Brooke about why her brother and I just . . . fit. But for now, as we walk
out of the care center, his hand still anchored in mine, I feel like maybe, just maybe, he’s taken the first step toward something
like healing.
Whatever comes next, whatever he needs to face, I know one thing for certain: he won’t be facing it alone. And sometimes the
bravest thing a person can do is walk away from an unfinished story. To accept that not every question gets an answer, not
every wound gets a neat bandage.
The future stretches out before us, uncertain and unscripted. It’s time to start writing a new chapter, even if it means leaving
this one frustratingly incomplete.