CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
RHETT
Day Eighteen
Concussion protocol removes everything I use to avoid myself.
No skating. Limited screens. No driving. No prolonged reading. No strategy video. No training beyond short walks when symptoms allow.
By ten in the morning, I understand why people confess to crimes during sensory deprivation.
My mother occupies the hotel suite and rearranges it as if she has been assigned command. She opens curtains, orders soup, and tells the medical staff stories from my childhood that violate several privacy laws.
At noon, Tessa arrives with the police update.
Colin Ames preserved and sold the clip. He likely sent the threats. Damon contacted him after the incident and asked what footage existed. The timeline does not yet prove Damon ordered the leak.
I sit very still while Tessa explains.
"Do not go after Damon," she says.
"I'm concussed, not stupid."
My mother and Tessa exchange a look.
"Fine," I say. "Evidence suggests debate."
Tessa hands the matter to legal and leaves. Mom follows her downstairs to collect lunch.
Five minutes later, someone knocks.
Nora stands in the doorway holding a foundation binder.
"Your mother invited me," she says. "Then vanished with suspicious precision."
"She has no respect for agreements she didn't draft."
"I can leave."
"Do you want to?"
She considers the question. "Not yet."
I step aside.
Nora places the binder on the table. "The final event plan needs approval. You can review it when screens stop trying to kill you."
"Thank you."
She looks around the suite. "This is depressing."
"It contains beige in six emotional shades."
"The penthouse has better light."
"The medical team wanted me near the arena."
She goes to the window. Morning sun catches the ring at her throat.
I look away before hope makes me careless.
"I brought something else," she says.
From her bag, she removes a small portfolio box.
Inside are twelve prints from the Nordic proposal. Women skating on a frozen lake. A teenage goalie repairing her own pads. An elderly coach watching from behind fogged glass.
"Ingrid asked me to choose a visual direction," Nora says. "I cannot decide between intimacy and scale."
I study the images slowly because my head punishes speed.
"Both," I say.
"That is not helpful."
"The wide frames show what the sport asks of them. The close ones show why they give it."
Her gaze lifts to mine. "That's almost intelligent."
"Head injury. It may pass."
We sit at the small table. She spreads the prints between us. For an hour, I ask questions about light, access, and whether players change when they know the photographer understands the game.
No one interrupts. No camera watches. We are not husband and wife trying to decide whether the marriage lives.
We are simply Rhett and Nora, speaking the language that introduced us.
She picks up a portrait of a woman sharpening skates. "Which is your favorite?"
"This one."
"Why?"
"Her hands. They look tired, but the blade is perfect."
Nora smiles. "I thought you'd choose the action shot."
"You already know I like unseen work."
The words hang between us.
I close my eyes as dizziness moves through my head.
Nora is beside me immediately, one hand hovering near my shoulder. "Pain?"
"A little."
"You need rest."
"I am sitting."
"Rhett."
I go to the sofa. She dims the curtains and places water on the table.
"You don't have to stay," I say.
"I know."
"I should make a sign."
"It would violate your screen restriction."
She sits in the chair opposite me.
The room grows quiet.
"I was jealous of your work," I say.
Her eyebrows rise.
"Not the success," I continue. "The freedom. You could take a camera and become entirely yourself somewhere no one cared whether I won. I told myself your travel was a distraction because every time you left, I saw that you had a life not organized around me."
"I did organize it around you."
"I know. But you could have stopped. I was afraid you would outgrow the marriage before I learned how to exist outside hockey."
She sits very still.
"So you made the marriage smaller," she says.
"Yes. I thought if it required less, it would be harder to fail."
"And easier for me to leave."
"I understand that now."
She looks down at her hands. "I wanted you to need me. After Eli, being needed felt like proof I had not failed. Then I hated how much you needed while pretending you didn't."
The truth between us is not symmetrical. I hurt her. Shared wounds do not create equal guilt.
But for the first time, we are looking at the same map.
"I am sorry," I say. "Not for needing you. For making you pay for it in silence."
Her eyes fill.
She stands. "Sleep."
At the door, she looks back.
"Your favorite photograph in my entire archive isn't one of you," she says.
"That is probably healthy."
"Don't become arrogant about growth."
Then she leaves.
I lie down among six shades of beige and sleep for three hours without dreaming of loss.