14. Dean
Dean
I don’t sleep. Not really. Time moves, but it doesn’t settle into anything that feels like rest. It stretches and folds in on itself, marked only by the steady rise and fall of her breathing against me, by the way my arm tightens every time she shifts like some part of me is checking without asking if she’s still there.
She stays. Curled into me, softer now, the tension that lived in her body earlier finally giving way to something quieter, something closer to peace than anything I’ve seen from her in a long time. I hold onto that. Because the alternative—The alternative is everything I didn’t let myself do.
It sits just under the surface, waiting for space I’m not giving it.
Morning comes without asking. The light shifts first, subtle at the edges of the room, then stronger, creeping in through the windows until it settles across the bed pulling me out of the half-state I’ve been sitting in all night.
I don’t move right away. I don’t want to.
Because the second I do, I have to let go.
And I’m not ready to do that yet. My gaze drops to her.
She’s still asleep, her face turned slightly toward me, her hair a mess of damp waves that have dried overnight into something softer.
For a second, I let myself look without thinking about anything else.
Then I see it—the bruise. Faint last night. Not anymore. It’s darker now. Defined. It stands out against her skin in a way that makes something in my chest tighten so fast it almost feels like it snaps.
The red doesn’t rise. It sharpens. Clean.
Focused. Controlled in a way that’s worse than losing it.
My jaw tightens, my teeth pressing together as I hold still, because if I move too fast, if I let myself react the way I want to—I won’t be in this room anymore.
I force a slow breath out instead. Careful.
Measured. My arm loosens just enough for me to slip out from behind her without waking her, my movements deliberate, controlled in a way that feels like I’m holding something back with every step.
She doesn’t stir. Doesn’t wake. I step out into the hallway, the door closing quietly behind me. The space feels different without her in it. Too open. Too quiet. My phone is in my hand before I think about it.
I text my assistant coach first.
Not coming in. Family emergency.
Light practice. Tape and drills.
No explanation. No room for questions. He’ll handle it. He always does. The response comes through almost immediately, but I don’t read it. I’m already moving to the next thing.
Luka. The call barely rings once.
“How is our girl?” The question comes out fast, like he’s been waiting for it, like he hasn’t slept either.
My grip tightens slightly around the phone. “She’s not your girl,” I bite out, my voice low, controlled, but there’s an edge to it I don’t bother smoothing over.
There’s a beat of silence. Then Luka laughs. Not surprised. Not even a little. “But you’re not denying that she’s yours.”
Something in my chest tightens again, different this time. Not anger. Not quite. But I don’t answer him. I don’t need to. The silence says enough.
Luka exhales on the other end, the sound shifting, losing the humor as something more serious settles in behind it.
“How is she?” The question lands differently now. He’s not joking anymore. He’s asking as someone who knows her. Who cares about her. Who was there long before any of this crossed whatever line it’s crossing now.
I glance back toward the bedroom door without thinking. “She’s sleeping,” I say, quieter this time, the edge still there but pulled tighter. “She needed it.”
A pause. Then—“She’s special, Dean.” There’s no warning in his voice. No threat. Just truth. “And I respect you,” he continues, steady, “but don’t fuck this up with her.”
The words sit there. Heavy. Not because I don’t like them. Because I already know. “I won’t,” I say, and it comes out simple, without hesitation, without anything added to it.
Because there’s nothing else to say.
“I’m not coming in today,” I add. “I’ll make sure she calls you later.”
“Yeah,” Luka says, softer now. “Do that.”
The call ends. And I stand there for a second longer than I should, the phone still in my hand, the quiet of the space pressing in around me again. But it’s different now. Sharpened. Focused. Because I know exactly what I’m doing today. And it has nothing to do with hockey.
I don’t go far after the call. The kitchen sits open and quiet, the city moving somewhere beyond the windows, but none of it really reaches me.
I’m at the table without remembering sitting down, my phone still in my hand for a second longer than it needs to be before I set it aside.
The place feels different this morning. Not empty.
Just… aware. Like everything in it knows she’s here.
I hear her before I see her. Soft footsteps.
Slower than usual. Careful in a way that makes something tighten in my chest before I even turn.
She steps into the kitchen quietly, like she’s not sure what she’s walking into, like she’s trying not to take up too much space in a place that was hers just as much as it was mine last night.
The soft shift of movement pulls my attention toward her without me having to think about it, and when I finally look up—it hits.
The bruise. It’s darker now, sitting against her skin in a way that makes it impossible to pretend it isn’t as bad as I knew it would be. There’s no guessing anymore. No hoping it wouldn’t show. It’s there.
And something in my chest tightens around it before I can stop it, sharp and immediate in a way that has nothing to do with surprise and everything to do with the fact that I let it happen without finishing it.
“Hi.” Her voice is soft, almost unsure, like she’s testing the space between us instead of stepping fully into it.
“Hey.” I don’t let the moment stretch. I don’t let her stand there wondering where she fits in this room, not after everything that happened last night.
I push back from the table and walk toward her, slower than I want to, more controlled than anything in me feels right now, because the closer I get, the more I see.
The way she’s holding herself. The way she’s moving just slightly differently, like her body is still trying to protect something without drawing attention to it.
My hand lifts before I think about it, stopping just short of her face for half a second before I close the distance the rest of the way, brushing my fingers along her cheek carefully, barely there, testing the space without pressing into it.
Her skin is warm. Too warm. Tender in a way I don’t have to ask about to understand.
“You in pain?”
She gives a small shrug, like she’s trying to make it smaller than it is, like if she doesn’t give it weight, it won’t settle into something real. “Kinda.”
That answer doesn’t sit right. It doesn’t settle anything.
But I don’t push her on it. Not like this.
I step away before I let myself linger too long, turning toward the cabinet because doing something—anything—is better than standing there feeling everything I’m trying to keep contained.
The bottle is in my hand before I really register grabbing it, a couple pills shaken out into my palm while I reach for a glass and fill it without looking.
It gives me something to focus on. Something that doesn’t bleed.
When I turn back to her, she hasn’t moved far, still hovering near the edge of the space like she hasn’t fully decided she belongs in it yet.
“Come sit.” My voice comes out steady, quieter than it feels inside my chest, but enough that she listens without questioning it.
She moves toward the table, slow but certain, and I stay close without touching her, close enough that if she shifts wrong or hesitates, I’m already there.
She doesn’t. She sits. I hand her the pills and the water, watching without making it obvious, waiting until I see her swallow before I move my chair closer, turning it so I’m not across from her, not creating distance where it doesn’t belong.
I want her here. Close. Where I can see her. Where I can reach her.
“We need to talk about it.”
Her reaction is immediate. Her head shakes before I even finish, like the words don’t get the chance to fully form before she’s already pushing them away. “I don’t want to talk about Tyler right now.”
“I wasn’t talking about Tyler.” My voice stays even. Controlled. “I was talking about your dream.”
She shakes her head again, more firmly this time, like if she keeps doing it, she won’t have to sit in it, won’t have to feel it again if she just refuses long enough.
I don’t let her disappear into that. My hands come up slowly, settling on either side of her face, careful with the way I touch her, making sure I avoid the bruise, giving her something solid to focus on instead of the movement.
“Hey.” My voice drops, softer now, pulling her attention back without forcing it. “It’s okay, Baby.” She stills. Not completely. But enough. “I have them too.”
That’s what catches her. Her eyes lift to mine slowly, widening as something shifts behind them, like what I said doesn’t fit with the version of me she’s been holding onto, like it lands somewhere she didn’t expect it to.
There’s something fragile in the way she looks at me now, something searching, like she’s trying to decide if I’m serious or if this is something I’m saying just to steady her.
“You do?” she asks, her voice quiet enough that it almost disappears between us, like it takes more effort than it should just to get the words out.
Something in my chest tightens at that, not sharp, not sudden, but deep enough that I feel it settle there and stay. I don’t look away. I don’t give her space to question it or soften it into something easier to accept.
“Yeah.” The word comes out low, steady, without hesitation, because there isn’t any.
There never has been. I hold her gaze as the rest of it follows, slower now, not because I’m choosing the words carefully, but because I don’t get to rush through it, not when it still sits this close to the surface.
“Seeing you like that… covered in blood…” I let the breath move out of me slowly, the memory sitting right there between us without needing to be explained any further. “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”
I don’t bring up last night. I don’t need to. It’s already there, woven into everything else, sitting just beneath the surface of this conversation in a way that doesn’t need to be named to be felt.
“How often?” I ask, my voice quieter now, not pushing, not demanding, just… there, steady enough that she doesn’t feel like she has to fight it.
There’s a pause. I feel it before I see it, the way something in her hesitates, the way she weighs the answer instead of giving it easily, like saying it out loud is going to make it more real than she’s been letting it be. Then she does. “Every night.”
It doesn’t come out dramatic. It doesn’t break. It just lands, simple and quiet in a way that makes it hit harder than anything else she’s said.
Every night.
The words settle in my chest and stay there, heavier than they should be, heavier than I’m willing to let show on my face, but not enough to stop the shift that happens anyway.
Something tightens, sharper this time, not aimed at her, not even at what she’s carrying, but at the fact that I didn’t see it.
That she’s been right there, day after day, standing next to us, laughing, working, acting like everything is fine—and I missed it.
I don’t miss things. Except this.
My hands stay where they are, steady on either side of her face, my thumbs moving just slightly, enough to keep her grounded, enough to keep her here with me instead of letting her slip back into it.
“We’re fixing that.” The words come out low, certain, leaving no space for it to be anything else.
“I’m getting you someone to talk to. Someone who knows how to help with this.
” It isn’t a suggestion. It isn’t something I’m offering for her to take or leave.
It settles into place like a decision that’s already been made, because I’m not watching her carry this alone anymore