Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Oliver
“How do I know when to flip it?” I stare at the pancake sizzling on the stove. The thing looks more like a hockey puck than something you’d willingly put in your mouth. The batter’s too thick, maybe. Or too thin. Hell if I know.
“When there are little bubbles all around the edges.” Niall’s voice comes from right behind my shoulder, patient as always.
“How many little bubbles?” I frown into the skillet, trying to count.
“It’s kind of intuitive. The more pancakes you make, the better you’ll know the right time to flip.”
Great. Intuition—one of my weakest traits.
“How about now?” I grab the spatula and flip before he can answer. The pancake flops sideways, raw batter oozing across the skillet like something that crawled out of a science experiment.
He chuckles, that easy laugh that’s gotten us both out of trouble more times than I can count. “It’s okay. Keep trying.”
“Are you sure this is one of the essentials?” I scrape the mess to the side of the pan.
“Positive.” He reaches around me to refresh both our coffees, the French roast he insists on buying from that overpriced place downtown. “How are you going to cook for your next girlfriend?”
The word girlfriend pulls on something I’ve been trying to ignore.
Five years since Devin. Five years of first dates that never turned into thirds, of women whose names I can barely remember now.
Since the injury, I haven’t even tried. Haven’t wanted to.
I’ve mostly avoided women—all people, in general—altogether.
According to Niall, it’s a crime to be thirty-five and not know how to cook.
So we’ve been in the kitchen this whole week while he’s off work.
Grilled cheese on Monday—burned the first three.
Lasagna Tuesday—forgot the ricotta. Roast chicken Wednesday—actually turned out decent.
Ratatouille yesterday—looked nothing like the movie. And now this.
“I’m not looking for a girlfriend.” The words come out flat, unconvincing even to my own ears.
“Or boyfriend.” He’s at the counter now, peeling grapefruit for our fruit salad. “To each his own.”
I roll my eyes. We’ve been attached at the hip since third grade, when he moved in three houses down and immediately challenged me to a street hockey match. He knows exactly which way my compass points.
“What time are you calling your family?”
My stomach clenches. Part of me wishes he’d stayed on the girlfriend topic. Asked about Devin, even. She clearly wants nothing to do with me—made that crystal clear—but her name sits in my throat constantly, waiting for someone, anyone, to give me permission to say it out loud.
The digital clock on the stove glows 9:30. “In thirty minutes.”
He studies me with that look, the one that says he’s cataloging every tell I’ve never learned to hide. “You could just not call them.”
I laugh, and he joins in, because we both know that’s not how the Paxton family works.
“Of course I could.” I remove my disaster of a pancake from the skillet and ladle another scoop of batter in, watching it spread into something vaguely circular. “And then I’d have to pay for it.”
The pancakes look terrible, but at least they’re edible. The sigh escapes before I can stop it. “It’s just easier to get it over with.”
“Have you told them about the coaching job yet?”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than intended. My parents and three brothers think I’m here for an extended visit with Niall. They don’t know about the house I sold, the furniture I donated, the new key on my ring that opens a door to something they’d never understand.
Real athletes don’t coach teenagers. Real athletes get ESPN contracts and endorsement deals. Real athletes play football, like Josh and Lance and Caleb. Not hockey. Never hockey.
“What if you just say that you’re still assessing your options?”
“Yeah.” I watch the batter bubble—too many bubbles? Not enough? The pancake actually looks decent this time, golden around the edges. “That could work.”
I flip it with newfound confidence. For once, the bottom’s perfectly golden-brown, not a burn mark in sight. A small victory, but I’ll take it.
“Good. Now just try to get the next one in between undercooked and overcooked.”
“Easier said than done.” Though this one gives me hope.
Sophie emerges from her studio when we sit down to eat, paint smudged on her cheek, that dreamy look she gets when a piece is coming together. She kisses Niall’s cheek before stealing a piece of his bacon.
“Morning, Oliver. How’s the pancake apprenticeship going?” She grins at my stack, which varies from pale to charred with that one perfect specimen on top.
“Getting there.” I slide the perfect one onto her plate. “This one actually turned out.”
“My hero.” She takes a bite and her eyes widen. “Hey, this is really good!”
“One out of twelve isn’t bad,” Niall teases.
I manage three bites despite Sophie’s encouragement. My palms are already sweating and my heart rate picks up speed. The kitchen clock ticks toward ten like a countdown to execution.
By the time the dishes are done and I’m climbing the exterior stairs to my apartment, the world has taken on that underwater quality that comes before panic really sets in.
I grab my phone and lie down on the couch focusing on the breathing exercises my therapist taught me. In for four, hold for four, out for four. It helps some to calm my nerves, but once my phone starts ringing the panic rises again. Before I can think too hard about it, I swipe to answer.
Five faces fill the screen. Mom and Dad at the center, my brothers flanking them like bodyguards. The kitchen table I ate at for eighteen years, same scratches on the surface, same creaky chair that Josh is sitting in.
“Hey.” The smile feels like lifting weights with my face.
Mom’s frown is immediate. “Are you lying down?”
“Yeah.” I hesitate, trying to read the criticism in the question. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Lazy Sunday morning, huh?” She shakes her head. “You should be up doing something productive.”
“Merry Christmas,” my oldest brother, Josh says. “You wasted already?”
“I know I am.” Lance—who is only eighteen months younger than me—laughs, and I can see the beer bottle in his hand. “How’s Niall?”
“He’s good.” Relief floods through me at the redirect. “How are y’all doing?”
Most of the time, I only have a hint of a southern accent, but when I’m talking to my family or anyone from back home, my drawl always comes back.
Mom’s frown deepens, but Dad cuts her off. “You thought any more about what you’re doing next? You know, you can’t sit around in your house all day long.”
My jaw tightens. “I know, and I’m not planning on doing that.” Mostly because I no longer own a house.
“Really? Because it sure looks like you’re lying around doing nothing right now,” Dad adds.
“I just finished breakfast—”
Caleb’s laugh has that edge to it, the one I’ve heard since we were kids. “Should have chosen the right sport, brother, and you wouldn’t be in this mess.”
Yep. That’s Caleb. The Golden Child. The pain in my ass.
The right sport. Football. The sport that breaks bodies just as easily as hockey, but somehow that doesn’t matter when you’re wearing the right uniform.
“Hockey players make good money too,” I say, knowing it’s pointless.
“Not unemployed ones,” Caleb shoots back.
“It’s not the sport.” Josh’s grin is all teeth. “It’s a matter of strength. Some people can take the hits and keep going. Others...” He shrugs, letting the implication hang.
There it is. Weak little Oliver with his weak little sport and his weak little injury. Just because I didn’t play football like my parents pushed the four of us to do.
“We’re concerned about you, Oliver.” Mom’s exasperation fills every syllable. “What’s your plan for the rest of your life?”
The words are right there: I’m coaching hockey. I’m moving out of this temporary setup when I find the right house. I’m building something new and making a life that doesn’t require your approval. I’m going to be happy.
The words are stuck in my throat, though. I would rather lie here and seem like I don’t have my shit together than explain my path to my family, because they won’t get it. They never will.
“I’m looking at several options,” I manage.
“Looking at options.” Dad repeats it like it tastes bad. “That’s what you said last month.”
“These things take time—”
“Time?” Josh laughs. “You’ve had plenty of time. What you need is direction. Purpose. Like we have.”
Dad shakes his head and looks away. Twenty seconds of silence that says everything.
“Anyway.” Lance’s chest expands. “I have some news.”
The energy shifts instantly. Mom’s face lights up. Josh and Lance fist bump like they’re still in high school.
“Lance has been traded to the Ironclads.” Dad’s pride could power the whole state. “They’re announcing it tomorrow. We got the new hometown starting quarterback right here.”
My mouth turns to sand. The Ironclads. The team whose stadium we could see from our backyard. The team whose jerseys we all wore as kids, before I traded mine for hockey gear.
“That’s great.” The words scrape out.
“Great? It’s phenomenal!” Mom practically glows. “A real career achievement. Something to be proud of.”
“Not like some people who can’t even figure out their next move,” Caleb mutters, but loud enough for everyone to hear.
They talk over each other about contracts and signing bonuses and hometown hero status. I become furniture. Background noise. A ghost at my own family’s table.
“You could learn something from your brother,” Dad says, pointing at the screen. “About perseverance. About making the right choices.”
“I need to go help Niall with something.” I mutter, my head suddenly pounding and panic rising.
“Of course you do,” Mom sighs. “Running away again.”
I hang up before they notice I’m gone. Before I can say something I’ll regret. Or worse, before I start believing every word they say.
I stumble to the bedroom—bare walls, unmade bed, nothing that makes it mine. Back to the kitchen. The living room. Pacing like an animal. I suddenly know what I need to do.
My running shoes are by the door. My wrist already aches in anticipation, but I pull on athletic pants and a windbreaker anyway.
The familiar pre-run ritual: compression sleeve for the wrist, double-knotted laces, keys in the zippered pocket.
My body knows this dance, even if it protests every movement.
The neighborhood is all sledding kids and Christmas quiet.
I take a new route, pushing toward the park.
My breath comes out in white clouds that disappear instantly.
The cold finds every gap in my clothing, and my wrist starts its familiar complaint—a dull ache that spreads from the impact point up through my forearm.
Ridiculous. That’s what this is. Absolute bullshit. They insisted on this call just to twist the knife. Just to make sure I remember my place in the family hierarchy.
I push harder. My muscles burn in protest. The wrist pain sharpens with each arm swing, traveling up like electricity through damaged wires.
They wanted this. Wanted to embarrass me. Wanted to remind me that I’m the one who chose wrong, who is wrong, who will always be wrong in their eyes.
The park gives way to downtown. Every shop closed, wreaths on dark windows like mourning decorations. The pub’s open sign glows lonely on the corner. The familiar downtown stretch where Devin probably walks, maybe to that coffee shop she always loved. I push that thought away.
I should cut them off. Block their numbers. Pretend they don’t exist.
But I can’t. If something happened—if one of them needed me and I wasn’t there—
Pain shoots through my wrist, sharp enough to steal my breath. It starts at the old fracture site, radiates through the surrounding tissue like shrapnel.
“Ah.” The hiss escapes through clenched teeth.
I’m a mile from home, at least. Stopping won’t help.
I focus on breathing, keeping my arm as still as possible while maintaining pace.
The pain climbs from four to six, then higher, each footfall sending shockwaves through the damaged bones.
My fingers start to tingle, then go numb—never a good sign.
Good. Better to think about this than them. Better to focus on something I can actually control, even if that control is just deciding how much pain I’m willing to endure. The wrist throbs with each heartbeat now, a drumbeat of damage that drowns out my family’s voices.
The stairs to my apartment might as well be Everest. Each step sends fire up my arm.
I grip the railing with my good hand, practically hauling myself up while my damaged wrist hangs useless at my side, swollen and angry beneath the compression sleeve.
The hot shower helps, somewhat. I let the water run over the wrist until the bathroom fills with steam, until I can flex my fingers again without wanting to scream.
Fresh clothes make me feel almost human.
My wrist throbs in time with my heartbeat, drowning out thoughts of Lance’s victory lap and my parents’ disappointment and the way they all looked right through me. The pain is almost welcome now, a focal point that keeps me grounded in the present instead of spiraling into the past or future.
I guess that’s the upside of all this. With this bum wrist, I have something to worry about other than being a black sheep.
Silver linings, right?