Chapter 10 #2
Under the guise of stretching—really just sitting on my mat pretending my hamstrings need extra attention—I wait until I’m the last one. My heart pounds as I finally stand, rolling my mat with shaking hands, and walk to the door.
Devin’s eyelashes flutter as I get closer, and a warm rush of excitement ripples through me. It feels like when I first saw her, over ten years ago—when I was a defenseman on the New York team and she was an intern assigned to work with the players. It was her smile that drew me in first.
And those eyes… I could get lost in them for days.
“Did you enjoy class?” Her tone is carefully neutral, professional therapist voice engaged.
I nod, then grunt like some caveman. “It was amazing. You’re still the best teacher.”
Her lips part in surprise, but she doesn’t look flattered. If anything, she looks wary. The silence stretches, uncomfortable and heavy.
“I, uh...” I rub the back of my neck. “After we broke up, I listened to your videos to fall asleep. They’re—your voice is really soothing.”
“You did?” She looks at me like I’m a puzzle with missing pieces.
“Yeah.” I shrug, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile.
“Huh.”
That’s it. Just ‘huh.’
“Hey, um, if you’re not doing anything now, would you like to get coffee?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. I hold my breath, bracing for rejection.
“Sure,” she says, and I nearly choke.
“Really?”
“I heard you like Rye Again.”
“How do you know that?”
She grins, and it’s like sunrise. “Word travels fast on Pine Island.”
I sigh heavily, though I can’t stop smiling. “Perfect. That’s exactly what I wanted when I moved here. Zero privacy.”
“You’ll get used to it,” she laughs. “Eventually you’ll realize it’s kind of nice, people caring enough to notice things about you.”
We head out in separate cars, and I’m grinning like an idiot the whole drive over the bridge into Portsmouth. I keep checking my rearview mirror, making sure her car is still behind me, that she hasn’t changed her mind.
She’s waiting at the front door of Rye Again when I finally find parking, wrapped in a burgundy coat that makes her skin glow.
Walking up to her feels awkward—too much distance to cover.
Going inside is worse, the warm air hitting us along with the smell of coffee and freshly baked something.
Ordering feels like a performance I’m failing.
We settle on separate checks, which feels wrong but necessary.
Even finding a table becomes a production until we finally land at a small table by the window.
The whole thing feels stilted, like we’re actors who’ve forgotten our lines.
“You haven’t changed your coffee order.” Devin nods at my glass. Triple shot iced almond latte with caramel and two ice cubes
“Oh. Yeah.” I duck my head. “This might sound stupid, but when everything in life can change—career, city, relationships—it’s nice knowing that what I drink in the mornings doesn’t have to.”
“It’s not stupid,” she says, completely serious. “Constants are important. They’re anchor points.”
A pregnant woman emerges from the back. She and Devin exchange waves.
“That’s my friend Alexis. Her boyfriend owns Rye Again.”
“Cool. Is that how you met?”
“No, we’re um—we both go to this group called Chronic Pain Crafters. It’s for people with chronic conditions to get together and knit and just hang out. Share the things only we understand.”
“That’s amazing.”
Her eyebrow arches, skeptical. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
Her face softens, tension bleeding from her shoulders. “Yeah, it really is. It’s only five of us, but they’re my best friends. My chosen family, really. I can’t imagine life without them.”
“So you found a tribe of other Spoonies. That’s awesome.”
Her gaze sharpens like a blade. She’s shocked, and she has every right to be.
Back when we were together, I’d never even heard the word “spoonie,” and I certainly didn’t understand the spoon theory about measuring energy with chronic illness.
Devin tried to explain it once, holding actual spoons from our kitchen drawer, but I was young and stupid and probably thinking about game footage instead of listening. I was such a dumbass.
Shit. I need to apologize to her. Really, truly apologize. “Dev—”
“How is coaching going?”
“Oh, it’s—”
“Sorry—” Pink stains her cheeks as we talk over each other, and then she bursts into laughter.
I chuckle too. “No, I’m sorry. Coaching is good. Really good.”
“Is it what you imagined it would be?”
I blow out a long breath. “Yeah. And no. It’s rewarding in ways I didn’t expect. Challenging enough to keep me engaged but not stressful like playing was. When the kids win, I feel proud. When they lose, we talk about what to learn from it. There’s no spiral, no dark place. I actually like it.”
“Do you ever miss being on the ice yourself? I mean, I know you’re out there with the players, but do you miss playing games yourself?
” She runs her finger along the rim of her coffee cup.
There’s an eyelash on her cheek, and I have to clench my hands in my lap to stop myself from reaching over to brush it away.
“No, I don’t really miss playing. Which surprises the hell out of me. It’s fun to get out there and skate with the kids, show them techniques, but I don’t miss the competition.” I snort. “And I was never good at team camaraderie. You know that better than anyone.”
She grins, slightly wicked. “No, you weren’t. Sometimes I got the impression you saw your own teammates as competition.”
“I did.” I stare into my coffee. “Every practice, every game—I treated them all like life or death. Someone else’s success meant my failure. I ignored injuries until they became catastrophes. Let my career determine whether I was happy or not.”
“Hmm.” Her lips twist. “Yeah, that’s pretty exhausting. For everyone involved.”
“By the time I crashed and burned—”
“You mean your wrist injury.” She says it carefully. “I read about it. Some of your fans think it might not have been a fluke.”
“Yeah. Possibly.” How much has she heard?
“By the time that happened, I wondered if it wasn’t a blessing, you know?
I was starting to hate something I once loved more than breathing.
Hockey just wasn’t fun anymore. Even if it was one of my teammates that loosened my skate blade and made me fall and shatter my wrist, I’m still glad I’m not playing anymore. ”
The admission hangs between us. I’ve told Niall the same things, but he never had a front-row seat to my hockey career like Devin did. She saw the ugly parts, the three a.m. wake-ups to watch game footage, the meals skipped because I lost.
“Before games...” She speaks slowly, her gaze fixed on the wood grain of the table.
“I would get so worried about you. If you lost, you would... It was like you went into this unreachable, dark place. You’d disappear even when you were sitting right next to me.
Nothing I did or said could help you. I could be talking, crying, begging you to eat something, and you’d just stare through me like I wasn’t there. ”
“I’m sorry.” The words rip from my chest. “I had no idea it affected you so much.”
She nods once. “It was hard for me to sleep before big games, knowing that could happen. The anxiety would build for days. And then that would make me flare, and...” She shakes her head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter now.”
“No, it does matter.” I reach across the table to take her hand.
Our gazes drop to where we’re touching. Her hand is smaller than I remember, more delicate, but the warmth is the same. The jolt of connection rockets up my arm. I want more of this, to touch her everywhere, to rediscover the body I once knew better than my own.
“Sorry.” I withdraw my hand, though every cell protests.
“No, it’s okay.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
“It’s... not just that.” I clear my throat.
“I’m sorry for the way I acted when we were together.
I was a real asshat with the way I handled your condition.
The way I’d suggest you just needed to exercise more, or sleep better, or try harder.
Christ, I actually said those things to you.
It took me a long time to—for my eyes to really open.
Not until I was in the hospital, recovering from my accident. ”
Her face is soft, but I know her better than that. Deep in her eyes, I can see the wall. “And why did things change at the hospital?”
“I was sharing physical therapy time with someone with CFS, and I was reminded just how hard it is. Watching them struggle through basic exercises, seeing them have to rest after walking down the hall...”
“Reminded? Or saw for the first time?”
The words land like a slap, deserved and necessary.
“Saw for the first time.” I cringe, hating my shitty answer. “I’m sorry, Devin. I’ve been sorry for years.”
She looks at her lap, and a long moment passes. When she looks up, her eyes are wet. “Thank you. I’m glad that you finally understood what it’s like. Even if it was too late for us.”
“I saw it too late. Way too late.”
“I just wish...” Her face turns to the window. Her voice drops to barely a whisper. “I wish I’d been the person you could have really seen. Not some other patient years later.”
My inhale burns. “Me, too. You gave me so much support, and I made your condition about me. When you couldn’t come to games, I acted like you were choosing to abandon me.”
“I’m not saying this to make you feel bad. I just want to share...”
“Please. Go ahead. You deserve to say all of it.”
She presses her fist to her chin. “The way you acted really messed me up. After you, it took me a year after we broke up to admit to myself that I wasn’t exaggerating my symptoms, just like you always said I was.
I’d internalized your voice. Every time I needed to rest, I’d hear you suggesting I was being lazy.
Every time I couldn’t push through, I’d hear you saying I wasn’t trying hard enough. ”
“I’m sorry.” The words are pathetically inadequate.
“I was gaslighting myself with your words. It took two therapists and my friends to make me see that.” Her eyes flash. “I’m finally in a good place, and—and...”
“And now I’ve come in and messed with that.”
She stares at me, mouth slightly open. “No. I’m happy to see you.”
I must have misheard. “You’re happy to see me?”
Her throat bobs as she swallows. “I am. I’ve thought about you, Oliver. More than I probably should have. I’ve...” She bites her lip. “I’ve missed you.”
Fireworks pop under my skin. “I’ve missed you too. Every damn day.”
We sit in that shared admission, the moment heavy with possibility and regret. The coffee shop continues around us—the hiss of the espresso machine, the bell over the door—but we’re in our own bubble.
“Are you seeing anyone?”
“I don’t date.” The response is instant.
My eyebrows climb. The Devin I knew was always in a relationship.
“I haven’t dated since our breakup,” she announces. “I realized that dating just isn’t for me, you know? I’m more like my mom in that way than I thought.”
I stare at her, probably looking confused, and she must misinterpret my expression.
“It’s not that I was so hurt after we broke up that I couldn’t stand to date or anything like that.” The words come fast. “I haven’t been pining after you. I just... chose to focus on other things.”
I raise my hands. “For sure. No judgment.”
But she just told me she’s missed me. And what we had was real—the kind of deep relationship that reshapes you. Her statements don’t quite mesh, but I also don’t have all the information.
As for me, I’ve missed her like I’ve been living in a permanent drought.
I’ve dated some—a sports reporter for three months, a physical fitness instructor for two months, a few others.
But nothing truly fulfilling has crossed my path.
They were pleasant enough, but compared to what Devin and I had, they were like comparing a candle to the sun.
It’s always been Devin. It will always be her.
Even if we never speak again after today, she’ll continue to be the one.
Devin’s phone beeps. She checks it, and her face falls. “I have to run. Staff meeting I forgot about.”
“Of course,” I say, trying not to sound disappointed. It feels like we just sat down.
She stands, gathering her coat. “Thanks for coffee, and for... talking. It was good.”
“Really?” I stand too, fighting every instinct that wants to close the distance between us.
“Yeah.” She shoulders her purse. “It was.”
And then she’s moving in for a hug. Her arms wrap around me and for one perfect second, I’m home.
I inhale deeply, probably creepily, but I can’t help it.
Her shampoo is the same—something floral that she used to special order online.
The fake stuff gives her headaches, she used to say. God, the details I remember.
She lets go and steps back, taking all the warmth in the world with her.
“I’ll see you later.”
“See you,” I croak out.
I watch her leave Rye Again, weaving between tables with that dancer’s grace. She’s sunshine in the gray January day. Even after she’s gone from view, I just stand there like an idiot. Other customers move around me.
Our conversation was cleansing, like finally cleaning a wound that’s been festering for years. But it also left me with more feelings. More needs. More questions.
I suspect that Devin wasn’t telling the whole truth, that the damage I did was worse than she made it out to be. She’s protecting me from the full weight of it, even now. That’s who she is—someone who softens blows for others, even when they don’t deserve it.
So the question is: how do I go about fixing things? How do I prove that I’ve changed without making it about me? How do I show her that I see her now—really see her—without asking for anything in return?
I stand there in the coffee shop, watching the space where she was, wondering if I’ll ever get the chance to find out.