Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Oliver
“Want to go down Benson?” Niall nods at the street to the left, where a row of Victorian-era houses catches the morning light.
I nod back and we jog along the crosswalk, our breath forming small clouds in the crisp winter air.
The sidewalk is clear but edged with dirty snow from last week’s storm.
Colorful mill houses stand shoulder to shoulder—butter yellow, sage green, dusty blue—their gingerbread trim making them look like something out of a storybook.
Not for the first time, I wonder where on Pine Island Devin lives. The question has been nagging at me since I first saw her at the pizzeria. Is she in one of those modern apartments near the waterfront? Those condos near the bridge? Or a house like one of these restored beauties?
We pass a green house with a light pink door, and something about it makes me slow my pace for just a second.
The combination is bold but somehow soft, unexpected but perfect.
It seems like exactly the kind of spot she would pick.
There’s a wind chime hanging from the porch, and I can almost picture her choosing it, testing each one in the store until she found the perfect tone.
In New York, she always pressed her face against the window whenever we took the train out of the city.
Her eyes would track every house we passed, and she’d create entire lives for the people she imagined living in them.
“Look at that one,” she’d say, pointing to some cottage with a picket fence.
“They definitely have a golden retriever and make pancakes every Sunday.” Then she’d lean back against me with this wistful sigh and talk about how she couldn’t wait to have a yard with a dog in it and a garage to put her bike in.
Not just any bike—she had her eye on this vintage mint-green cruiser with a basket on front.
I couldn’t wait to give her those things.
In my head, I had it all planned out. We’d buy the house with more room than we needed, with a big grassy yard that had space for a pool and maybe even a swing set for the kids we might have one day.
By the time I finally bought a house, it was bigger than I had ever imagined.
Six bedrooms, four and a half baths, a massive kitchen with an island.
It was also lonelier than I ever thought it would be. I was alone then, Devin long gone from my life, my days and nights revolving around practice schedules and game tape. The other side of my bed forever cold.
“I’m going to bake some sourdough.” Niall’s voice cuts into my thoughts, little puffs of white leaving his mouth as he talks.
His cheeks are red from the cold and exertion.
“What do you think? Want to learn? The owner of Rye Again gave me some starter and I have his book. Noah—that’s his name—he wrote this whole guide about how to make sourdough when you’re just starting out baking. ”
My heart leaps at the opportunity to bring up the person who’s constantly on my mind. “Sure.” I try to keep my voice casual. “Devin and I went there yesterday for coffee.”
There’s a brief pause where Niall’s footsteps falter. “No shit?”
“Dude, don’t sound so shocked.”
He snorts and slows the pace even more so it’s easier to talk without gasping. “Come on, after the pizzeria...”
“Okay, that’s fair.” The cold air burns my lungs, but it’s a good burn, cleansing.
“So how did it go?”
“Good.” I slow down even more, a stitch forming in my side like a needle threading between my ribs. “I apologized for the past. The way I used to talk to her, it wasn’t right.” The words feel inadequate even as I say them. How do you apologize for systematically undermining someone’s reality?
I feel his gaze on me, heavy and evaluating, but I don’t look over to meet it. I keep my eyes on the cracked sidewalk ahead. I feel too exposed talking about this, but I also can’t keep it all in.
“What did she say?”
I shake my head, remembering the way she’d looked at me in the coffee shop, cautious but not cold. “I don’t know if it even made a difference. She listened, she was... kind about it. But how do you undo years of damage with one conversation?” I pause, then add, “I did ask if she’s single, though.”
“No way.” Niall actually stops jogging entirely.
“Maybe that was stupid.” I cringe, remembering how her eyebrows had shot up.
“No, no. You gotta take your shot when you have the chance.” He starts moving again, and I fall into step beside him. “She’s been single since I’ve known her, by the way. Chronically single. Though she does have...” He trails off, wrestling with whether to continue.
“What?” This time I can’t stop myself from looking at him, my stomach clenching.
He shakes his head like he’s already said too much. “She has... flings. Nothing ever serious. A few dates here and there, but she never lets anyone get close.”
“Oh.” Heat creeps up my neck and into my face despite the cold air.
I really don’t want to think about Devin with other men.
I know I haven’t been single all the years we’ve been apart, and I assume she would have dated too, but still.
.. I quickly change the subject. “I went to that yoga class Sophie told me about, and Devin was filling in for the teacher. That’s how we ended up having coffee. ”
“How was the class? Ready to jog again?” Niall picks up the pace slightly.
“Yeah.” We move from walking back into an easy jog, our shoes slapping against the wet pavement in rhythm. “It was good. It, uh, brought back a lot of memories afterward.”
“Uh oh. Good or bad?”
“Both.” I squint at the gray sky, heavy with the promise of more snow.
“It reminded me of this time when she was cutting back on yoga to prevent flares and I told her that she needed to do the opposite and exercise more so that she could have more energy. She explained that it’s different with CFS, that pushing through actually makes things worse, and I said that was bullshit.
” The word is heavy and prickly on my tongue.
I hate repeating it now, evidence of my stupidity and cruelty back then.
Niall sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. “Yikes. Damn, Oliver.”
“Yeah.” I shake my head, disgust sitting like lead in my stomach.
“I meant it then, when I said it. I was so sure I knew better. But when I was thinking about it last night I remembered what happened the day before. My dad found me in the locker room after a game and told me that if I gave up pizza I would be faster on the ice.”
The locker room smelled like sweat and that industrial disinfectant they always used.
Dad’s hand was heavy on my shoulder, his fingers digging in just enough to hurt.
‘You want to make it to the NHL or not?’ he’d said, loud enough for teammates to hear.
I can still feel the burn of embarrassment, the way my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached.
“I didn’t even eat pizza that often. Maybe once a month. I made one stupid Instagram post about it being my cheat food, and...”
“And then, frustrated after what your dad said, you took it out on Devin because you didn’t feel you could stand up to your dad.
” Niall’s not asking, just stating facts.
“So instead, you convinced yourself that what he said had to be right, and you went about spreading that perspective. You told Devin she wasn’t doing enough because you’d been taught you weren’t doing enough. ”
“I...” The truth of it sits heavy on my chest.
“It’s pretty simple math.” His voice is matter-of-fact, not cruel, but it still stings.
“Yeah.” My head hangs heavy, my running shoes making depressive slaps against the sidewalk.
“Did you tell Devin about what your dad said?”
“No.” I wipe sweat from my brow, which collects even in the dead of winter.
“I thought she might agree with my dad, and that was always my worst fear. That she’d look at me the way he did—like I was weak, undisciplined.
I couldn’t stand the thought of her taking his side, of having literally no one who thought I was enough as I was. ”
He hums in acknowledgement. “I gotta say, you just telling this story shows that you have a hell of a lot more emotional awareness now than you did then. You’ve grown a lot.”
“In some ways.” I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper. “I had another panic attack. It was before the first practice. Devin saw it.”
“Hey, that’s good!” His exuberance takes me by surprise, and I nearly trip over my own feet.
“Uh, okay?”
“You’re a complex person like anyone else, Oliver, but you also used to have this way of expressing yourself in tough times that was—okay, it was pretty basic.”
“Please elaborate,” I say dryly.
“You would either get angry or shut down. Those were your two settings. Mad or mute. So it’s good that Devin saw you in some other state. It shows that there’s more to you. That you’re capable of vulnerability.”
“I guess,” I mumble, remembering how gentle and patient she was with me when she could have just turned around and walked out of the room. The way she’d just sat with me and made sure I was okay.
“Maybe it’s time to share everything you just told me with Devin. What have you got to lose?”
“At this point?” I let out a bitter laugh. “I’m a former pro athlete living in my friend’s garage apartment, and I can’t even pick up a ten-pound weight without pain shooting through my wrist.”
“Exactly.” He grins, and there’s something almost gleeful about it. “You have nothing to lose, man, which means you’re free to do anything. No reputation to protect, no image to maintain. Just you, being real.”
His words sit with me through the rest of our run, following me as we loop back toward his house.
They’re still echoing in my head through the whole afternoon while I help him organize his garage, through dinner where Sophie makes this incredible shepherd’s pie.
The conversation haunts me into the evening as I retreat to my apartment to wind down for the night.
Even after I’ve taken a shower, the hot water sluicing away the day’s sweat, even after I’ve climbed into bed in my room still full of unpacked boxes, the conversation is on my mind. I stare at my ceiling, watching the headlights from passing cars paint moving shadows across the white paint.
Niall is right. What’s the worst Devin can do? Laugh in my face? Tell me to leave her alone? Never talk to me again?
I’ve already apologized—the broad strokes acknowledgment that I was wrong. But I should go further and bring up specific cases from the past. The pizza comment. The time I suggested her fatigue was just depression. The way I rolled my eyes when she said she needed to rest.
Yet the idea of talking about those times twists my stomach into knots. I know I need to talk to her if I have any shot of getting her back, but knowing doesn’t make me any less freaked out.
Giving up on sleep, I climb out of bed and trudge into the kitchen.
The floor is cold against my bare feet. Getting busy always helps quiet my mind, but I have to be careful about not doing too much with my wrist. Which means no hitting up the twenty-four-hour gym in Portsmouth, no using my ice rink key to hit pucks around.
The run today left my wrist aching enough as it is, a dull throb that pulses with my heartbeat.
My eyes fall on the sourdough cookbook Niall loaned me.
I sit down at the small table and open it up.
Niall was right, even a newbie like me can handle the recipes.
The instructions are clear, and thanks to the starter Noah passed on to Niall to give me, I have everything I need to bake my first loaf of sourdough.
The dough is sticky at first, clinging to my fingers, but gradually it becomes smooth and elastic.
Kneading is calming in a way I didn’t expect—it’s nothing like the explosive power of a slap shot or the controlled aggression of checking someone into the boards.
This is gentle, patient work. Push, fold, turn.
The dough yields differently than any opponent ever did, teaching me something about persistence without force.
By the time I have the dough in a bowl to proof overnight, covered with a damp kitchen towel just like the book instructs, my thoughts have slowed way down. The kitchen smells yeasty and warm. But I’m still not ready for bed, and my wrist isn’t aching too much.
The over-ripe bananas on the counter call out to me, their peels spotted with brown, almost black in places.
Looking at them feels like a sign from above.
I only like bananas when they still have a hint of green left, but I happen to know someone who loves banana bread.
Someone who used to beg me to wait until the bananas were “properly speckled” before throwing them out.
They also happen to be someone I would love to have an excuse to talk to.
Pushing my shirt sleeves back up, I peel the bananas and get to work.