Chapter 20 #2
I shake my head, can’t look at her. Can't let her see me like this—weak, pathetic, falling apart over nothing. She moves closer, tries to wrap her arms around me, but I push her away. The word comes out as barely more than a rasp: “No. Just go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Her voice is firmer now, steadier. “You’re having a panic attack, Oliver. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”
This time when she wraps her arms around me, I don’t have the strength to fight it. My body sags against hers, and she holds my weight without complaint.
“Slow inhale,” she instructs, her voice close to my ear, warm and anchoring. “One... two... three... four... Now hold... Slow exhale... One... two... three... four...”
The world feels like it’s dissolving around me, reality slipping through my fingers like water.
Devin’s voice is the only thing that feels real, the only tether keeping me from floating away entirely.
I pour everything I have into following her instructions, matching my breathing to her count even though my lungs feel like they’re full of concrete.
“Good. Again. Inhale... One... two... three... four...”
Gradually, painfully, the world starts to solidify again.
The floor becomes real under my feet. The wall against my palm stops shifting.
My vision sharpens from that strange, dreamlike blur back into focus.
Devin’s arms are still around me, my face buried in her hair.
It smells like vanilla and something medicinal—probably from the athletic tape she uses.
Her heartbeat thumps steady and sure against my chest.
“Thank you.” The words come out destroyed, barely recognizable.
She pulls back just enough to look at me, and I wish she wouldn’t. Her eyes are too kind, too understanding. I don’t deserve that look, not after falling apart like this.
“You're welcome,” she whispers.
“I'm sorry.” The apology tumbles out before I can stop it.
She’s already shaking her head. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. I didn’t realize—I didn’t think that it might be rough for you here.”
My jaw clenches, the familiar urge to berate myself rising up. Weak. Pathetic. Can’t even walk into a hospital without losing it. What kind of man has a panic attack over someone else’s injury? What kind of coach—
But no. I force the thoughts to stop. If I could control the panic attacks, I would. Beating myself up about them won’t make them go away, won’t make me stronger. It’ll just add shame to the fear.
Devin’s still looking at me with those soft brown eyes. This close, I can see the tiny freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks like stars. She always hated them, would try to cover them with makeup, but I thought they were perfect. Still do.
Her fingers ghost along my jaw, barely a touch, and I press my hand over hers. Not holding her there, not demanding anything, just... asking. Hoping she’ll stay.
She searches my eyes, and I let her. No walls, no pretense. If she wants to see every broken piece, every fear, every desperate hope I’m harboring, she can have it all. Shutting down, acting tough, pretending I’m fine when I’m not—none of that has gotten me anywhere good.
She moves closer, and I swear I can feel the invisible thread between us pulling tight, drawing us together like it’s always been there, just waiting.
“Excuse me.”
We break apart like we’ve been electrocuted. A doctor in scrubs stands a few feet away, clipboard in hand. His expression shifts from professional to recognition in about half a second—great, another hockey fan.
“You’re Richie’s coach?” He asks, though his eyes say he knows exactly who I am beyond that.
“Yeah.” I nod, trying to pull myself together. Devin and I separate but stay close enough that our hands brush. “Is he okay?”
“He dislocated his knee, but we’ve put it back in position. He’ll be just fine.”
The relief nearly knocks me over. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. A dislocation. Not surgery, not months of rehab, not a career-ending injury. Just a dislocation.
“He’ll be able to go home tonight,” the doctor continues. “Do you have a contact number for his parents?”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. “That’s his dad now.”
I answer, fielding the rapid-fire questions from Richie’s father. Jeff must have called them right after the ambulance left. They’re almost here, maybe five minutes out. While I’m talking, I notice a text notification from an unknown number. I’ll deal with it later.
After hanging up with Richie’s dad, I check the message: “Are you having flashbacks? It’s your fault if that kid never plays again. Maybe he could be a washed-up coach on a podunk island like you.”
My blood turns cold. This is way too specific to be a wrong number, too targeted. Someone knows about my injury, knows where I am, knows about tonight. But who would—
“Everything okay?” Devin asks.
I shove the phone back in my pocket. “Yeah. Richie’s parents are almost here.”
The doctor heads back to work, and I collapse into one of the waiting room chairs. The plastic is hard and uncomfortable, but I don’t care. My legs feel like jelly. Devin chooses the seat right next to me, our thighs touching.
“Thank you for being here,” I tell her again, meaning it more than those two words can possibly convey.
She smiles gently. “I want to be here.”
I nod, believing her. Wishing I could just erase all the complicated history between us, all the hurt and disappointment and missed chances. Make it simple. Easy. Two people who care about each other, no baggage required.
“I'll stay and wait for Richie’s parents.” My voice sounds more normal now, less like I’ve been gargling gravel. “You can get out of here.”
She hesitates, studying me. “What are you going to do when you leave here?”
Good question. Sophie and Niall are in Boston for the weekend—some art exhibition Sophie wanted to see. The apartment will be empty, too quiet. Just me and my thoughts and maybe another panic attack waiting in the wings.
Devin must see something in my face because her expression softens further. “Niall’s not back until Sunday night, right? I think you should come and sleep on my couch.”
I stare at her in shock. “Devin...”
She tilts her head slightly. “Do you really want to be alone right now?”
The truthful answer sits heavy on my tongue. No. I don’t want to be alone. Not after that panic attack, which felt like being turned inside out. Not with these cryptic texts and the memory of Richie’s screams still echoing in my head.
“I’ll get us a ride.” She's already pulling out her phone, not waiting for my answer.
I nod again, something loosening in my chest. Normally, this would be the point where I’d get angry at someone for trying to help, for seeing me as weak, for thinking I need to be taken care of. But with Devin... I’m just grateful.
Richie’s parents arrive in a flurry of worry and questions.
His mom’s eyes are red-rimmed, his dad’s jaw tight with stress.
I brief them on everything the doctor said, assure them Richie’s going to be fine, that it looked worse than it was.
They thank me about twelve times before hurrying off to see their son.
Devin and I duck outside to wait for our ride. I call Jeff quickly, let him know not to wait for me since I rode with him to the game. He asks if I’m all right, and I tell him yes even though we both know it’s not entirely true.
The parking lot next to the rink is nearly empty now, just a few cars scattered under the yellow streetlights. Most of the players and spectators cleared out while we were at the hospital.
We climb into her car, and immediately the CD holder on her visor catches my eye. She still has one of those old-school visor organizers with the elastic slots for CDs.
“You still use CDs, huh?” I can’t help but smile. “Very old school.”
She laughs as she starts the engine. “Not all of my favorites are on Spotify.”
That’s when I see it. A blue CD with her name scrawled across it in black Sharpie. My handwriting. My heart stops, then starts again double-time.
It’s the mix CD I made her when we first started dating. Fourteen tracks of songs that reminded me of her, songs I thought she’d like, songs we’d listened to together. I spent hours getting the order just right, making sure each track flowed into the next.
And she kept it. All these years, through our breakup, through moving cities, through everything—she kept it.
Was she doing the same as me? Technically moving on, dating other people, building a new life, but keeping a little part of us tucked away in a safe corner of her heart? Not really planning to do anything about it but unable to fully let go, keeping the flame alive just in case?
“How are you feeling?” She glances over at me as we pull out of the parking lot.
“Good,” I say carefully, though the truth is so much bigger than that word.
I’m the best that I have been in a very, very long time.