44 - Nathan
Nathan
The light in here drills straight through my skull. A low groan barely makes it past my throat, and I immediately regret it when pain blooms behind my eyes. My head feels thick, stuffed with cotton and glass that pulses every time my heart beats.
I try to move and realize I can’t. Or maybe I can, but my body is slow to respond, as if there’s a delay between the thought and the action. My right shoulder aches in its sling, so I hold it as still as possible.
“Hey,” a voice says. “You’re awake.”
I blink, squinting against the light as shapes start to form. The hospital room is bright and sterile. My eyes dart from the chair across the room to the bed rail at my side, trying to identify the voice.
“Easy,” the voice says, softer now. “They said you’d be groggy as the pain meds wore off.”
“Delaney?” My voice comes out hoarse, like I’ve been screaming all night instead of sleeping.
Her face swims into focus, curly hair pulled back in a messy knot. Her eyes are glossy and red-rimmed, making my chest sink.
“Yeah,” she says, breathless. “We came as soon as we could.”
It’s only flashes, but the memories come flooding back. The ice and the pain. The stretcher that I’d woken up on. The hospital lights marked the path to this room, before I dozed off into a pain medicine-induced sleep. I swallow.
“How bad is it?” I ask, though part of me already knows. I’m in a fucking sling after all.
Delaney lets out a shaky laugh, holding back tears. “Not nearly as bad as it could’ve been.”
Before I can push her for more, two more figures move into my line of sight, one from either side of the bed.
My mom’s hand is already on my arm, fingers curling into the sleeve of the hospital gown as if she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go. My dad stands closer than he ever does.
“We got here while you were sleeping.” My mom’s voice breaks as she speaks. “Nathan, you scared us.”
It’s not meant to grate on my nerves, but it does. I scared them. As if I chose to be knocked unconscious on the ice.
She leans down and hugs me carefully, like she’s not sure where she’s allowed to touch. I can smell her perfume, the same floral scent she’s worn since I was a kid. For a second, I relax into her, forgetting the strain in our relationship.
“Hey,” I murmur. “I’m okay.”
My right arm is immobilized in the sling, strapped against my chest, but I test out moving it anyway. Huge mistake. The sharp stab of pain spreads across my chest.
Fuck.
I definitely broke something.
My dad clears his throat. “How are you feeling?”
I shrug, or try to. The movement sends a jolt through my shoulder, and I hiss, biting back a curse. “Like I got hit by a truck.”
My mom presses her lips together, brushing a piece of my hair, stiff from sweat, away from my face. “They said it was a clean hit, but since you didn’t see it coming, you didn’t brace for it.”
She recites what someone else told her, because of course, they weren’t watching my game themselves. They never have.
“How bad is it?”
My dad chimes in. “You broke your collarbone on impact and sustained a mild concussion when your head hit the ice.”
“Mild?” I repeat. Being knocked out cold surely had to mean that it was more severe than mild.
“You lost consciousness briefly, but they said your scans look good. No bleeding or swelling as of now. They want to keep you overnight for observation, but expect a full recovery.”
My chest loosens a fraction. “So, I’ll be okay.”
A broken collarbone and a concussion are serious injuries, sure, but they aren’t career-ending injuries. I can heal from them and not lose too much ice time.
Being off the ice for any length of time is a risk this season. Just because the team decided to renew my contract before this, doesn’t mean they can’t change their mind.
Delaney steps to my side and squeezes my left hand. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”
My parents exchange a look I don’t like. I’ve seen it before, usually when they think they’re about to say something reasonable and necessary that I’m going to hate.
My mom sits down on the edge of the chair. “Nathan, this could have been so much worse.”
“I know.”
Her hand tightens on my arm. “We can’t help but think this might be a sign.”
A spark of irritation flares to life behind my ribs.
“A sign of what?” I ask.
“That it’s time to be done with hockey.”
The word lands like ice water along my spine.
I stare at her, waiting for the punchline, but her expression doesn’t change.
“Mom,” I say, willing myself to stay reasonable. “Things like this happen in hockey.”
“That’s exactly the point. You’ve given everything to this sport. How hurt do you have to get before enough is enough?”
My dad steps in. “You’ve already broken records. It’s been a decade. You have nothing left to prove.”
“That’s not true,” I snap, sharp enough to make my head throb.
Delaney stiffens beside me. “Maybe we should all let Nathan rest. This isn’t the time.”
“I am resting.” I try to push myself up. The movement sends pain screaming through my shoulder, but I grit my teeth and keep going, propping myself up against the pillows. “I’m not quitting.”
My mom’s eyes fill with tears. “Nathan, please. You deserve more than some game.”
And there it is. It’s not about the injury at all.
“It’s not just a game to me.” I pause, taking as deep a breath as I can. “Yes, I got hurt, and that sucks, but it happens. I love what I do.”
“That’s exactly what scares us.” My dad waves his hands through the air before letting them drop to his sides. “You talk about all of this as if ending up in the hospital is normal.”
“You don’t get to decide this for me.”
My mom flinches. “We’re not deciding. We’re asking you to think about your life. About what comes next.”
My shoulders feel tight, frustration bleeding into something hotter. I swing my legs slightly, trying to sit up straighter, needing the space and distance.
Delaney puts a hand on my arm. “Slow down.”
“I’m fine,” I say, though my vision blurs in protest. “I need you to hear me. Hockey isn’t just a game I play. It’s who I am.”
They’ve never understood how ingrained hockey is in every fiber of my being. The only one who ever had understood was Wesley. It’s some kind of cruel irony that the person who held no judgment against me for my passion left me for hers.
My mom wipes her eyes. “We want more for you because we love you.”
My dad sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Let’s revisit this later when you’re feeling better.”
There’s nothing to revisit.
“Fine,” I say. “But the answer’s not going to change.”
The argument is still hanging in the air when the door bursts open.
“Nathan.” Wesley’s voice cracks as the door slams behind her.
I jerk my head too fast and regret it instantly, pain flaring along my collarbone and up into my skull.
She’s here. Standing inside the doorway, with her soccer uniform on and her hair braided. Her eyes are wide and a little wild, like she ran the entire way.
For a second, we stare at each other.
She takes a step closer, stopping at the side of my bed. Her hands hold onto the bed railing so tightly that her knuckles turn white.
“Hi,” she says, face going soft when she sees me sitting upright. “You’re okay.”
I nod once, because if I open my mouth, I’m not sure what will come out. Her gaze flicks to the room around me, and her eyes widen when she notices my family standing in the corner.
“Oh,” she says, straightening immediately, professionalism snapping into place even as her eyes stay warm. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize… I’m Wesley. Wesley Miller.”
My mom lights up as if she’s meeting a celebrity. I add it to the list of things that annoy me when it comes to my parents.
“His girlfriend.” My mom smiles widely. “We’ve been hoping to meet you.”
I drop my head, jaw ticking at her seemingly innocent words. I haven’t talked to my parents since Christmas, which means I never told them we broke up. Or weren’t real. Or whatever the hell happened.
I brace myself for Wesley’s correction. The one where she explains that I’m nothing to her. It doesn’t come.
Instead, Wesley’s smile is polite. “Nice to meet you.” She sticks out her hand, shaking both of my parents’ hands in turn.
“You too.” My dad claps his hands together once. “He’s lucky he’s okay. Which is what we were just saying. Sometimes these things are signs.”
Here we fucking go again.
I groan. “Dad, stop.”
My mom waves me off and turns fully toward Wesley. “We were telling him that maybe this is the universe saying it’s time to step away.” She trails off meaningfully. “Maybe you can help him see that.”
Wesley blinks once, then her expression turns to stone.
“I’m sorry.” Her tone is calm but sharpened underneath. “You want me to help him see what, exactly?”
My mom hesitates. “That it might be time to move on and think about the future. Grow up.”
“With respect,” Wesley says, standing taller, “Nathan is a grown man and a hell of a hockey player. He has one of the most impressive hockey careers ever, and it’ll be solely his choice when that career ends.”
My heart stutters, and I swallow. I almost reach for her hand on the rail, my fingers twitching at how close she is, but I stop myself. I don’t know why she’s here, but she’s not mine to hold, even if she’s defending me in a way no one ever has.
“We want him to consider our perspective on this.” My dad says, still holding firm on the topic.
Wesley’s eyes flare, and for the briefest of seconds, I find myself feeling sorry for my dad. It passes quickly, excitement taking its place the way it always does when watching Wesley put a grown man in his place.
“No one,” she says with authority, “gets to decide when someone else’s dream is over. Especially not people who, as far as I can tell, haven’t supported that dream or their own son for way too damn long.”
Wesley’s eyes glance toward me briefly before locking back in on my parents.
My mom opens her mouth to speak. Wesley doesn’t let her.
“You have an amazing son. He’s a good person, and you get credit for some of that because you raised him.
But who he is on the ice, he is, despite you.
If anything, you’ve been another obstacle in his way, making his success that much more impressive.
Asking him to give it up proves how little you know him.
Because if you knew him at all, you would stop trying to take away something that makes him who he is. ”
“That’s not what we’re trying to do.” My mom’s voice comes out small.
“Well, it’s what you’re doing. And I will not be contributing to it,” Wesley adds firmly. “Loving him doesn’t give me the right to do anything other than be here for him.”
My breath catches as I process her words. Loving him. My heart skips a beat as the words settle into me, comforting and terrifying all at once. Is it true? I almost blurt out the question, but stop myself before embarrassing both of us in front of my family.
My dad exhales slowly, the fight draining from his posture. My mom presses her lips together, embarrassment etched into her expression.
Delaney clears her throat. “Well, I think that’s our cue to give them a minute.”
She steers our parents toward the door before they can argue. Before shutting the door, she shoots Wesley a look that’s equal parts impressed and grateful, then winks at me.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Wesley finally looks at me again, eyes flicking over the sling, IV, and the monitors. Her expression softens, all that fire folding into vulnerability.
“You’re okay.” Wesley’s entire body relaxes as if she’s been strung up for hours worrying about me.
Her eyes hold nothing but relieved honesty, and yet, I’m more confused than ever.
“You’re dressed for a game.” I motion with my good arm to her uniform. “Did you guys win?”
She huffs out a breath, then shakes her head. “I wouldn’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I left before the scrimmage started, as soon as I saw what happened.”
I watch her as she glances down at the shin guards she’s still wearing. She’s shifting from one foot to another, her nervous energy looking for a way to escape.
“You left your game,” I repeat, still trying to wrap my head around it. Wesley doesn’t miss games or scrimmages. She puts soccer over everything.
Her eyes latch onto mine, as if she can see through me to all of the unasked questions underneath that one. “Yes, Nathan. I left my game. You were hurt, and I needed to be here.”
Something in me thaws. She needed to see me. It’s a small victory, knowing that I still mean something to her.
“Thank you for what you said to my parents.” It’s my turn to feel nervous.
She shrugs, but there’s a tremor underneath it. “Someone needed to say it. I meant every single word.” Her eyes bore into me with the kind of reassurance I expected her to shy away from.
Loving him. She’d said it. She meant it. But why now? Something bitter dampens the part of me thrilled to hear those words.
“Why are you here?” I ask, the words clipped.
“I just told you.” Her brows furrow at the change in my tone.
“Yeah, because I’m hurt.” I motion to the sling. “But Wes, I’ve been hurt for a month. Hell, you’re the one who hurt me. You didn’t care then. So, why now? Is it guilt? Really, what is this?”
I shift, wincing at the ache, but refusing to flinch fully.
It’s been a month, and she hasn’t shown an ounce of regret for her choice. I don’t want to win by consolation. I don’t want my broken collarbone to be what finally changes her mind. I want her to want me as much as I want her.
“No, it’s not like that.” She reaches out, grabbing my hand. “I’ve been miserable. I went to Future’s Camp and damn near killed myself exercising, trying to distract myself from how much I missed you.”
She laces her fingers through mine, and we both watch the motion.
“I panicked when I missed the one-on-one session. Soccer has been my only priority for so long, but then that night, I didn’t think about it once. It scared me.”
“I get it.” And I do. I know how terrifying it is to think you might lose the sport you love.
“Then I was at camp with everything I thought I ever wanted, and I couldn’t even bring myself to be happy. And today, for our scrimmage, I had National Team coaches in the stands, but when I saw you were hurt, it didn’t even seem like a choice. This is where I wanted to be.”
I meet her eyes. “National Team coaches in the stands?”
She arches an eyebrow. “You were unconscious on the ice.”
And just like that, I know.
Whatever this is between us, whatever we broke or ran from or pretended wasn’t real, it’s still here. Bruised and complicated, but here.