Page 11 of For Pucking Real (The Seattle Vipers #4)
I stare at him, heart in my throat. He didn't tell me anything when he came back to school withdrawn and sad.
I'd assumed it was family stress, maybe his father being difficult again.
He put so much pressure on Tobias, and I honestly hated the man.
This was different though, this was about us.
His animosity toward me ran deeper than typical father-son tension.
He never liked me for some reason, from the moment Tobias first brought me home during freshman year.
The way his gaze would linger a beat too long on my skin, how his smile never quite reached his eyes when we shook hands.
I didn't want to believe it was about me being black, but living in America, you develop a sixth sense for these things.
The subtle shifts in energy when you enter certain rooms, the microaggressions disguised as casual conversation.
With Tobias's father, there was always an undercurrent of disapproval that had nothing to do with hockey or academics or anything I actually did.
You try not to jump to conclusions, try to give people the benefit of the doubt, but sometimes you just know.
"I decided to come out to him when he said my ‘friendship’ with you seemed like more.
He told me to pack my shit and leave. Thank God I got drafted not long after you.
I haven't spoken to him in years. The last thing he said was that I was a disgrace.
He didn't raise his son to be gay. Said I was an embarrassment to the Groves name.
" He lets out a shaky breath. "And I still showed up.
I still wanted you." The rawness in his voice cuts through me like a blade.
My stomach twists. "Toby. . ." The old nickname slips out before I can stop it. I reach for him instinctively, then pull back.
"Don't." He waves me off. "I'm not saying this to make you feel bad.
I just. . .I needed you to know I didn't have anything left to lose during those last few weeks with you.
You did, I guess. Maybe that's the difference between us.
" There's no accusation in his voice, just a tired acceptance that somehow hurts worse.
I glance at him, his hurt still fresh in his eyes. The way his hands tremble slightly where they rest on the countertop. He's always had expressive hands, strong but gentle. Hands that used to know every inch of me.
"I never stopped wanting you,” I say softly. “Never stopped thinking about you. Time passed, years of seeing you but being too cowardly to open my mouth when we saw each other on the ice. I just. . ." The confession hangs between us, years too late and still not enough.
"I know," he replies. "I just stopped expecting it to matter. Eventually, I stopped hoping for closure." He runs a finger along the rim of his mug, eyes downcast.
We fall into silence again. This time it's less sharp, more of a shared ache between us. The rain continues its steady rhythm, a soundtrack to our unspoken regrets.
After a long pause, he adds, "Seattle's different. I'm tired of being traded. I need this team to stick." There's vulnerability there, a glimpse of the boy I knew beneath the man he's become.
I nod. "It is. You're a talented player, Tobias. There's no reason to think about being traded. The season hasn't started yet." I want to tell him how the team feels like family, how they'll welcome him, how I'll make sure he fits in. I've lost the right to make him promises.
He glances toward the living room, choosing to nod his head instead of replying. Glitzy has leapt off the counter and sprawled across the couch, her eyes glued in his direction. She's stretched out to her full impressive length, one paw dangling elegantly off the edge.
"She still watching me?" he finally asks, a hint of amusement breaking through the tension.
"Always." I smile at my protective she-devil. Her tail flicks once, acknowledging that yes, she's monitoring the situation closely.
His smile is faint but real. "She's gonna be a problem." For a moment, it feels like old times.
"She's worth it," I say. Then, after a beat, "So are you." The words slip out before I can stop them, honest and raw.
He doesn't answer, but something in his posture softens. His shoulders drop slightly, the defensive edge melting away.
"Apologizing, saying sorry just feels disingenuous, Tobias. All I can say is that I want us to be. . ." I trail off, unsure how to finish. Friends? Teammates? Something more? The possibilities hang between us, unspoken.
"Friends?" He snorts. "We are teammates Devan. The air is clear. At least, for me it is. Let's just play hockey and leave the past in the past." His tone is final, closing a door I'm not sure I want shut.
I blow out a breath, wanting to say more.
Is this all that's left of what we once had?
The memory of his lips against mine, his hands in my hair, his laughter in my ear, all reduced to ‘teammates’.
I choose to leave it there instead of delving deeper.
Honestly, I have Lia and Chloe to think about, and maybe that's why I don't let myself hope for more.
Notagain. So I let it go with a nod of agreement, even as my heart protests.
"Teammates," I finally say with a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. The word feels insufficient, hollow compared to what we were.
We don't hug. Don't kiss. We just sit there, elbows on the counter, hearts still a little raw but not entirely closed off. The rain continues to fall outside, washing Seattle clean, while inside, old wounds are cautiously exposed to the air.
It's not reconciliation and it's not the end either. It's something in between, a beginning, maybe. Or just the acknowledgment that some doors never fully close, no matter how hard we try to lock them.