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All I can do is walk through the door, my knee screaming at me in pain.

When I get in my car, I scream out loud. I hit the steering wheel, bumping the radio and it goes off, connecting to my Spotify.

Some song comes on that I don’t know, some metal song that screams about hope being a different kind of pain. I turn it up because it feels on point.

I drive without direction. Numb. I drive until I hit the rink parking lot and turn the car off. I sit there for hours. I stare up at the ceiling, my duffel bag out of my peripheral vision, pulling my attention.

I think about Mack’s words.

He called me self-destructive.

I look out the window, watching the sun set over the trees, and I can’t help but think about how pretty it is.

How it’s always prettiest right before the dark sets in.

But it isn’t dark forever. The sun always comes back up.

I watch it set, the night creeping up on me without warning. I have the faintest desire to go grab a burger and a stiff drink.

Go ahead and walk out that door. Be the guy everyone thinks you are. Prove all those assholes right.

I run my hands over my face as I stare up at the ceiling of my car. My phone rings. “Daddy Issues.”

And all at once, it hits me. Really hits me like a fucking brick.

Jordan’s right. I am self-destructive.

I’ve been giving up pieces of myself for so long, letting people hurt me because I stupidly thought discipline and pain were one in the same. I allowed them to be the same.

I silence my phone.

Jordan offered to help, and I walked out the door because I’m an idiot.

Because his voice sounded too much like their voices.

The men who fucked me up .

But he’s not them. He’s nothing like them.

I am more than self-destructive. I’m broken. I don’t know what happened, or how I got here. No, that’s a lie. I know exactly how I got here. One crack at a time.

He didn’t tell me what to do. He gave me a choice.

My whole life I’ve been told who I should be. By my parents, my partners, my teammates. But Jordan didn’t tell me who I should be because he knows who I am.

I turn the car on, the headlights bright against the darkness.

My knee hurts and I’m starving but I don’t think I can eat.

My stomach’s too twisted up in knots. I drive the twenty minutes from the ice rink to the edge of town.

The forest swallows the town the farther I get, and I swear this drive looks like a scene out of a damn horror movie.

My headlights shine on one stark white truck set against the darkness. The faint glow of light through the living room window tells me he’s home. I turn the car off, biting my lip.

I see him walking across the room, grey sweatpants hanging off his hips with a bottle of water in his hand. He plops down on the couch, and I know he doesn’t see me.

But he does see me.

He sees the parts of me I thought were invisible. The parts I thought I was hiding.

I don’t want to lose him. I can’t .

I don’t want him to hate me. I don’t want to let him down.

And maybe right now, that’s enough.

Because hope really is a different kind of pain. It’s the worst kind of pain.

Jordan and I have always had this strange relationship.

He acts like he hates me, but it’s all a show.

Jordan and I understand each other in a way some other people can’t, and maybe if I could get my shit together, he’d be willing to give us a chance because there’s something there between us.

Something electrical, something that could be something .

I get out of the car, shutting the door quietly and head to the backseat to grab my duffel and sling it over my shoulder.

The porch steps creak beneath my feet, and for a moment, I stand in front of his door.

Whatever he’s watching on TV can be heard, and the light shines onto the distressed, frayed slats beneath the window. The air is chilly. Enough to make goosebumps prickle on my skin.

It takes everything I have to knock on his door because the anxiety swells and the vicious voice in my head tells me I should leave. That I’m not worth it. That I ruined this chance too.

Jordan opens the door and my heart beats like a freight train.

His dark hair is wet, hanging in his eyes, his bare, tan chest gleaming from the light that surrounds him.

His grey sweatpants hang off his hips, drawing attention to the muscles there.

God, he’s so fucking handsome. So fucking perfect.

I refuse to look anywhere else but his face, though it’s not an easy feat.

His honey gaze holds mine in challenge. He doesn’t smile or soften. Only smirks as he pushes the door open as far as it will go.

The light falls like a beacon and I glance down at the space between us. My heart beats a thousand miles a minute as the voice in my head tells me to run.

He says nothing as he steps aside, giving me wordless permission to enter.

He doesn’t push me or argue. He doesn’t fight me or make me feel small. He just waits for me to make my choice.

And I think it’s the first time anyone’s really waited for me to make the right one, instead of expecting me to make the wrong one.

So I grab the strap of my duffel, not saying a word as I walk into his house, and he shuts the door softly.

Good Boy, Alex.