Page 60

Chapter forty

I feel like I’m ten again

Chase

T he second the door to my condo clicks shut behind us, I start pacing. There’s too much in my chest, in my head, in my hands, and I don’t know where to put any of it.

Jake doesn’t even take off his shoes. He just leans against the wall with his arms crossed, watching me fall apart in real time.

“You okay?” he asks eventually.

I let out something that’s supposed to be a laugh, but it catches in my throat and comes out cracked and broken. “Do I look okay?”

Jake exhales. “Didn’t think so.”

I drag a hand through my hair, tugging hard at the roots, hoping I can pull the ache out through my skull if I just try hard enough.

“She was holding him,” I say hoarsely. “Theo. Just… holding him and smiling and talking like nothing ever happened. Like she was still her.”

Jake doesn’t move.

“She said I love her,” my voice catches. “Said she’s my person, and I love her with my whole chest. She doesn’t even realize she said it, but I heard it anyway. And I can't un-hear it.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I heard.”

I shake my head, something ragged tearing loose inside me. “I can’t—” I bite it back. “I can’t fucking do this.”

“Then don’t,” he says simply. “Not alone.”

That’s what undoes me. Not a lecture or a pep talk—just that quiet and steady reassurance.

A hand in the dark. Because all week, I’ve been filling silence with fists, not words or grief or love.

Just rage. And right now, Jake feels like I’ve found the one thing holding strong in the middle of a collapsing building.

I storm into the kitchen because it’s either that or punch the wall again. I grab the nearest thing—a water bottle—and hurl it across the room. It hits the wall with a hollow crack, splitting open and exploding in a mess of plastic and water and pressure that’s been building for days.

Jake doesn’t flinch, just watches me unravel like it’s part of the process.

“They destroyed the video,” I bite out. “You know that?”

He nods once.

“I called Raines from the waiting room.” My voice is flat now.

“I didn’t leave Zoe’s side until she fell asleep while we were waiting to be discharged.

Then I stepped into the stairwell and made the call.

Made him repeat it twice to make sure I wasn’t hearing shit through the fog.

” I grip the counter, white- knuckled. “Storm legal wiped everything—the condo security footage, our elevator feed, building logs. Gone. No questions asked.”

Jake nods again, understanding but not interrupting.

“And because that bastard laid his hands on her,” I spit, “no one even knows that I was fucking the team’s PR exec in a goddamn elevator.”

My voice cracks. “She got assaulted, and that’s what made the footage disappear. Not because I did the right thing, not because I owned it. Because she paid the price.”

Jake exhales. “Shit.”

“I should’ve protected her better,” I whisper, staring at the sink as a stray droplet runs down the stainless steel. “I let her go, and it’s all gone now. The noise. The chaos. Her voice. It’s too quiet again.”

“Then why does it sound like you haven’t stopped fighting for her?”

I choke out a bitter laugh. “I didn’t fight, that’s the problem. I let her walk away.”

He calmly steps forward. “She’s not gone.”

I shake my head, throat burning.

“She didn’t ask me to stay.”

“She didn’t need to,” he says, voice sharpening. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

I turn, something wild building in my chest. “I’m trying. Fuck, I’m trying. But she keeps pushing me away. You think I haven’t wanted to fix this since the second she walked out of my place after the fucking elevator?”

“I know you have,” Jake says. “But this isn’t about fixing you , Chase.

It’s about Zoe . About giving her the space to breathe again.

She’s been through hell, and you don’t pull someone out of that by smothering them and hovering in their doorways.

You wait, you anchor. You hold space and let her find her own way back. ”

I grit my teeth so hard it aches. “I can’t breathe without her.”

Jake just watches me, steady as ever, And I break.

“I fucking love her.”

The words rip out of me, spilling free after being lodged in my throat for years.

“I love her, Brooks. And not just the version of her that everyone sees. Not just the girl who chirps at me and makes everything brighter. I love the girl I saw this morning—the one who held your kid like she was clinging to the only thing keeping her afloat. The one who’s hurting and trying to carry it alone. ”

Jake’s expression shifts. There’s something behind his eyes now, something familiar. I get the distinct impression he’s remembering a time Charlie did the same.

“I know,” he says quietly. “We all know.”

And then my body gives out. I drop to the floor, just let gravity take me, and curl into myself like it might hold me together better than I can. My knees pull up, my hands go to my head, and I breathe low and deep.

Jake crouches beside me.

“You don’t have to fix it,” he says again. “You just have to stay steady. Be her safe place and let her come to you when she’s ready.”

I nod, barely. “I don’t want her to think I walked away.”

“Then don’t walk.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“I didn’t tell her.” My voice is a whisper now. “I didn’t tell her I love her.”

He exhales slowly. “You will. And when you do…” A small, certain smile. “She’ll believe you.”

I close my eyes, but the ache keeps building. “You ever feel like the moment you stop trying to protect someone, even for one second, everything falls apart?”

Jake’s quiet for a beat too long. He knows about the lake. We’ve never talked about it, not really, but I know he knows the story. And he understands the silence that lives in the cracks between what’s said and what’s survived.

“Yeah. I do.”

I glance at him, but he doesn’t look away.

“My therapist told me once,” Jake says, voice low, “that guilt’s a liar. It tries to tell you if you’d just done one thing differently, none of it would’ve happened. That you should’ve seen it coming. Saved them.”

I blink hard, and everything inside me turns to static as Jake holds my gaze.

“But you know what she said after that?”

I shake my head.

“She said sometimes we carry what isn’t ours, because it’s easier than accepting the truth.” His voice softens. “That we couldn’t stop it, and it happened anyway.”

The lake.

The ice.

My mistake, his cost.

I drop my head, shattered but understanding.

“I can’t make her okay.”

“No,” Jake says gently. “But you can stay close. Let her know she’s not alone. That’s all you ever wanted back then, right? Someone to stay with you in the dark?”

I nod once, broken open.

Jake places a steady hand on my shoulder. “Then be that for her.”

I close my eyes and let the truth settle. It doesn’t fix anything, but it feels like the first breath I’ve taken in hours.

***

The lake is glass. Too still, too quiet.

And then it cracks.

Not a clean break, a spiderweb fracture that starts beneath my feet and spreads outward, silent and fast. I try to scream, but the sound sticks in my throat as the ice gives way. Cold swallows me whole.

My hands claw at nothing as water slams into my lungs, and Jordan’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Chase. I’ve got you—just hold on.”

But I can’t, I’m slipping.

I see him dive in, feel his grip on my collar yanking me up while the ice pulls at him instead. Only this time, it isn’t Jordan.

It’s Zoe.

She’s the one screaming. She’s the one beneath the surface.

Her arms thrash, her panicked eyes find mine, and I can’t move. I’m frozen while Nate’s hands are on her, dragging her down—

I jolt awake, lungs burning, heart slamming into my ribs like it’s trying to escape. My skin is slick with sweat, my shirt twisted, and the sheets are tangled at my feet. I push upright, press the heels of my hands to my eyes and try to ground myself, but it’s no use.

It’s 3:12 AM, and I can still hear her. Still hear him .

I drag myself to the kitchen, run the cold tap, and cup the water to my face. I don’t drink it, just let it drip down and anchor me in the silence.

I stare at my phone for a long time, contemplating whether to call her to check in. Or send her a text to let her know I’m thinking about her. But it’s the middle of the fucking night, and hopefully she’s in bed, safe and warm and fast asleep.

So instead, I do something I haven’t done in a long time. I scroll to a name I’ve looked at more times than I’ve touched, and I hit call.

It rings twice before a familiar voice crackles through the line. Low, warm, and completely incredulous.

“Holy shit,” he says instead of hello. “Are you dying?”

I almost laugh. “Not yet.”

“Because this is either the rapture or you finally grew a conscience and decided to call your favorite brother.”

“You’re my only brother.”

“Exactly. And I’m still the favorite. Don’t be jealous of my win percentage.”

I let the banter settle in my chest like warmth. He’s always been like this—sharp, fast, so damn alive. It’s the first time I’ve heard his voice in a while and I already feel something loosening in my ribs.

“I didn’t mean to call this late.”

“Bullshit,” he says easily. “You’ve had nightmares. Let me guess—lake?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“How’s the foot?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Still attached,” he says. “Still ugly. Still not scoring hat tricks with it, but you know. I’ve adjusted.”

He says it like it’s a joke, as if it never gutted him, but I know better.

“I, uh…” I pause. “I’ve been thinking about that day a lot.”

There’s silence, and his voice is gentler when he speaks.

“The lake?”

I nod before realizing he can’t see me. “Yeah.”

“Me too, sometimes.”

“I was just a kid,” I say, voice low. “But I should’ve been smarter.”

Jordan lets out a long, slow breath. “You were ten, Chase. I was fifteen. I was supposed to be the one watching out for you.”

“I should’ve stayed on the shore.”

“And I should’ve caught the puck in the third game of playoffs that year,” he deadpans. “But guess what? Regret’s a shit goalie. Always late to the play.”

A soft sound escapes me—half laugh, half ache.

“No one blames you,” he says, more serious now. “Not Mom, not Dad. Not me. You’ve been carrying this story like it ends with me in that hospital bed. But it didn’t end there, man. I’m okay.”

“You lost your shot at hockey.”

“You think that means I lost everything?” he counters. “I still skate. I still coach. I still make fun of you from the couch when you miss a breakaway.”

My throat tightens. “I just—I didn’t protect you. And now… it’s happening again.”

He goes quiet, but it’s not heavy, it’s waiting.

“Something bad happened to someone I—” I stop myself. “Someone I care about.”

“Someone you love.”

I don’t respond, but that’s answer enough.

Jordan’s voice softens. “Okay. So what now?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’m trying, but I feel like I’m ten again. I blinked and it all went to hell and now I’m just frozen.”

He hums. “Except this time, no one’s under the ice. They’re still here, and you’re not a kid anymore. You can call and you can fight. You can try again.”

I press my back to the kitchen counter, heart still thrumming. “She got hurt, and I wasn’t there.”

“She okay now?”

“She’s healing. But I can’t stop thinking about it, and I don’t know how to be around her without wanting to wrap her in armor and keep her away from everyone, including me.”

“Let me guess. She’s not into the overprotective caveman thing?”

I snort, despite myself. “Not when she’s trying to remember how to feel safe in her own skin.”

He’s quiet for a second. “When I got out of the hospital,” he says casually, but I hear the weight under it. “I figured you’d blame yourself.”

“I do.”

“I know. But you shouldn’t. You fell through the ice, I pulled you out. That’s it.”

“It ruined everything for you.”

“It changed things, that’s different.” Another pause. “And it didn’t ruin you , so I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I never blamed you, Chase. You were a scared kid who ran barefoot across a frozen hill to get help. That’s not the villain in the story, man. That’s the hero.”

My throat tightens and I grip the edge of the bench.

“You still run that way, you know,” he adds. “Toward the people you love, even when it hurts.”

“I didn’t run fast enough for her.”

“She’s still here, isn’t she?”

I exhale slowly. “Yeah. But I don’t know how to show her I’m not going anywhere without smothering her.”

“Start small,” Jordan says. “The little things… they matter”

“What if it’s not enough?”

“Then you try again. And again. You don’t need a grand gesture, you just need to be steady.”

My throat burns. “I want to fix it.”

“You can’t. You can only love her through it.”

A long pause stretches between us, and I don’t fill it with words, because if I do, I might fall apart again. So instead I wait for Jordan to speak.

“You don’t have to be the one who saves everybody, you just have to keep showing up.”

I nod again, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Yeah. Okay.”

“And hey,” he adds, tone light again. “Next time, don’t wait until after a five-minute major and a national TV meltdown to call me in the dead of night. I’ll pick up even if you’re not trending.”

“Thanks, J.”

My chest still aches, but this time it’s manageable. Bearable. And the nightmare haze is starting to fade.

“You should call more often,” Jordan teases. “You might actually find I’m great company.”

“You’re still a dick,” I mutter.

“And you’re still my baby brother.”

A pause.

“I love you, Chaser. Always have.”

“I know,” I say. “Love you, too. Sorry it took me so long to say it back.”

Another beat of silence, then a dark chuckle.

“Better late than frozen.”

I end the call and sit with the silence, something I’ve been trying to linger in a bit longer these past weeks. This time, it doesn’t feel like punishment, it feels like a pause. A breath.

A chance to start moving again.