Page 42

Hotel rooms are excellent for second-guessing life-altering decisions, which explains why I’ve been staring at the ceiling for three hours wondering if flying to Boston was brave or just expensive stupidity.

The Marriott’s ceiling has a water stain shaped like Texas, which feels appropriately random for a night where I’m contemplating whether to rebuild my life around someone who might not show up.

I’ve counted seventeen possible outcomes to this situation, ranging from romantic reconciliation to restraining orders, and approximately none of them account for the reality that Reed Hendrix might just.. . not come.

My phone sits silent on the nightstand, mocking me with its lack of notifications. No missed calls, no texts, no indication that watching him coach eight-year-olds changed anything fundamental about our impossible equation.

But God, seeing him with those kids. The patience as one of the girls attempted her spin move for the twentieth time.

The way he crouched down to their eye levels, explaining technique without condescension.

The genuine laugh when that little girl declared him “prettier than most boys but not as pretty as her mom.”

This isn’t the Reed from Chicago who solved problems with his fists.

This isn’t even the charming disaster from Vegas who dared me to go upstairs with him.

This is someone new, or maybe someone he always was underneath the anger and expectations and pressure to be someone else’s definition of masculine.

A knock at my door makes me bolt upright like I’ve been electrocuted.

10:47 PM. Either housekeeping is remarkably dedicated, or Reed finally worked up the courage to make a choice.

I check the peephole. It’s unnecessary, since I know exactly who it is, and then I open the door to find him standing in the hallway holding two coffee cups and looking like he’s facing a firing squad.

“Coffee seemed safer than flowers,” he says by way of greeting.

“Depends on the coffee.” I step aside to let him in, noting how he moves carefully through the space like he’s not sure he belongs here. “What kind?”

“Gas station. So basically caffeinated disappointment with artificial flavor.”

“Perfect. Nothing says, ‘let’s talk for the entire night’ like showing up this late with caffeine.”

He laughs—actually laughs—and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “Drink up. I need you wired.”

“Wired?” I joke, taking one.

He shrugs. “Just awake.”

We settle into the hotel’s generic chairs, coffee cups between us like a barrier or peace offering. The silence isn’t comfortable exactly, but it’s not hostile either. Just two people who’ve hurt each other trying to figure out whether they can do better.

“So,” Reed says finally. “You flew here.”

I nod, stretching my ankle. “I did.”

He watches the movement, his eyes trailing up my legs. “Why?”

I take a sip of terrible coffee, buying time to find words for feelings I barely understand. “I needed to meet you halfway. Show that I’m not completely stubborn.”

I smile at him, but he asks seriously, “Oh, you aren’t?”

“I’ve been angry at you for leaving when I never gave you reason to stay.

Angry at my father for choosing his reputation over me when I never fought for myself.

Angry at the system for punishing me when I participated in my own destruction.

” I set down the coffee, meeting his eyes.

“But mostly angry at myself for being too scared to want what I wanted.”

“Which is?”

“You. Us.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, processing. “You do?”

“I destroyed my career. I moved across the country. I can’t stop replaying what I could’ve done differently, and now I’m trying to figure out if we can build something from the wreckage.”

“Chelsea—”

“I know I’m ridiculous. All this running.

It’s just like shut up and get on with it.

We don’t make sense on paper. I know every rational reason this is a terrible idea.

” I lean forward, needing him to understand.

“But watching you today, with those kids, seeing who you’ve become.

.. I realized I can’t continue living like this.

I want to stop running from the only relationship that’s ever felt real.

I want to figure out how to love someone without losing myself.

I want...” I pause, gathering courage. “I want to try being us without all the external pressure and family expectations and professional complications.”

“Just us?”

“Just us.”

Reed sets down his coffee and runs a hand through his hair—nervous gesture I remember from therapy sessions when he was working through something difficult.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks.

“Please.”

“I’ve been in therapy. Real therapy, not just anger management. Working through family stuff, relationship patterns, why I always choose chaos over stability.”

“And?”

“And my therapist thinks I use intensity to avoid intimacy. That I pick fights and create drama because it’s easier than being vulnerable.”

“Do you agree?”

“About the fights? Yeah. About the drama? Probably.” He meets my eyes. “But not about you. With you, the intensity wasn’t avoidance. It was the opposite. It was me trying to get closer to someone who felt like home.”

I take a moment, meeting his eyes. “Even when I was running?”

“Every time you ran, I wanted to chase you. Not because I enjoy the drama, but because losing you felt like losing the best part of myself.”

My heart plummets into my stomach. Because that’s exactly how I felt. Like some essential piece of me was missing every time I walked away from him.

“I was so angry,” I admit. “After Chicago. Not just at the situation, but at myself for wanting you more than I wanted safety. For choosing feeling over logic even when I knew it would cost me everything.”

“Are you still angry?”

“Sometimes. But mostly I’m tired. Tired of pretending I don’t miss you. Tired of building a life that’s perfectly functional and completely hollow.” I pause. “Tired of punishing myself for falling in love with someone who saw me as more than my achievements.”

“Is that what I did?”

“You saw Chelsea, not Dr. Clark. You wanted the messy, imperfect person underneath all the professional polish. No one had ever wanted that version of me before.”

We sit there, two people who’ve made expensive mistakes trying to figure out whether we can afford to make better ones. The hotel room feels smaller somehow, like proximity is making possibility more real and more terrifying.

“Chelsea,” Reed says quietly, “I need you to know something.”

“Okay.”

“I never stopped wanting you. Through all of it—the suspension, the trade, the therapy, the volunteer work—you were always there. Not just the memory of you, but the hope that maybe someday we’d figure out how to do this right.”

The words hang between us like a bridge I’m not sure I’m ready to cross. Not because I don’t want to, but because crossing means admitting this isn’t just about closure or forgiveness. It’s about the possibility of choosing each other again, with full knowledge of what that choice costs.

I laugh despite the tears threatening at the corners of my eyes. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Really?”

“I’ve dated a lot of practical men.”

“How’d that work out?”

“Terribly. Turns out I’m not actually attracted to emotional stability.”

“Good thing I’m emotionally unavailable and professionally questionable.”

“Perfect resume for someone like me.”

We’re joking, but underneath the humor is something more serious. The recognition that we’re both people who’ve spent our lives trying to be what others wanted, and maybe that’s why we found each other—two people desperate to be seen for who they actually are instead of who they’re supposed to be.

“Reed,” I say carefully, “if we do this—try this—it has to be different. No secrets, no professional complications, no choosing other people’s expectations over what we actually want.”

“Agreed.” He smiles. “And no running. Either of us. When things get difficult, we figure it out.”

He reaches across the space between us, fingers brushing mine. The contact is careful, tentative, like he’s testing whether I’ll pull away.

I don’t.

“So what now?” he asks.

“Now we finish this terrible coffee and see if we remember how to be in the same room without combusting.”

“That’s not much of a plan.”

“I’m learning to be okay with imperfect plans.”

“Good,” he says, interlacing our fingers properly. “Because I’m pretty sure we’re about to improvise the hell out of this.”

His hand is warm, familiar, scarred from years of hockey and fighting and the general violence of his profession. But it holds mine gently, like something precious that needs protecting instead of conquering.

For the first time in eight months, I don’t want to run.

I want to stay and see what happens when two people choose each other with full knowledge of the consequences.

Even if those consequences include the possibility of being happy.