Page 12

LENA

Gordie greets us at the door like he thought we’d never return, his entire body wiggling with joy. Alder's demeanor softens immediately as he crouches to ruffle the dog's unruly fur.

"Hey, buddy. You miss us?"

Watching them together makes my chest ache in a strange way. For all his imposing physical presence on the ice, there's something gentle about Alder Stag when he's with his dog. My brain flashes to forbidden images of Alder being gentle with me…nope. Not okay, Lena.

"I'm going to turn in," I say, suddenly feeling like an intruder. "It's been a long day."

Alder nods, still focused on Gordie. "Night, Lena."

Inside the guest room, I change into sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt, before sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through the barrage of texts from Brad. Each one oscillates between anger and pleading, following the familiar pattern of our arguments.

How could you do this to me?

We need to talk.

Is this some kind of joke?

I miss you. Please come home.

Home. As if that apartment could ever feel like home again. I think about Alder shipping hot manure to the doorstep and smile, imagining Brad having to deal with it. It’s petty, sure, but it does make me feel better to bother Brad like this.

I silence my phone and slip under the covers, but sleep refuses to come. My mind replays the confrontation with Adam, the look on Alder's face when his ex dismissed me, and the way his hand trembled slightly in mine as we walked away.

After an hour of tossing and turning, I give up and get some water. The hallway is dark, but I can see the light spilling from the kitchen. When I round the corner, I freeze.

Alder sits at the kitchen island, shirtless, with a half-empty bottle of whiskey beside him.

The overhead lights are off, but the under-cabinet lighting casts an amber glow across his bare shoulders and chest. A tattoo I hadn't noticed before spans his left shoulder blade—a majestic stag leaping over laurel branches, rendered in black ink with incredible detail. His body is a masterpiece. I have to will my heart to begin beating again as I realize I’m truly here in the presence of this beautiful man.

He doesn't notice me at first, lost in the amber liquid in his glass. Without the usual animation in his features, he somehow looks younger. Vulnerable.

I clear my throat, and he startles, turning to face me.

"Sorry," I say quickly. "Couldn't sleep."

"Join the club." His words are a bit slurred like he’s been drinking that booze for a long time. He gestures to the stool beside him with his glass. "Water?"

"Please. "

As he stands to get me a glass, I can't help but notice the defined muscles of his torso, marred here and there with the bruises and scars of his profession. Being a hockey player isn't just a job—it's written on his body.

"That's a beautiful tattoo," I say as he hands me the water with an unsteady hand. I should suggest he get a glass for himself, but I’m not his mother. I’m not even his girlfriend.

He glances over his shoulder as if he's forgotten it's there. "Family tradition. All the Stags have it. Even my mom and she kept her last name.”

I smile at his mention of his mother. “It suits you."

He sits back down, a wry smile curling his lips. "A Stag with a stag."

We sit in silence for a moment, the only sound being the occasional whimper from Gordie's dreams in the living room.

"Adam texted me seven times after we left," Alder says finally, his voice rough. "Kept saying I'm making a fool of myself, called me pathetic."

"Brad sent fifteen," I counter, trying for levity.

His laugh is hollow. “I guess the two of them aren’t hitting it off.”

I hesitate, then pose the question that's been nagging at me. "Does it bother you? What Adam thinks?"

Alder stares into his glass. "It shouldn't.

" He takes a long drink. "Six months, Lena.

Six months of me chasing after him, making excuses for why he couldn't meet my family, why we could only hang out at my place, why he never introduced me to his friends.

" He shakes his head. "And he was banging someone else. "

"It's not your fault he's a cheating jerk," I say firmly.

"No, but it's my fault I kept accepting the scraps he offered.

" His gaze finally meets mine, blue eyes clouded with pain and whiskey.

"You know why I put up with it? Because I thought he was so much smarter than me.

Sophisticated. He works with athletes but has all these opinions about art, politics, and literature. "

"And you thought you weren't good enough?" I venture, recognizing the pattern all too well.

"Just a dumb hockey player." He shrugs, the movement rippling across his shoulders. "Why would someone like him want someone like me except for my body?"

The self-deprecation in his voice makes my heart clench. And here I stand, objectifying him as he opens up to me about feeling like a piece of meat. "Alder, that's ridiculous. You're not?—"

"Not what? Dumb?" He laughs bitterly. "I left college without a degree. I've spent my entire life learning to check people into boards and stop pucks."

"That's not all you are," I insist, surprised by my vehemence. "And it's not dumb. Do you know how much strategic thinking goes into what you do?"

He looks skeptical, but something in my tone makes him pause.

"You know what I noticed watching your media interviews?" I continue. "You were the one everyone looked at when they had questions about defensive strategy."

"That's just experience," he dismisses.

"No, it's intelligence. Just not the kind Adam values." I can hear the echo of my relationship in his words. "Brad did the same thing to me. Made me feel like my work wasn't important because it wasn't 'intellectual' enough."

Alder snorts. "You're literally a doctor."

"Who fixes teeth, not curing cancer. The 'manual labor' of medicine, he called it." I shake my head at the memory. "He acted like I should be grateful that someone with his brilliant mind would stoop to being with someone so... practical."

"Practical is good," Alder says firmly. "Practical gets shit done."

"Exactly!" I tap my glass against his. "And strategic thinking on the ice is just as valuable as pontificating about obscure philosophy."

He smiles a genuine one this time. "To practical people getting shit done."

We clink glasses, and something shifts in the air between us—a recognition, perhaps, of kindred wounds.

"I should try to sleep," he says after a moment, pushing the whiskey bottle away.

"You have any plans tomorrow?”

"Just meeting with my trainer. Nothing important." He stretches, wincing slightly. "Might skip it."

"You should go," I say, worried about how much booze he put away tonight and the sadness behind his words. "It would be good to get out of the house."

"Maybe." He stands, gathering his glass and the bottle. "What about you? You’ve got tooth shit to get done, right?"

I nod, suddenly overwhelmed by the pressures of my job. "I will be making mouth molds until my fingers ache.”

"I'll drive you," he interrupts. “Then I’ll actually get out of the house.”

"You don't have to?—"

"Lena." His voice is gentle but firm. "We're friends now, right? Friends help each other out."

Friends. The word feels both comforting and somehow inadequate, but I nod. "Okay. Friends."

He smiles, a shadow of his usual brightness but real. "Goodnight, friend."

As he disappears down the hallway, I'm left wondering how, in just two days, Alder Stag has transformed from a hockey star and convenient ally to... whatever he is becoming to me.