Page 29

EIGHTEEN

SHANE

My computer screen glowed harshly in the darkness, words about the elusive Player blurring together until they meant nothing at all. I lifted my glasses, pressed my fingertips against my closed eyelids, and rubbed hard, as if I could somehow erase the exhaustion that clung stubbornly behind them.

It didn’t help.

When I opened my eyes, my gaze drifted upward to the small shelf above my desk, cluttered with trophies from a past life—Junior Hockey hockey championships, shining gently under a layer of dust. They were symbols of a promise I’d once held in my hands: talent, potential, a future carved out in skates and ice.

But promises broke easily, didn’t they?

The ache in my chest deepened, tugging painfully at the edges of the emptiness that had grown since the day I’d walked away from Patrick.

I’d been a promising hockey player once, but injury had snatched that away.

And just when I’d thought I could have something good again, I’d gone and ruined it myself.

I was good at ruining things.

My eyes returned unwillingly to the unfinished thesis.

Studying Patrick—Player, as I called him—had seemed like a terrible yet brilliant idea at the start.

But now, every line on the screen was a reminder of how spectacularly I’d failed.

It was far worse than I’d feared before I’d started.

My notes, my careful observations, the meticulous tracking of his heartbeat and moods—they’d destroyed everything we’d carefully built.

All my data, all my insights, suddenly felt meaningless, poisoned by regret and guilt.

I sighed heavily, leaning back in my chair, feeling utterly defeated.

Maybe I should abandon this altogether. Drop the project entirely, admit my failure, and write something else.

Something less dangerous, something safe.

NHL sports psychology, perhaps. There were countless videos and interviews already available.

Easy sources, easy analysis. Maybe late submissions would still earn a passing grade.

Professor Halden would understand. Probably.

I stared at the ceiling, heart twisting.

Was that really who I wanted to be? Someone who backed out when things got tough, someone who couldn’t even face the consequences of his own mistakes?

Fear locked me inside a hard, impenetrable shell.

Hell, I’d never skated again after the injury.

I’d never dared strap the laces of my skates and step onto the ice. Would I dare look at him again?

But God, it hurt. I missed Patrick in ways I hadn’t thought possible.

I missed the cocky grin that slipped out when he thought I wasn’t looking, the genuine warmth in his eyes when he teased me, even the stubborn pride that kept him from ever admitting defeat.

I missed the easy way he touched me without thinking, how my heart raced embarrassingly whenever he smiled.

My throat tightened. I missed being someone Patrick could trust, someone who hadn’t let him down.

I swallowed back the heaviness pressing behind my eyes. Maybe I was being dramatic. Maybe things could still be fixed. But my pride had always been my worst enemy—pride that kept me from texting him, pride that stopped me from running to him right now and begging for forgiveness. Or fear.

I closed my laptop, plunging the room into darkness, the screen’s afterglow burning behind my eyelids.

Maybe I couldn’t have hockey again, couldn’t reclaim the lost years, or fix the broken dreams lining my shelf.

But Patrick?

If there was even the smallest chance I could fix things with him, shouldn’t I be doing something?

The sharp knock on my dorm room door nearly sent me tumbling out of my chair. My heart leaped painfully into my throat as adrenaline flooded my veins. Who the hell knocked this late? Was it Patrick? Had something happened?

I flicked my desk lamp on, squinting against its sudden brightness, and stumbled toward the door. When I opened it, my heart plummeted again, confusion and worry surging forward.

“Elio?” I asked, bewildered. I gripped the door handle tighter, searching his face anxiously. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

Elio’s eyebrows rose, and he laughed softly, shaking his head. “Shit, sorry, Shane. Didn’t mean to scare you.” His expression relaxed into a gentle, apologetic smile. “I must look like I’m here to tell you somebody died or something.”

“You kinda do,” I admitted, heart rate slowly settling back toward normal, though anxiety still lingered. “Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing like that.” Elio raised both hands defensively, his smile growing warmer. “Relax. I’m just the messenger. I have a message for you—if you’re willing to hear it.”

I swallowed hard, suddenly realizing exactly what kind of message this might be. My pulse sped up again, but this time, it was hopeful, electric, flooding every inch of my body with anticipation. “Patrick?” I asked quietly.

Elio nodded once, seriously. “He asked if you’d meet him at the rink.

Tonight. He’s already there, waiting for you.

” His eyes softened, filled with quiet sincerity.

“Listen, Shane. I don’t usually do this whole meddling-in-relationships thing.

It’s not really my style. But I care about Patrick, and…

if you still have feelings for him at all, I think you should go and just hear him out. ”

A dizzying wave of relief and joy crashed through me, powerful enough that I had to grip the door frame to steady myself. My throat tightened, words lost for a moment, until I finally managed, “Are you kidding me? Of course I’ll go. Right now?”

Elio laughed gently, stepping aside as I hurriedly grabbed my coat from the hook by the door. “He’s there already, probably skating circles to clear his head. You really should go.”

“I’m going,” I assured him, breathless. I tugged my coat over my shoulders, nearly stumbling over my own feet in my hurry. “Thank you, Elio. I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said warmly, stepping back into the hallway to let me pass. “Just…don’t hurt him, okay?”

I paused, meeting Elio’s eyes with raw honesty. “I won’t. I never meant to.”

“I know,” he said softly. “Neither did he.”

Outside, the night air was sharp and cold, but I barely felt it as I stepped onto the sidewalk.

My feet hardly touched the ground, my pulse racing with every step.

The world around me blurred in a whirl of hopeful disbelief.

I felt like I’d just won the lottery. Hell, this was better than the lottery.

Elio lingered at the dorm entrance a moment longer, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Good luck, Shane. You deserve this. Both of you do.”

“Thank you,” I said again and meant it with every ounce of my being.

With a last nod, he turned and headed off toward Jaxon’s place. Watching him go, I felt a rush of gratitude for Elio, who’d somehow managed to repair something I’d believed irreparably broken.

As I turned toward the rink, anticipation surged inside me, bright and overwhelming. Patrick was waiting for me. Maybe I didn’t deserve a second chance, but I had it, and there was no way in hell I was going to waste it.

Tonight, I’d listen. Tonight, I’d finally get it right.

The rink was silent and shadowed, lit only by the faint glow of a few overhead lights.

My footsteps echoed softly as I walked down the corridor, the familiar chill settling onto my skin, waking something inside me.

Two months of shadowing Patrick here had transformed this place into something close to home.

Its quiet hum, the bite of cold air, even the lingering scent of ice, felt strangely comforting.

The locker room door stood open. Empty. Rows of vacant benches and neatly organized gear, dimly lit, greeted me with a familiar warmth, though tonight, it felt different, expectant, almost like it knew why I was here.

I continued down the hallway, anxiety and hope tangling tight inside my chest. My heartbeat quickened when I stepped through the doorway into the main arena, my breath catching as I took in the vastness of the ice stretching quietly before me.

Then I saw him.

Patrick stood by the player benches, dressed in his normal clothes, a nice jacket zipped halfway up over his chest, his breath visible in faint puffs beneath the dim lights.

He wore his skates already, standing comfortably, effortlessly balanced, the way he always seemed to be.

He turned slowly, his eyes meeting mine, and a small smile tugged at his lips.

“Hey,” he said quietly, warmth unmistakable in his voice. “Thanks for coming.”

My pulse raced as I approached him, each step feeling surreal. Patrick shifted slightly, revealing what he’d been holding—a pair of skates, laces tied neatly together, dangling from his fingers.

“I have a lot to say,” he began gently. “A lot to apologize for, Shane. But first…” He paused, almost shyly, as he held out the skates toward me. “I realized we’ve never done this as a date. Not once. We’ve never gone skating together.”

My throat tightened. The sight of those skates sent a rush of icy panic through me, memories I’d buried long ago surging back, sharp and relentless.

My injury, the accident, the helpless slide across the ice, the pain…

I couldn’t stop the images, the sudden shortness of breath, the dizziness creeping in at the edges of my vision.

Patrick’s face shifted immediately, concern flaring in his eyes. “Shane? What’s wrong?”

“I—I can’t,” I managed to choke out, my voice shaking. “Patrick, I haven’t skated since…since my injury.”

Instantly, Patrick stepped closer, the skates dangling between us, forgotten momentarily. He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, his grip warm and reassuring.

“Hey, breathe. It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice a calming anchor amidst the storm in my chest. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry. But you’re not alone, Shane. You don’t have to do it alone.”