Page 15

FIFTEEN

Brody

Three days. I’d spent three days here, making myself at home in a place that wasn’t mine, surrounded by things that felt more like Noah than I could describe. I paced, restless but content, running my hands over the smooth countertops in his kitchen and the framed pictures of his family dotting the walls. His scent lingered everywhere—a mix of clean soap and something woodsy—and I couldn’t escape it, not that I wanted to.

I slept in his bed, buried under the weight of a thick quilt that smelled faintly like him. I stole a pair of pajamas I’d found in his dresser, the ones with little hockey sticks printed all over them, and they were too soft, too comfortable to take off. I pulled a plain gray hockey jersey from his dryer and wore it, even though it hung loose on me.

I ordered food in, kept to myself, and avoided seeing anyone. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt…. safe. This place felt safe. And happy.

I was sitting on his couch, legs tucked beneath me, while Noah sat facing me in the armchair, his leg stretched out with an ice pack resting on his calf. His blond curls were disheveled, pushed back from his face with a band, and his expressive green eyes locked onto mine with a mix of curiosity and expectation. He tilted his head, his lips curling into the beginning of a smile, and I couldn’t help the words that slipped out.

“How are you so perfect?”

Noah blinked, then flushed, the faintest pink creeping into his cheeks. “My sisters wouldn’t say I’m perfect,” he muttered, shifting a little in his seat.

“Yeah? Why not?”

He grinned, wide and wicked, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I wasn’t perfect when I drew a handlebar mustache on my sister’s Tennant Rowe poster because she wouldn’t let me play her stereo. She’d been obsessed with him forever—said she would marry him one day—and I thought it would be hilarious. Spoiler—it wasn’t hilarious. At least, not to her. I think she cried for an hour.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Okay, maybe not perfect for them.”

He shrugged, still grinning. “They mothered me even though I was a little shit.”

I shook my head, unable to stop staring at him. “I still think you’re perfect. For me.”

The grin faltered, his expression softening. “For you?”

“Yeah,” I said, my chest tightening. “And that’s why this is so hard to explain.”

His brows furrowed, and he straightened in his seat. “Brody… is this us breaking up? Before we’ve even started?”

I leaned forward, my elbows resting on my knees. “I just called you perfect.”

“That means nothing,” he said, his lips pushing into a pout. “Haven’t you ever seen Les Misérables ? Darkest night, rising sun, right? Yeah, well, that’s what they say right before everything goes to hell.”

I let out a breathless laugh despite myself. “I don’t know how you made Les Misérables sound so cheerful.”

He grinned again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Four years as a theater major—I’ve got range.”

I never knew that. How did I not know he was a theater major? Did I know him at all? The thought hit me like a sucker punch. We’d only been seeing each other for… shit… how long? Days? Weeks? Time blurred when it came to Noah. It was all tangled up in moments that meant too much, and was I making this more than it was? Why was I doing this? Why was I about to entrust him with everything? My biggest secret. My panic. My shame. My anger. All of it, raw and ugly and clawing at my insides. How did I begin to explain that I’d been carrying this weight for months, alone, terrified of what it might do to me—to my future? How could I lay it all at his feet and expect him to stay?

I buried my face in my hands, my chest tight. What the hell was wrong with me? This wasn’t who I was—this mess of insecurity and doubt. I was Brody Vance. I’d built a career on being fearless, taking risks, and coming out on top. But here I was, scared out of my damn mind, falling apart over the idea of letting Noah see the real me. What if he didn’t have half my feelings and hated what he saw? What if I ruined everything before it had a chance to start? What if…?

I pressed the heels of my hands harder into my eyes, trying to block out the spiral of thoughts threatening to drown me. What was I thinking, letting someone like Noah in? Letting him get so close? This wasn’t me. This wasn’t safe. But the truth was, I didn’t want to push him away. I didn’t want to run. For the first time in forever, I wanted to stay, try, and trust. And it scared the hell out of me.

“Brody?” He was there, perching on the small coffee table, his hands on my knees. “Brody?”

“I’m okay, I’m…” I pointed at his chair. “Get back there and put the ice on your leg.”

“You went white,” he murmured, but I met his gaze, and with a huff, he returned to his chair. I couldn’t do this if he was touching me.

I dropped my gaze to the floor. “Noah… I… there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Okay,” he said, leaning forward, mirroring my posture. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. Have you been warned off coming out? Has someone found out and threatened you?”

His voice was steady as he suggested the worst he could think of at the moment, his gaze unwavering. My words stuck in my throat. I clenched my hands together, my fingers digging into my palms. He was still watching me, patient and open—everything I didn’t deserve.

“I’m scared,” I admitted, the words barely audible. “Not of you. Of this. Of what it might mean for us.”

“‘For us’?” he echoed, his voice quiet but warm.

I looked up at him, at how one wayward curl had escaped the band and rested on his forehead in a cute flick and how his eyes were soft with understanding. He was everything good that I didn’t know how to hold on to. But for him, I wanted to try.

“I have an aneurysm.”

The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them. I hadn’t planned to say it—not like this, not here, not now—but it was too late to take them back.

Noah blinked, his expression shifting from surprise to concern in a heartbeat. “You have what?”

I swallowed hard, my chest tightening as I forced myself to keep going. “An aneurysm. In my brain. It’s like a weak spot in one of the blood vessels, like a balloon that could burst with too much pressure.”

His lips parted, but he didn’t say anything, waiting for me to explain. I hated the concerned expression in his eyes, as if he were already putting me in a bubble.

“It’s small,” I said, my voice sharp and defensive. “Benign. It doesn’t cause me any issues. My doctor only found it because I totaled my car in Las Vegas and had to get an MRI. I wouldn’t know it was there if I hadn't crashed. He warned me that I couldn't drive,” I admitted, my hands clenching into fists against my thighs. “The doctors said the g-forces in racing could cause it to rupture. That’s the risk. If it ruptures, it’s… catastrophic. Fatal. So they told me to stop racing. They told me I couldn’t get back behind the wheel. That it wasn’t worth the chance.”

I took a shaky breath, hating the way my voice cracked.

“That’s why you retired?”

I nodded. “But it’s not like it’s doing anything right now. It’s just… sitting there in my head and not growing. Not changing. Just… there.”

Noah’s brow furrowed, his fingers gripping the armrest of his chair. “But it’s dangerous. Even if it’s small?”

“Not if I don’t do anything to trigger it,” I said quickly, my voice rising. “As long as I don’t do anything stupid, like strap into a Formula 1 car and push myself to the limit, it’s fine. They said I could live my whole life without it being a problem.”

“Brody—” Noah started.

“I know how it sounds,” I said, my words rushing out as if I could outrun the weight of them. “But it’s not like I’m going to drop dead tomorrow. It’s just there, Noah. It’s this thing I have to live with now. And yeah, it sucks, but it’s not… it’s not like I’m fragile or something.”

Noah stared at me; his expression unreadable.

“What are you thinking?” I asked, my voice quieter, almost a whisper.

Noah didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze never leaving mine. “I’m thinking… that must’ve been a lot to carry yourself.”

I blinked, thrown off by his response. Of all the things he could’ve said, I hadn’t expected that. Not pity, not concern—just some random thing about me.

“It’s not?—”

“Brody, it’s okay to say it’s hard. It doesn’t make you weak to admit that.”

His words hit me like a punch to the chest, and for a moment, I couldn’t speak because he was right. It was hard. And I’d spent months pretending it wasn’t, pretending I could handle it all on my own. But now? Sitting here, looking at him, it felt as if it was the hardest thing in the entire fucking world, and that scared me almost as much as the aneurysm itself.

“Don’t treat me like I’m breakable,” I said. “I’m not dying. I’m alive, and I can still do things. I don’t always need to be asked if I’m okay. I’m not scared of it, and it doesn’t stop me from sleeping like a freaking baby at night, okay?”

Noah stayed silent, his gaze steady on mine as I kept going, laying out the facts. If I made it sound routine, it wouldn’t feel so heavy.

“I have regular checks. There’s a medic alert card in my wallet in case I’m found unconscious somewhere. And yeah, I have a DNR on file, just in case, and Logan’s my proxy for everything medical. You wouldn’t have to get involved in any of it. It’s all taken care of.”

Noah nodded, listening, and for a second, I thought I’d gotten through to him. He’d accept it for what it was, leave it alone, and maybe ask me to go, and that was something I was prepared for. But then, he rolled his eyes and leaned back, crossing his arms.

“Wow, Brody. That’s so comforting,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m really reassured knowing you’ve planned for all your worst-case scenarios.”

Irritation flared in my chest. “I’m being practical.”

“No,” Noah said, shaking his head. “You’re trying to convince me and yourself that you’ve got this under control. But, Brody, pretending it doesn’t scare the hell out of you isn’t fooling me.”

His words hit harder than I wanted to admit, but I couldn’t let him see that. Instead, I crossed my arms and leaned back, matching his posture with a defiance I didn’t really feel. “I don’t need you to tell me what you think I’m thinking.”

Noah blinked, his brows furrowing for a split second. I swear that sentence made sense in my head. It just… didn’t come out right.

“Okay, so you have an aneurysm. Anything else?” His tone was clipped.

“No,” I bit out, the tension between us thick enough to cut with a knife.

Noah stood, his jaw tight, his movements sharp as he headed toward the kitchen. “Want coffee?”

“What? No! I want to talk.”

He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes flashing with something I couldn’t quite name. “About what?”

“This.” I tapped my temple, annoyed by how defensive I sounded.

Noah’s expression hardened. He stopped in his tracks and turned to face me. “No, you don’t want to talk. You want to tell me things without giving me the chance to have a reaction or feelings.”

His voice wasn’t loud, but each word landed like a slap. And there was anger I hadn’t seen from him before, not like this.

“You’ve got no right to be angry!” I shouted, standing so quickly I knocked the coffee table with my knee. I followed him into the kitchen, my pulse hammering in my ears. “You have no right!”

“Yes, I do!” Noah spun to face me, his blue eyes blazing, his jaw tight, and his fists clenched at his sides. There was no mistaking the fury there now, but I thought I saw something else beneath it. Hurt. And that threw me off more than anything.

“No, you don’t!” I shot back, my voice cracking under the weight of all that I felt. “I’m the one dealing with this. Not you!”

Before I could say anything else, he moved. One smooth step, and I found myself backed against the wall, his hand on my shoulder, the other cradling the back of my head to cushion the impact. My breath hitched, my heart racing as I met his gaze.

His face was so close, his expression a storm of emotions—anger, frustration, and something raw and vulnerable I wasn’t prepared for. His lips parted, his breath warm, and he kissed me.

Hard.

It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t sweet. It was furious, desperate, the kind of kiss that demanded everything and left me gasping for air. I scrambled to hold on, gripping his shirt as my knees threatened to buckle.

When he pulled back, his chest was heaving, his eyes dark and searching mine as if looking for answers I didn’t have. “I have the right to be angry,” he said, his voice low and rough, “when the man I’m falling for tells me something this big and doesn’t let me feel anything about it.”

I stared at him, my head spinning, my heart pounding. This wasn’t how I’d expected things to go. Not even close. I didn’t think he’d get angry. I didn’t think he’d care enough to get angry. And that realization knocked the breath out of me more than the kiss had.

Noah’s gaze softened, but the intensity was still there, simmering beneath the surface. “You think this is just about you?” he asked, quieter now but no less fierce. “It’s not. You don’t get to tell me how I should feel about this, Brody. You don’t get to decide what’s too much for me.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but no words came out. Because he was right. And I hated it.

Noah’s expression shifted, the sharp edges of his anger morphing into something gentler. His shoulders relaxed, and before I could process it, he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around me.

I froze at first, the tension in my body refusing to let go, but then, he pulled me in, his hand pressing the back of my neck, his other arm circling my waist. I let out a shaky breath, my chest tightening in a way I couldn’t control.

I buried my face in his hair, the scent of him grounding me. His curls were silky beneath my cheek, and I leaned in closer, my nose brushing his neck, desperate for the connection, the comfort. My arms came up to hold him, as if I might fall apart if I didn’t hold tight enough.

And then, somehow, there were tears. I didn’t even feel them coming, but they were there, hot and unchecked, soaking into his shirt as I clung to him. My breath hitched, my shoulders shook, and Noah didn’t say a word through it all.

He just held me.

He rubbed slow, soothing circles on my back, his chin resting on my shoulder. My fingers twisted in his shirt, and I pressed my face harder into his neck as if I could somehow disappear into him and leave everything else behind. The world outside didn’t matter.

I finally stepped back, swiping at my eyes with the heel of my hand. My chest still felt taut, but I managed to smile. Noah reached out and cradled my face, his palms warm against my cheeks, his thumbs brushing the dampness.

“I’m going to ask this once,” Noah said, his voice steady. “Are you feeling okay?”

I nodded, still catching my breath. “Yeah.”

His lips twitched into a smile, and he leaned in to kiss me—soft, lingering, and reassuring. “Okay then. Coffee?”

“Wait,” I said, my heart pounding harder now than it had while I was crying. “There’s something else.”

Noah tilted his head, confusion flickering in his eyes. I’d already told him about the aneurysm and promised him that was all I had to say. But it wasn’t true. Not entirely.

“I have seventeen million followers on my socials, a lot of them followed me when I was dating Jemima,” I blurted. “I want to come out that way—nothing formal—just post and then, shut my phone off after telling my brother. Will you help me?”

He blinked, processing my words, then nodded. I turned on my heel and hurried into the front room, gesturing for him to follow. Grabbing my phone from the coffee table, I snapped a quick selfie. Then, before I could second-guess myself, I grasped Noah by the arm and tugged him into the frame.

He didn’t resist as I pulled him close. His curls brushed my cheek as I adjusted the angle, capturing the two of us together—me grinning crookedly, my eyes not too red-rimmed, and him startled but… smiling.

“It’s your choice,” I said, turning the phone toward him so he could see the pictures. “Which photo do I share? If it’s the one of us, the media will be all over it immediately. If it’s just me, the media will still be all over it—but at least we could keep us quiet for a little while longer.”

Noah stared at the screen, then back at me. “Brody…”

I reached out, resting my hand over his heart. “I think I could fall in love with you, and I know that isn’t fair, and I know it hasn’t been long, and fuck, I didn’t even know you were a theater major, but… I needed you to know.”

His gaze softened, and his lips curved into the faintest smile. He took the phone from my hand, the tip of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he focused. He swiped through the pictures, his thumb hovering over the screen before finally looking back at me.

“I started to fall in love with you when you stalked me at the rink,” he said, his tone teasing, but his eyes warm.

“I wasn’t stalking,” I protested, though the heat creeping up my neck said otherwise.

“You were,” he countered, grinning.

“Okay, so maybe I was.” I couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out, but it was cut short as he leaned in and kissed me again.

When he pulled back, I glanced at the phone in his hand. He’d chosen the picture of us together—the one where I was wrecked, but happy, and he was like the brightest part of my world. My heart skipped a beat as he passed the phone back to me.

The caption was simple: Boyfriends . There were a few hashtags beneath it—something about bisexuality, love, hockey, and racing—but I didn’t even read them. My thumb hovered over the screen, and I pressed send.

And just like that, I was officially out to the world.

And I had a boyfriend.