Page 17

SEVENTEEN

Brody

We managed to bypass the media, which felt like an uphill battle given the chaos my social media post had caused. They were everywhere—circling my brother’s neighborhood, parked outside the gates, snapping pictures of anyone who came or went. Logan and Sadie handled the no-comment game like pros, but I could feel the weight of it, the way my mess had become theirs too. The guilt settled heavily in my chest; a constant reminder this wasn’t just my burden anymore.

I’d hired private security to patrol their house and keep an eye on Noah, though he didn’t know about that part. It wasn’t as if I was following him; I couldn’t risk something happening to him because of me. The thought was enough to keep the guilt at bay—just barely.

Getting to the doctor’s office was a covert operation in itself. We slipped through a back entrance, Logan leading the way while I kept my head down. The clinic was quiet, the fluorescent lights casting a sterile glow over the empty waiting area.

Dr. Reilly met us in his office, his face a practiced mask of calm professionalism. He gestured for us to sit, and I sank into the chair, my heart pounding. Logan settled beside me, his presence steady, but it didn’t stop the tension from coiling tighter with every passing second.

“I’ve reviewed the MRI results,” Dr. Reilly began, his tone measured. “And as you thought, the headaches and dizziness are due to a change.”

My stomach dropped. “What kind of change?”

He folded his hands on the desk, his gaze steady but serious. “The aneurysm has grown. It’s still small, but the growth indicates increased pressure in the vessel wall. At this point, we need to consider surgical intervention.”

The words hit me like a freight train—surgical intervention. My chest tightened, my breath shallow as the room seemed to shrink around me. “‘Surgical intervention’,” I echoed, my voice barely above a whisper.

Dr. Reilly nodded. “Yes. The good news is that it’s operable, and the prognosis is positive. However, I won’t sugarcoat this—there are risks. It’s brain surgery, Brody. As I explained before, complications are rare but can include issues with memory, motor skills, or speech,” he explained. “We’ll take every precaution to minimize those risks, but you must be prepared for the possibility.”

Logan leaned forward, his tone firm but calm. “And the good news? What’s the best-case scenario?”

Dr. Reilly’s expression softened. “The optimal outcome is that we successfully repair the aneurysm, and Brody fully recovers with no long-term effects.”

Logan’s hand landed on my arm, a steadying weight. “Then, that’s what we’ll focus on.”

I couldn’t share his optimism. My thoughts were stuck on the words “brain surgery” and “risks,” circling endlessly until they drowned out everything else. I stared at the desk, gripping the edge of the chair as if it could anchor me. I felt as out of control as when I’d lost traction at a hundred and ninety miles per hour during qualifying in Monaco, the car spinning out in the rain while I fought to regain control. Like then, as other cars headed straight for me, I could do nothing but brace for impact and hope the damage wouldn’t be catastrophic.

Dr. Reilly cleared his throat, pulling my attention back to him. “I understand this is a lot to take in. I’ll give you a couple of days to process, but we must schedule the surgery soon. The longer we wait, the greater the risk of rupture.”

I nodded, unable to trust my voice. Logan spoke for both of us, thanking the doctor and promising to follow up as we left. My legs felt as if they were moving on autopilot, each step toward the car heavier than the last.

I collapsed into the passenger seat, staring out of the window. My hands trembled, and I clenched them into fists to stop the shaking.

Logan started the engine, his grip tight on the steering wheel. “We’re going to get through this,” he said, glancing at me. “You’re not alone in this, Brody. We’ve got a plan, and we’ll make it work.”

“What if it doesn’t?” The words slipped out before I could stop them, raw and desperate.

Logan’s jaw tightened, but his tone didn’t waver. “Then we’ll figure it out. You've got Noah now. You have a future and don’t get to give up, little brother. Not on this, and not on yourself.”

I turned my head, meeting his steady gaze. I wanted to believe him, to cling to the hope in his voice, but the fear was too loud, drowning out everything else. For now, I could only nod and hope he was right.

I owed it to Noah to tell him. No more delays, no more half-truths. He deserved to know what was happening, to understand the risks and the reality of being with me post-operation. But even as I thought about it, my chest tightened again. How could I tell him without making him see me as fragile or broken?

“Have you thought about telling anyone else?”

I was horrified. “Not our fucking grandfather, he’d monetize it somehow, make me a huge pity party, and?—”

“I meant Jemima.”

“We message,” I hedged.

“So you’ve told her about the aneurysm?”

“No. She knows I’m bi though.”

He shot me a pointed look. “Call her before the media gets hold of it.”

The car was silent except for the soft hum of the engine, and I hesitated, staring at the name on my screen. Jemima . It had been months since we’d last talked, but she was still one of the few people in my life who actually knew me—who’d seen me at my best and worst and never judged me for either.

I’d lost track of where in the world she was, but I hit call, half hoping she’d answer and half hoping I could leave a message. The line rang once, twice, and then?—

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite ex.”

Her voice was the same as ever, light and teasing, but I could hear the undercurrent of surprise. I never called out of the blue; we always messaged.

“Hey, J,” I said, exhaling. “You got a minute?”

“For you? Always. What’s up?”

I swallowed. “I need to tell you something. And I don’t want you to hear it from the media.”

Her breath hitched. “What is it?”

I forced the words out. “I have an aneurysm. In my brain. They found it after my crash in Vegas.”

Silence. Long enough that I checked the screen to make sure the call hadn’t dropped.

Then, her voice, small and broken. “Oh my God, Brody.”

I closed my eyes. “I’m okay. It’s—small. Stable, for now. But I need surgery.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

A shaky breath. Another pause, and then, in true Jemima fashion, she sniffed, pulled herself together, and squared her shoulders, even if I couldn’t see it. “Well. Chin up, Vance. You’ll get through surgery, and when you do, we’re celebrating. I’ll visit when I’m back from Europe. And if you need me before that… you get that sexy brother of yours to call me.”

Logan snorted under his breath, and I huffed a quiet laugh, the tension in my chest easing just a fraction. “You don’t have to?—”

“Shut up, I want to.” Her voice softened. “I love you, B.”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Love you too, J.”

There was nothing romantic in the words. Just history. Just understanding. Just us.

She cleared her throat. “You want me to get ahead of this if it leaks?”

“No comment always works for me.”

She chuckled. “Figured as much. But you know where to find me if you change your mind.”

“I do.”

A pause, then, “Take care of yourself, Brody. Get Logan to… get him to… tell me how you are, okay?”

I glanced at Logan, who nodded. “He will.” I ended the call, staring at the phone briefly before setting it down. The car was still silent, but the world outside kept moving.

Logan dropped me at Noah’s family’s house. Erik, who hadn’t eyed me as though I was a threat, had given me all the codes: the gate, the internal gate, and the door. They took security seriously, and for that, I was grateful. They didn’t know about the extra layer of protection I’d added with the private security team, but maybe I should be honest.

I steeled myself for the dreaded conversation when I knocked on the door. But before I could say a word, the door flew open and Noah was there, grinning from ear to ear.

“I made the team!” he shouted, and before I could react, he jumped at me, wrapping me in a tight hug and swinging me around as if I weighed nothing. “I made the team!”

I clung to him out of instinct, laughing despite myself. “Noah, that’s amazing!”

“Come in! We’re celebrating!” he said, dragging me inside with an energy that lit up the entire house.

The kitchen smelled of spices and roasting meat, a warm mix of dill, garlic, and something buttery that clung to the air. Stan was at the stove, fussing over what looked like an enormous pot of stew or something, his brow furrowed with concentration. Erik leaned against the counter, nursing a beer. His posture was relaxed despite the buzz of activity around him, and he lifted his bottle in a hello. The counter was loaded with platters of food: stuffed cabbage rolls, blinis stacked high, bowls of sour cream, and tiny pickles—a feast fit for a celebration, all with a distinct Russian flair.

“Thirty minutes,” Stan warned, not even glancing up as Noah tugged me past and up the stairs.

Noah led me into the room he was staying in, and the first thing I noticed was how lived-in it felt; it must have been his childhood room. Posters of hockey players I didn’t recognize covered the walls, trophies lined a shelf, and a pile of plushies sat in the corner of the bed. It wasn’t what I expected, but it was so undeniably Noah it made me smile.

He turned to me, his eyes still shining with excitement, and before I could say anything, he threw his arms around me. We hugged, his warmth seeping into me as I held on.

When he pulled back, his grin hadn’t dimmed. “Can you believe it? I made the team! Fourth line for now, but I'm there!”

I kissed him then, quick and light, because he was so high on the moment, and I couldn’t bring myself to dim that light. Not today. “I’m proud of you, Noah. You earned this.”

His cheeks flushed, and he laughed, dragging a hand through his curls. “Thanks. It’s… it’s just huge, you know? I can’t wait for you to see me play for real, sitting in the stands or a box. Probably a box, right? And it won't matter if you get spotted because you're with me, I'm with you, and I love you!”

“I love you, too, and I'll be at every game I can be,” I promised, though the words felt heavy with everything I hadn’t told him yet. Tomorrow, I thought. Tomorrow, I’d tell him. But not today. Today was his moment, and I wouldn’t take that away from him.

That's my excuse, and it's valid. Right?

I'm not a coward.

I'm not.

Dinner was exactly what I needed, even if I hadn’t known it before. The atmosphere in the kitchen was light and celebratory, Stan explaining every dish in detail with pride as he served us. Erik sat on the counter; his beer forgotten in his hand as he watched his family with a quiet pride I envied more than I cared to admit. Every laugh, every joke, every shared memory filled the room with a warmth I hadn’t felt in years.

Halfway through, there was a knock at the door. Noah shot me a look of excitement as he jumped up to answer it, and a moment later, he returned with two men. One of them I recognized from the posters on Noah’s walls—Tennant Rowe—a hockey player, or a former one at least. The other was older, blond, with an air of calm authority and a smile that hinted he didn’t miss much.

“Noah!” Tennant’s voice was loud, his grin infectious as he pulled Noah into a bear hug. “You did it, kid! I knew you would!”

The other man, whom Noah introduced as Jared, clapped Noah on the back with a quieter, “Proud of you, Noah. Couldn’t be happier.”

And then, Tennant turned to me. “And you must be Brody.” His handshake was firm, his expression open and curious. “Noah’s been messaging me about you. A lot.”

“Has he?” I glanced at Noah, and he flushed, though he didn’t deny it.

“Uncle Ten!” Noah groaned.

Tennant laughed, his energy filling the room as he sat at the table. “Let me tell you, this kid right here”—he pointed at Noah—“has been a firecracker since day one. I remember he insisted on carrying tiny hockey sticks for every occasion when he was little. I mean, everywhere. Grocery store? Tiny hockey stick. Bath. It's a tiny hockey stick with a sponge. Weddings? It's a tiny hockey stick to dig into the cake. I had one custom-made for him to use in the pool because I couldn’t get over how cute it was.”

“Still have it,” Noah admitted, his voice soft but proud. “It’s in my room, along with all the other stuff I have of yours that I can sell on eBay.”

Ten clutched his chest. “Ouch!”

The banter had everyone laughing. Ten and Jared were easy to be around, and their excitement for Noah was infectious. The night included stories from when Noah was a kid, from when his dads and Ten played for the Railers, or when Jared was a defensive coach, about how he and Ten paved the way for others. However, neither of them would admit they'd done anything remarkable.

“Did you always want to play hockey?” I asked during a lull in the conversation. I’d never thought to ask him before, I kind of assumed that, like me, family legacy dictated what he’d become.

I hadn’t seen my grandfather since that day I left his house. Still, he hadn’t given up—he kept sending me emails about promotional opportunities countered with how fucking disappointed he was in me letting him down. He called me a coward so many times that I almost believed it.

At least, I would have if I wasn’t with Noah.

Somehow, being with Noah—loving Noah—made my grandfather’s controlling ways and bitterness less than nothing.

“Little Rabbit always wanted to be hockey player.”

“Apart from when he wanted to be a rodeo clown,” Erik reminded him. “Or a chimney sweep.”

“Sweeping the chimney he sees in Poppins movie. I am not sure when he sees clown in rodeo, but I know for good he could be anything he wants to be.”

I reached for Noah’s hand under the table, and he squeezed mine, his smile warm and steady. At that moment, everything felt right. The worries, the fears, the weight I’d been carrying were still there, but for now, they didn’t matter. All that mattered was this. Him. Us.

Tonight.

After we'd moved to the large living room, I cuddled into Noah’s side on the vast sectional, and Ten dozed off, his head resting on Jared’s shoulder as the room quieted. It was Stan who broke the peaceful silence, his deep, accented voice cutting through the soft hum of conversation.

“How is head?” Stan asked, his words blunt but laced with concern.

I snapped to attention, my chest tightening. Were they talking about me? Had Noah told them? My gaze flickered to him, looking down at me, searching for answers in his expression. But Noah shook his head, his eyes steady on mine. He hadn’t said anything.

Instead, he cleared his throat, his voice steady as he answered. “He’s talking about Ten.”

Stan nodded, his eyes warm as they landed on Tennant, still dozing. “When he was young man, he have big hate with other snake player. Very bad man. Evil. One game, Ten fall to ice with big crash. Very bad. Blood everywhere. No speaking from Ten for many days. Bad brain for pudding inside skull.”

Jared’s hand settled on Tennant’s back, his touch light but grounding. “It was a bad fall,” he said. “Traumatic brain injury. There was a lot of swelling, and for a while, we didn’t know if he’d fully recover.”

“Bad times,” Stan whispered.

“The good news is,” Jared added, his tone brightening, “that aside from headaches and occasional confusion, Ten is happy, coaching peewee hockey, and enjoying retirement.”

The tension in my chest eased, replaced by a strange mixture of relief and an unnamed feeling. Watching how Jared’s hand rested on Tennant and the way Stan’s eyes softened when he looked at them, I felt a pang of something reminiscent of envy.

I cuddled closer to Noah, needing the contact. He squeezed back, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in a way that made my chest ache with something warm and unfamiliar.

“Good,” Stan said, his lips curving into a small smile. “He is strong. Like my Little Rabbit.”

Noah ducked his head, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Thanks, Pops.”

I stared up at my Noah, then really looked at him. His blond curls were messy, his eyes bright despite the late hour, and a smile tugged at his lips. Perfect. He was perfect.

“Can we talk?” I whispered, and Noah smiled down at me, waggling his eyebrows.

“Talk, huh?” His smile faltered. He was teasing but must have noticed something in my expression. “Heading to bed!” His loud announcement woke Ten, who blinked at us and smiled.

“Already?” Ten said, with a pout, then a grin.

“Go back to sleep, babe,” Jared laughed.

“Is early still. Lightweights,” Stan teased, his thick accent wrapping around the word as he glanced at Noah and me. “Shameful manly ways. It’s only ten o’clock. Back in day, we party until sunrise, then beat Boston seven-one!”

Noah shot him a grin, his curls bouncing as he turned to grab my hand. “Some of us have practice tomorrow at nine,” he said, his voice full of mock seriousness. “Can’t all be retired legends like you, P!”

“Excuses,” Stan muttered, but his smile betrayed the pride in his eyes as he watched Noah pull me toward the stairs.

“Night, everyone!”

The four retired guys sketched waves at us, and I waved back.

“Come on,” Noah murmured, his hand warm and firm around mine. “Let’s get some sleep.”

We climbed the stairs, the sounds of the party growing fainter with every step. My heart was pounding, and it wasn’t from the climb. I knew what I had to say and couldn’t put it off. But the weight of the words made my chest tight, my thoughts swirling with what-ifs and worst-case scenarios.

Noah tugged me into his childhood room. As soon as the door was shut on us, he turned to me, his expression softening as he caught the look on my face. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice low and steady.

I hesitated, the words catching in my throat. “I need to say something,” I whispered, the vulnerability in my voice making me cringe.

He nodded, stepping closer and brushing his thumb over my hand. “What’s going on?”

I waited for him to ask if I was okay, but he didn't, which threw me a little. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “I went to the doctor today.”

His brows furrowed, concern flashing in his eyes. “Okay,” he said. “You’re scaring me a little.”

“I don’t mean to,” I said, running a hand through my hair. “The doctor wants to operate. It’s… it’s gotten bigger.”

Noah froze, the weight of my words hanging between us. His hand tightened around mine, his expression shifting from shock to worry. “‘Bigger’?” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

I nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. It’s not… it’s not an emergency yet, but they don’t want to wait. There are risks if we don’t do it soon, and risks if we do it, and… fuck. So many risks.”

He stared at me for a long moment, his jaw tightening. “What kind of risks are we talking about?”

“The usual,” I said, trying to keep my tone light even as my chest tightened. “Memory, motor skills, speech. You know, stuff you don’t want to mess with.”

“Brody,” he said, his voice breaking on my name. He pulled me into a hug, his arms wrapping around me. I buried my face in his neck, clinging to him as the tension I’d been holding onto for days finally began to ease.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, my voice muffled against his skin. “I didn’t want to ruin tonight, but I promised I'd be honest with you, and I can't keep it from you anymore.”

He held me tighter, stroking the back of my head. “Don’t apologize,” he said. “You don’t have to apologize for this. For any of it.”

“I'm sorry you fell in love with someone who?—”

“Stop right there,” Noah warned, and I buried my face in his neck again. “When?”

“The operation?”

“Yeah.”

“Soon.”

“How soon?”

“As soon as I decide to do it. A week, a month, a year?” I shrugged because it would be less than that if I decided to proceed. There was no point in delaying the inevitable; however much I wanted to stay in this moment with Noah.

“But the doc says you need it, now? Tomorrow? The day after? Is it an emergency? Should we go now?”

“Not tonight, but soon.”

We stood there for what felt like an eternity, the world outside fading away until it was just the two of us. Finally, he pulled back enough to meet my gaze, his hands still on my shoulders.

“Okay, it happens, and when you wake up, I'll be there. I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said, his voice firm and unwavering. “I just found you, Brody. I’m not losing you now.”

The sincerity in his words broke something inside me, and I nodded, unable to find the words to respond. He kissed me, slow and soft, as though he was trying to pour all his love and determination into that moment.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine, his breath warm on my skin. “We’ll get through this,” he said. “Together.”

I nodded again, a small, tentative smile breaking through the weight in my chest. “Together.”