Page 36

Trying Something New

Nora

I stare at the phone number I’ve just typed into my phone, my finger hovering over the call button. This is either the best idea I’ve ever had or the absolute worst.

Probably the worst.

But I’m out of better options.

I hit call before I can change my mind, pressing the phone to my ear as my heart hammers against my ribs.

One ring. Two. Three.

Just as I’m about to hang up, convinced this was a terrible mistake, someone answers.

“Hello?” The voice sounds like Dean’s, but younger, less controlled.

“Logan?” I ask, cursing the tremor in my voice. “Logan Carter?”

“Yeah?” Now there’s suspicion in his tone. “Who’s this?”

“My name is Nora Shaw. I’m—” What exactly am I to Dean now? “—I know your brother.”

A pause. “Dean’s Nora?”

The unexpected possessive makes my chest tighten. “I don’t know if I’m still his anything,” I admit. “That’s actually why I’m calling.”

“How did you get my number?”

I wince. This is the part that makes me sound like a stalker. “I may have… looked you up on the hockey team roster for your school. The contact information was in the media guide.”

“Wow. Resourceful.” He doesn’t sound angry, just surprised. “And slightly terrifying.”

A weird little chuckle escapes me.

“I know this is weird,” I say quickly. “And I completely understand if you hang up right now. But I need to talk to Dean, and I need it to be somewhere neutral. Somewhere unexpected.”

“Ah.” Understanding colors his voice. “A grand gesture type situation.”

“Something like that.” I pace my small dorm room, too nervous to sit still. “Look, I know I’m putting you in an awkward position. But Dean talks about you a lot, and I thought—”

“He talks about me?” Logan sounds surprised.

“All the time,” I say truthfully. “He’s really proud of you.”

There’s another pause, longer this time. “He’s miserable, you know.”

The simple statement hits harder than a lengthy accusation would have. “I know. I am too.”

“What happened? He won’t tell me anything.”

“It’s complicated,” I say, feeling the inadequacy of the words. “But it was my fault. I got scared and I ran.”

“And now you want to un-run?”

“Yes.” The single word contains more certainty than I’ve felt in weeks. “If he’ll let me.”

Logan sighs, a sound so reminiscent of Dean that it makes my heart ache. “What did you have in mind?”

Twenty-four hours later, I’m pacing the empty bleachers of the campus ice rink, wondering if this whole plan was a colossal mistake.

The facility is technically closed—end-of-season maintenance, according to the signs posted on the doors. But Logan had connections through Dean, who had connections through Gavin, whose father apparently donated enough money to the athletic department to warrant an after-hours access code.

Lucky me.

The overhead lights are dimmed to their maintenance setting, casting long shadows across the empty ice. It’s eerily quiet without the usual crowd noise, just the low hum of the refrigeration system keeping the surface frozen despite the warm spring weather outside.

I check my watch again. 7:28. Dean should be here any minute, assuming Logan was successful in getting him here.

The text I’d received an hour ago was encouraging.

Logan: Operation Ice Capades is a go. He thinks he’s meeting me to help with college decisions. ETA 7:30.

Despite Logan’s confidence, doubt gnaws at my stomach. What if Dean takes one look at me and walks out? What if he’s moved on already? What if—

The sound of a door opening echoes through the empty arena. My heart lodges in my throat as a familiar figure appears at the entrance to the ice level.

Dean stops short when he sees me, his expression shifting from confusion to disbelief.

“Nora?”

He looks both better and worse than I expected. The same height and broad shoulders, the same intense gray eyes, but shadows beneath them suggesting he hasn’t been sleeping well. His hair is slightly longer than when I last saw him, curling just above his collar.

“Hey,” I say, suddenly forgetting every word of the speech I’ve rehearsed.

“Where’s Logan?” He glances around as if his brother might be hiding somewhere in the empty rink.

“Not coming.” I take a deep breath. “This was… my idea.”

Understanding dawns in his eyes. “You called my brother.”

Nodding, I take a step closer.

“I did.” No point in denying it. “I needed to see you, and I didn’t think you’d agree if I just asked.”

“So you enlisted my teenage brother in an ambush.” His tone is neutral, impossible to read.

“I prefer to think of it as a strategic surprise.” I attempt a smile that feels wobbly. “But yes, essentially.”

Dean doesn’t move from his position by the entrance, maintaining the distance between us. His eyes never leave mine, studying me with that focus that always makes me feel like I’m the only person in his universe.

“Why?” he asks finally.

A simple question with a complicated answer. I move down the bleachers, stopping at the lowest level, close enough to see his face clearly but still separated by the barrier between the stands and the ice area.

“Because I made a mistake,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Because I miss you. Because these have been the worst two weeks of my life, and I think—I hope—you might feel the same way.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his posture—a nearly imperceptible tension releasing.

“Two weeks and three days,” he corrects, and my heart skips at the echo of our old pattern. He’s been counting too.

“You once told me your door was always open,” I continue. “I need to know if that’s still true.”

Dean moves then, approaching the barrier that separates us. “You walked away, Nora. You ended things when it got difficult.”

“I know.” The guilt is still fresh, still raw. “I was scared. Everything was falling apart—my career, my friendship with Daphne, my nomination. I thought I had to choose.”

“And you chose your career.”

Ouch.

That hurts.

But he’s not wrong.

“I thought I didn’t have a choice.” I take a deep breath. “That whole baby scare gave me whiplash too,” I admit. “Part of me worried you’d end up choosing to get back with her. But Daphne came to see me yesterday. And she retracted her complaint.”

Surprise flickers across his face. “She did?”

I nod. “The nomination is still active. My position with Wexler is safe. And Daphne… she doesn’t hate me. At least not completely.”

“I’m glad,” he says, and I know he means it. “You deserve that recognition.”

“But none of it matters,” I say, moving closer to the barrier until only a few feet separate us. “None of it means anything without you.”

His expression softens slightly, but he makes no move to close the distance between us. “What exactly are you asking for, Nora?”

“A second chance.” My voice wavers slightly. “I know I don’t deserve one. I know I hurt you. But I’m asking anyway.”

Dean is quiet for a long moment, his eyes never leaving mine. I feel exposed under his gaze, every defense stripped away.

“Why here?” he asks finally. “Why the rink?”

Of all the questions I expected, this wasn’t one of them. I glance around at the empty arena.

“Because this is your space,” I say simply. “This is where you feel most yourself. Happy. Safe. Where you’re not trying to control everything or be perfect for everyone else.” I gesture to the ice. “I wanted to meet you on your territory. To show you I see all of you, not just the parts you let people see.”

Something shifts in his eyes—surprise, vulnerability, something I can’t quite name.

“Logan helped you come up with this plan?”

“Logan gave me access,” I clarify. “The plan was all mine. Though he did suggest I bring skating gear so we could talk on the ice.”

A ghost of a smile touches Dean’s lips. “You can skate?”

“Badly,” I admit. “Very badly. But I was willing to risk humiliation if that’s what it took.”

The smile grows slightly. “You hate not being good at things.”

“I do.” I take a deep breath. “But I’d rather be terrible at skating with you than excellent at anything else without you.”

Dean moves then, opening the gate in the barrier between us. He steps through, closing the distance until we’re standing just a foot apart.

“You hurt me,” he says quietly.

A pang of guilt hits my chest.

“I know.” I resist the urge to reach for him, knowing I haven’t earned that right yet. “I’m so sorry.”

“If we do this—if we try again—I need to know you won’t run at the first sign of trouble. That you won’t decide I’m expendable when things get complicated.”

“You were never expendable,” I say, my voice cracking. “I was just too scared to admit how much I needed you.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m still scared,” I admit. “But I’m more scared of never feeling the way I feel with you than I am of whatever challenges we might face.”

Dean studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then slowly, deliberately, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper.

He holds it out to me. “I was going to bring this to your lab tomorrow.”

With trembling fingers, I unfold it. It’s the Archer Initiative notification letter. He’s been selected as the recipient.

“Congratulations,” I say, meaning it despite the twinge of disappointment. “You deserve it.”

“Read the whole thing,” he says quietly.

I continue reading, heart stuttering when I reach the second paragraph:

“In recognition of the exceptional quality of applications this year, the committee has decided to award a secondary grant to Nora Shaw of the Neuroscience Department for her groundbreaking work on neural feedback systems…”

I look up, stunned. “I got a grant too?”

Dean nods. “Not the full Archer package, but close. Whitman told me this morning. They’re creating a special category this year because they couldn’t decide between us.”

“That’s… wow.” The news hasn’t fully registered yet. “But why were you bringing this to me? We haven’t spoken in weeks.”

A hint of vulnerability crosses his face. “Because regardless of what happened between us, I knew you’d want to know. And because I was planning to decline if they hadn’t recognized your work too.”

The admission knocks the breath from my lungs. “You would have turned it down? For me?”

“Not for you,” he corrects. “For us. Because there was no version of my future that felt right if it came at the expense of yours.”

Tears well in my eyes, blurring my vision. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Probably not,” he agrees, a small smile softening the words. “But I want you anyway.”

The simple statement breaks something inside me—a wall I didn’t even realize was still standing. A sob escapes my throat, and suddenly Dean’s arms are around me, pulling me against his chest. I cling to him, face buried in his shirt as weeks of tension, loneliness, and guilt finally overflow.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper against his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know.” His hand strokes my hair, gentle despite everything. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” I pull back enough to look up at him, needing him to understand. “What I did wasn’t okay. But I promise—I swear—I won’t do it again. I won’t run when things get hard.”

He studies my face, his eyes serious. “I believe you.”

“Just like that?”

“No.” His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing away a tear. “Not just like that. Because I know you, Nora Shaw. When you make a commitment, you follow through. When you say something, you mean it.”

I lean into his touch, starved for it after weeks without him. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too.” His voice roughens slightly. “Every day. Every minute.”

“Are we really doing this?” I ask, hardly daring to believe it. “Trying again?”

“Yes.” The certainty in his voice steadies me. “But with one condition.”

“Anything.”

“No more hiding.” His hand slides to the nape of my neck, warm and familiar. “No more sneaking around or worrying what other people will think. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it openly.”

“Okay.” The prospect is slightly terrifying—facing potential judgment, navigating social complexities with Daphne—but the alternative is unthinkable. “No more hiding.”

“Good.” Dean’s other hand settles at my waist, drawing me closer. “Because I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to look at you across a room. Tired of calculating how long I can accidentally brush against you in the hallway without being obvious.”

The admission sends warmth spreading through me. “You calculated that?”

“Down to the tenth of a second.” A hint of his old humor returns. “I’m very precise about these things.”

“I’ve noticed.” I slide my hands up his chest to his shoulders, relearning the feel of him beneath my fingers. “It’s one of the things I love about you.”

The word slips out before I can catch it, hanging in the air between us. Dean goes very still, his eyes darkening.

“What did you say?” he asks, voice low.

I could backtrack. Could rephrase, substitute “like” or “admire” or any other safer term. But I’m done being safe.

“I love you,” I repeat, more deliberately this time. “I think I have for a while. I was just too afraid to admit it, even to myself.”

For a moment, Dean doesn’t respond, and my heart stutters with anxiety. Then his hands frame my face, his expression more open, more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen it.

“I love you too,” he says, the words simple but profound. “Even when I was angry, even when I thought you were gone for good—I never stopped.”

And then he’s kissing me, his mouth finding mine with the hunger of weeks apart. I rise on my toes, arms winding around his neck as I pour everything I can’t say into the kiss—every apology, every promise, every declaration of love I’ve been holding back.

When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, he rests his forehead against mine. “So,” he says, a smile in his voice. “Did you really bring skates?”

I laugh, the sound rusty but genuine. “I did. Though I should warn you, I wasn’t exaggerating about being terrible.”

“That’s okay.” He brushes another kiss against my lips. “I’ll hold you up.”

As we make our way to the locker room to retrieve the rental skates I stashed there earlier, Dean’s hand warm around mine, I realize something: For the first time in my life, I’m not calculating risks or weighing consequences or planning ten steps ahead.

I’m simply here, with Dean, taking each moment as it comes.

And somehow, that feels like the most precise equation of all.