Page 12

Dane

ONE WEEK LATER

The guest room ceiling stares back at me, unfamiliar and unwelcoming at three in the morning. Ethan's house is quiet now, but earlier it was full of life—his kid's laughter, Lisa's soft humming, the normal sounds of a family I could have had.

Should have had.

My ankle throbs under the sheets. Still swollen from this morning's game.

Midway through the second period, I took a brutal hip-check against the boards—clean, but hard. My skate twisted underneath me as I went down. I got up. I always get up. Played the rest of the shift like nothing was wrong. Coach said I was a machine. Didn’t feel like one.

I wrapped it after. Iced it twice. Told the trainers I was fine.

But now, in the dark, I’d give anything for Ivy taking care of me.

I keep thinking about the last time I came home hurting. She took one look at me hobbling into the penthouse and disappeared into the kitchen. Came back with an ice pack and a bowl of chicken noodle.

I told her, “Soup’s not gonna fix a sprained ankle.”

She just smiled and said, “It will. It says I love you.”

Fuck.

My phone glows in the darkness. No messages from Ivy. No likes on social media. No signs she's as sleepless as I am. She's probably moved on. Probably realized she deserves better.

I click the phone off. Roll over. Try to forget how empty this bed feels compared to ours.

Mine.

Whatever.

"You're not going." I hear Lisa’s voice as I follow Ethan into their kitchen the next morning, still half-asleep. I freeze, not wanting to interrupt what sounds like the start of a fight.

But Ethan just laughs. "The charity golf tournament? Babe, it's for disadvantaged kids."

"I don't care if it's for puppies with unicorn horns." Lisa waddles into view, seven months pregnant and somehow still graceful. "Your son has his first T-ball game that day. You're not missing it."

I brace for tension, for the kind of emotional standoff that became too familiar with Ivy. But Ethan just pulls his wife closer, dropping a kiss on her nose.

"What if I told you Coach Peterson specifically requested me?"

"What if I told you your son specifically requested his daddy?"

"Low blow, woman." But he's grinning. "Using the daddy card."

"Hey, I'm growing your second child. I get to play dirty."

"Oh, so now our son is just bonus leverage?"

"Absolutely." She pats her belly. "This one's already practicing her pout. Between the three of us, you don't stand a chance."

"Her? I thought we were waiting to find out?"

"Mother's intuition."

"Like your 'intuition' that Ethan Jr. was going to be a girl?"

"Hey, he could still rock a tutu if he wants to." She grins. "Besides, I was just preparing you for having a daughter eventually."

"Sneaky." He pulls her closer. "Fine. How about this—I do the first half of the tournament, then duck out early. Get to see both my MVPs in action."

"Deal." She pretends to consider. "But you're bringing home ice cream after. Baby wants rocky road."

"Baby or mama?"

"Don't question the vessel, mortal."

They're both laughing now, the "fight" forgotten in their easy banter. Something twists in my chest, sharp and familiar.

The way he looks at her—like she's everything, like her asking him to stay isn't a burden or a trap but a gift...

That could have been us.

The thought hits hard. Ivy and me, building a life. Maybe a family. Making dinner together, laughing about stupid things, choosing each other every day.

Instead, I saw demands where there was just love. She hasn't called or texted since I left. And what did I immediately think? That she'd moved on. Found someone else. When really, she's just giving me exactly what I asked for. Space.

I'm doing the same thing I hated her doing—jumping to the worst conclusion, letting my fears lead me.

“Hey, dude.” Ethan’s voice cuts in, easy but observant. “You good?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

I’m not.

I should be home.

Home. Not my penthouse. Not my space. Home .

Breakfast is over and now Ethan and Lisa are loading the dishwasher as a team.

“One more thing, woman” he suddenly says. “Do not text me sixteen times when I’m at the tournament.”

"That was one time! And I was having contractions!"

"False contractions."

"Still counts."

“You’re too much.”

“Too much for you? Like my dad told me?”

They're doing it again—turning potential conflict into connection. Making light of things I turned into battles.

And suddenly I see it all so clearly.

‘Too much.’ Ivy isn't too much. She's exactly enough. More than enough.

She's everything I want, everything I need.

And after that night I didn’t come home? She still made dinner. Maybe that wasn’t silent manipulation. Maybe it was her trying to give me space because she realized she missed me. And what did I do?

The same fucking thing.

Thought the worst. Assumed she was sulking. Plotting. Proving a point.

Really—she wasn’t. She was just loving me the only way I’d let her. The way she thought I wanted to be loved.

And I never even said I was sorry for not coming home. For not calling.

For becoming, in that moment, exactly the kind of asshole she was afraid I’d be.

No better than Trevor. Or her father.

I need to fix this.

Even if she doesn't want me back, I need to apologize for that night.