Elio said nothing for a moment, absorbing every word. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, deliberate, full of quiet understanding. “You know, when things went bad with Jaxon, I was ready to give up, too.”
I glanced up at him, surprised. He rarely talked openly about his relationship, especially when things had gotten tough. But here he was, laying it bare for my sake.
“We pushed each other away hard,” Elio admitted. “I hurt him because I was scared, Patrick. I’d convinced myself I didn’tdeserve him and that if he saw the real me, he’d leave. So I made sure he never had the chance.”
I swallowed thickly, recognizing myself in his words. “But you guys figured it out.”
Elio nodded slowly, eyes serious. “Yeah, we did. But it took courage, Patrick. Real courage. More than any hockey game ever demanded. I had to stop running from my mistakes and face them head-on. I had to admit that I was scared, vulnerable…and wrong.”
I closed my eyes, exhaling through the tightness in my chest. “What if it’s too late?”
Elio offered a small, knowing smile. “If Shane feels half of what you feel right now, it’s not too late. Sometimes we hurt the people we care about because they’re the ones close enough to take the hit. But you don’t give up just because things got messy. Love is messy.”
My throat tightened painfully. “I don’t even know if he wants to talk to me.”
“He might not right away,” Elio agreed gently. “But if you don’t even try, you’ll never know. It’ll eat you up, Patrick. Trust me, I know.”
I nodded silently, staring down at my feet, my mind swirling with doubt, fear, and fragile hope. Elio placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“You guys deserve a real shot,” he said, voice firm. “But that means you have to be brave enough to risk failing again. Maybe you’ll screw it up—maybe it’ll hurt even worse—but at least you’ll know you didn’t just give up when it mattered most.”
His words lingered, heavy and honest, sinking deep into my chest. He squeezed my shoulder gently and turned toward the door. “Think about it. If you really care about him, you have to fight for it.”
Elio disappeared back inside Lumière, leaving me alone again, standing in the cold with my heartbeat echoing his advice.
I took a deep breath, the first one in days that didn’t feel suffocating. Maybe Elio was right. Maybe Shane deserved a real fight—not a hockey game, not an angry exchange of words—but an honest, vulnerable battle for something deeper, something worth every bruise along the way.
I wasn’t sure if I could do it, if I was brave enough. But as I stood there, the ache inside me softened just a little, enough for me to realize that I owed it to Shane, and to myself, to try.
After all, what was the point of winning on the ice if I lost the one person who made it all mean something?
EIGHTEEN
SHANE
My computer screenglowed 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 onthe 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 keptme from texting him, pride that stopped me from running to him right now and begging for forgiveness. Or fear.
