Reese sits beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
I lean into her, suddenly exhausted. "What if the Steel job is the answer? I could leave, remove myself from the equation. Dad would have no reason to punish Nate anymore. The team could get back on track."
"Is that why you'd take it?" Reese's voice is gentle but probing.
"I don't know." I close my eyes. "Maybe that's part of it. But mostly because I don't see how I can stay with the Blades now. Too much damage has been done."
On the screen, highlights from the game play on a loop—every goal against the Blades, every missed opportunity, every frustrated expression.
Maybe a fresh start really is what everyone needs. Maybe by walking away, I can start all over again.
Chapter 18
Nate
The final buzzer sounds. I stare at the TV screen, watching my teammates skate off the ice with slumped heads and downcast eyes. Seven to one. A slaughter. And here I am, wrapped in a blanket on my couch, utterly useless to them when they needed me most. My throat feels like I've swallowed shards of glass, and my head is pounding. This fucking virus has laid me flat for three days now, but seeing the Blades get demolished feels worse than any physical symptom.
I reach for the remote and turn up the volume, masochistically tuning in to the post-game analysis.
"The Blades were clearly missing Barnes tonight," one commentator says. "Their offense looked completely disjointed without him."
His partner chimes in: "Coach Martinez listed him as 'unavailable' this morning. No official word on whether it's an injury or something else."
I snort, which immediately triggers a coughing fit. As if I'd voluntarily sit out a game against the Jets, one of our biggest rivals.
The empty soup container sits on my coffee table next to half a bottle of ginger ale that's lost its fizz. I ordered delivery from that Jewish deli downtown—chicken noodle soup that's supposed to be some kind of miracle cure. It wasn't bad. Salty, with thick noodles and chunks of chicken and vegetables. But it wasn't my mom's.
Mom's soup was amazing—just chicken, carrots, celery, and those little star-shaped pasta pieces I loved as a kid. She'd bring it to my room on a tray with saltine crackers arranged in a smile pattern on a napkin. "Soup for my little champion," she'd say, her hand cool against my forehead as she checked for fever.
That was before Teddy died, of course.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. When was the last time I even talked to my parents? A year ago? Longer? The fight we had the last time we talked still keeps me up sometimes when I'm trying to sleep.
"You're making millions now," Dad had said, slamming his beer bottle on the table. "And you can't spare a little more for your mother and me? After everything we've done for you?"
Everything they'd done for me. Right. Like how they treated me after the fire. Like never coming to a single one of my hockey games until I made it to the NHL. Like treating me as an ATM rather than a son.
"I send you five thousand dollars every month," I'd replied, trying to keep my voice steady. "That's sixty thousand a year. Tax-free because I pay the taxes on it. What more do you want?"
"You think that's enough?" Dad had laughed. "Your signing bonus alone was three million. You could give us a real piece of that. Set us up."
The memory makes my stomach clench. I'm still sending them the money every month. And they never acknowledge it. Not a text. Not a call. Nothing.
My phone sits dark and silent on the cushion beside me. No messages from teammates asking how I'm feeling. No check-ins from friends. No word from Elena.
Elena. The one person I actually want to hear from. The one person who's seen the real me and still looked at me like I was worth something. And now she's gone, yanked out of my life because we crossed lines we shouldn't have.
I cough again, each hack feeling like sandpaper against my raw throat. The medicine I took earlier is wearing off, and the fever is creeping back.
The post-game wraps up, and some mindless sitcom comes on. I don't bother changing the channel. The laugh track washes over me like white noise as I drift in and out of consciousness.
My thoughts keep circling back to my parents. To that last fight. To the years of complicated history between us.
I wonder sometimes if they ever think about me as anything other than a source of income. If they remember the little boy who lived for hockey, who just wanted to make them proud. If they ever regret how things turned out between us.
I reach for my phone and pull up my banking app. The monthly transfer to their account went through three days ago, right on schedule. Five thousand dollars. No acknowledgment. No gratitude. Just the same silence I've grown accustomed to.
I could stop the transfers. I've thought about it before. Let them call me if they want more money. Make them at least pretend to care.
