My breathing is ragged as I shove him back. Not hard, but enough to create space between us. He stumbles, then exhales sharply and pulls off his helmet.
“Fuck,” he mutters, shaking his head. “What are we doing? Aren’t you also tired of this? We’ve been skating in circles, blaming each other for what happened, for years. I’m getting tired, man. So fucking tired.”
A lump rises in my throat. I can feel the pressure behind my eyes. If I blink too long, I might actually cry. And I don’t even care anymore. This ends right here, right now.
“Yeah,” I croak. “I’ve been tired for years, too.”
And I mean every word. The years of anger and silence, the grudges we’ve never talked about, the stupid pride that’s kept us hostile. It’s all been dragging me down.
Åkerman studies me, eyes shining. “We’ve been holding onto shit, acting it still matters. But does it? Does itreallymatter anymore?”
His words rattle something deep in my chest, something I’ve refused to acknowledge.
No, it doesn’t matter.
I rip off my helmet. My hair is damp with sweat as I drag a hand through it and admit one of my deepest secrets. “I was jealous of you.”
His head snaps up. “What?”
I shrug, the weight on my shoulders already easing. “You had it all. The talent, the grades, the family. Everything I cared about seemed so easy for you.”
“You think growing up in a hockey dynasty meant my life was all sunshine and rainbows?” He lets out a bitter scoff with his words. “It meant failure wasn’t an option. I didn’t get to have bad game days. I wasn’t allowed to struggle. You—” He gestures at me. “You played in a way that proved you had nothing to lose. That fire? I envied it. If I’m being honest, I was jealous ofyou.”
I stare at him, stunned. “You were jealous ofme?”
“Yeah,” he says simply. “It was easier to be jealous than face my own shit.”
The words hit harder than anything he could’ve said with his fists. My mouth opens, then closes again. That word—jealous—coming from him feels like a sledgehammer to the ribs. Foryears, I thought he was untouchable. That he couldn’t possibly understand what it was to always feel I was catching up. But he does. Maybe he always did.
“Then the rumor about me sleeping with her started going around the campus. And you believed it. Every. Damn. Word.” He drags a hand down his face, his voice cracking when he speaks again. “That hurt more than anything else.”
“I didn’t want to believe it. But I did. I let it get in my head.” I look away, guilt washing over me. “I should’ve talked to you sooner.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You should’ve.”
“At the time, she was one more thing you had that I didn’t. But I didn’t just lose her. I lost you, too. And I was too damn proud to admit how much that destroyed me.”
My voice breaks on the last two words. I wipe at my face with the back of my hand like it’s sweat, but it’s not.
“I never touched her. I’d never do that to you. You believing that I could be so cruel was the most painful part,” he whispers even if we’re the only people here. “It wrecked me.”
“I know,” I admit. “I think I’ve known for a long time. Just like I know that we both were at fault.”
He steps closer, eyes searching mine. “Then why didn’t you say something?”
“Because I didn’t know how at first. And by the time I did, it felt too late.” I look up to the practice arena ceiling, trying to stop the tears. “But I missed you. Even when I thought I hated you.”
The unfiltered words hang between us, years of silence cracking wide open with every syllable.
“I missed you too,” he says, voice hoarse. “You were the closest thing I had to a brother. Losing you over something so damn stupid bruised me in ways that not much else has,” he pauses, swallowing hard. “And maybe I couldn’t admit that until now because I wasn’t ready to feel it.”
“I wasn’t ready either. I buried everything so deep I convinced myself I didn’t feel much at all. But I was lying to myself.”
“Fuck, Ras. How did we both miss how the other was hurting?”
I laugh, but it’s a broken sound. “We were idiots.”
“The biggest,” he adds.
