Page 23 of Mountain Men on Ice

Back in the great room, he stands by the door with keys and duffel and that neutral mouth. He looks like he didn’t sleep—like he tried to hold up the house with his shoulders and failed. I still love him a little for trying, even as he won’t let me help.

“Ready?” he asks.

No. “Yes.”

Outside, the morning is so bright it feels rude. Trees glitter with new ice; the road is a thin gray promise. He limps carefully, face set in a neutral mask.

I repeat the thing I’ve always told myself: Be enough for you, Stevie.

It doesn’t matter if I’m enough for anyone else. Maybe if I say that often enough, it’ll come true.

EIGHT

GRADY

Seattle doesn’t feel like it did before.

It’s glossy, too bright, too high above the city in a penthouse that looks like it was designed to be photographed, not lived in.

The floor-to-ceiling windows give me a view of the skyline and the Sound.

But all I see is her. Freckles in firelight, hair tumbling loose, the little notes tattooed under her ribs where I kissed them like a fool who thought he had the right.

It’s been three days since I left her at the airport. Three days since I told myself it was the smart move, the responsible move, the only move.

I haven’t texted. Haven’t called. Not because I don’t want to. Because I want to too damn much.

Instead I sit here, knee elevated on a pillow, an ice pack sweating through the towel, the TV on mute with some endless highlights reel. My face flashes across the screen in clips from better years and better knees.

The crawl at the bottom speculates about my future like it’s a commodity on the stock exchange. Out indefinitely. Contract in question. Possible retirement.

Who the hell am I without hockey?

I know the answer. Nobody.

The door slams.

I jolt upright as Thatcher storms in, a linebacker in street clothes, eyes blazing. “You son of a bitch.”

I don’t ask how he got past security. He’s Thatcher—he gets past anything when he’s pissed.

“What the hell—” I start, but he’s already in my face, shoving my shoulder.

“You think you can hide out here while my sister cries herself dry?” His voice booms off the glass. “You think you can use her like some—some cabin fling and then ghost her?”

I grit my teeth, guilt flaring hotter than my knee. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then tell me what it was.” He shoves again, harder. “Because from where I’m standing, my best friend broke my baby sister’s heart.”

I shove back—not hard, just enough to put space between us.

“I didn’t mean to.” My voice cracks. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“That’s not an answer.”

I rake both hands through my hair, pacing toward the window and back.

“What do you want me to say? That I love her?” The words rip out of me before I can cage them. My chest heaves. “Because I do. God help me, I do. And that’s exactly why I let her go.”