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“Hey, P,” I whisper.

She smiles, though it’s minuscule. “Hey, Bennett.” My hand slides up her back and into the ends of her hair, twirling it between my fingers. “You okay?”

I shake my head with a soft, sad smile of my own. Harris and my dad’s voices fade into the background. Rhys is an unmoving pillar of strength at my side, his arm still around me—holding me up, like he has since I was a kid.

Paloma nods and huddles into my body tighter. “That’s okay. You don’t need to be okay right now.” She turns her head to kiss my sweaty chest. “I love you.”

I close my eyes and breathe.

Chapter 77

NOW

Bennett

They don’t let me play.

It’s a collective decision, but I’m not upset about it. Maybe I should be, considering it’s the final game of my final Frozen Four as the Waterfell Wolves’ goalie. But I’m more than that. My team knows that, and they can do this. Besides, Connor Mercer, my tandem, is an incredible goalie. A little more confidence and he’d be far better than me. Still, I know I can trust him. I know my team trusts him.

Paloma didn’t offer her opinion, but I swear I could feel her relief when I succumbed to their insistence.

She did, however, insist on us riding back to Beacon Hill with my dad.

“I think you should tell him,” she said as we stood outside the arena near my dad’s SUV. Her hands adjusted my beanie again, fussing over me whether she realized it or not. “About how you feel. About hockey.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

So now I’m sprawled in the passenger’s seat of my dad’s black G-Wagon, headache slowly subsiding, silent as he drives. Paloma is seated in the center behind us, quiet and calm. Steady.

Adam Reiner wears every emotion on his sleeve. I don’t know if he was always that way or if it developed when I was younger, to help me read him. For a long time, I felt safest with him because I could understand his every word and emotion. When I was little, I thought it was just a bond we shared. Now, I think maybe he made it that way.

Or, maybe, it’s a bit of both.

My eyes flicker to the rearview mirror, where Paloma nods and smiles at me, her hands lifting to give me two thumbs-up in silent encouragement. She looks so relaxed and happy, a sheen of pride over her eyes as she looks at me.

She doesn’t look like I just finished a meltdown and bailed on my team before our biggest game of the season—which she should be there for, too. Instead, Paloma looks at me the same way she did all those years ago, like something strong. Solid and impenetrable.

I wonder if she knows that she’s the one who helped me become strong in the first place.

Still, talking to my dad like this again feels difficult, like a creaky unused door that needs to be forced open. I cough a little and clear my throat, trying to speak through the tight feeling of it. “I don’t . . . I don’t want to play hockey anymore.”

My dad pulls into the driveway slowly, his jaw tight, cheeks wet, I realize with a start. He’s crying. He puts the car in park and wipes harshly at his eyes.

No. Not just crying. Openly sobbing.

“I love you,” he chokes out, turning to me over the console. His eyes are mirrors of my own, deep and fathomless blue. His hand grasps the back of my neck, pulling me in. “I love you, Bennett. More than anything on this fucking earth. You are one of the only good things in my life—the only thing I’ve done worth shit is being your father. And I am so goddamn proud of you. And . . .” His voice shakes. “And I’m so fucking sorry, for all of it.”

I shake my head, pulling back. His hand sinks to my shoulder and squeezes, like he doesn’t want to break the connection.

“You didn’t—why are you apologizing?”

“Because you have never loved hockey. And I knew that.”

“You did?” I ask, eyes glancing to Paloma and her gentle smile.

He laughs, but it’s wet and half a cough. “I’m your dad, Ben. I pay attention to you. But you always wanted to play. And I was so fucking selfish to just . . . let you do it. Because it gave me something of you that was also mine, that was a piece of me and the dreams I had. And—” He cuts himself off and turns away, staring down at the steering wheel. “And I’ve been a shit father. I haven’t . . . I’ve done something wrong or let something happen and you’ve grown to resent me for it, and I keep trying to figure out what it was.

“And then tonight? Seeing you panicked and hurting? And I did nothing? I’m so sorry, Bennett. I love you so much, do you know that?”