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We were both cowards. Both of us so terrified of being vulnerable that we’d spent months hiding behind professional boundaries and late-night texts that said everything except what mattered.
After locking the office door again, I started down the hall.
A crack of yellow spilled through the partially open door of the treatment room, and I could hear the sound of water running inside.
Walking over, I pushed the door open and stepped into the room.
Brashe stood at the sink, his back to me, water running over his hands. He wore compression shorts and a team t-shirt, and he’d scattered his gear around the room like he’d decided this was the best place to strip after a game. Shoulder pads on the bench. Skates unlaced beside them.
He saw my reflection in the mirror above the sink, and we both froze.
The water kept running.
He turned off the faucet and turned around slowly, leaning back against the sink.
We were both breathing too hard for people who were standing still.
His eyes drifted over me, taking in my blazer. The pencil skirt. The heels I’d been wearing for twelve hours. Everything about me that screamed I was somewhere else today.
I’d stood in this room hundreds of times, my hands knowing exactly where to press to make pain go away.
Now I didn’t know where to put them.
“You came from the airport,” he said.
“I had an interview.” The professional mask tried to snap back into place. Old habit. “It went well.”
Something flickered across his face. Not quite hope. Not quite devastation. Somewhere in between where people lived when they were trying not to break.
“That’s good.” His voice scraped out. “You deserve that.”
“Don’t.” I held up one hand, the other still clutching the doorframe. It was the only thing keeping me upright. “Don’t do the noble thing where you pretend to be happy for me.”
“I am happy for you.”
“Liar.”
His jaw worked. “I’m terrified. But I’m still happy for you.”
The honesty punched through my ribs. This was the Brashe who’d sent me texts at 11:43 PM. Who’d laminated instruction sheets because he wanted to preserve them. Who’d looked at me in a therapy pool and traced a freckle on my face that probably no one else had noticed.
“Why are you here?” he asked. “Really?”
“I needed to get something from my office.”
“Bullshit.” He took one step toward me.
“Excuse me?”
Another step in my direction. “You could’ve gotten whatever it is on Monday.”
“Don’t do that.”
His voice went rough. “You mean don’t notice you’re here at 11 PM on a Saturday after flying back from Denver?”
The treatment room felt smaller with each step he closed between us. I could see the exhaustion in his face now, the shadows under his eyes that matched mine. He’d played a full game of playoff hockey and then come here instead of going home.
“Did you accept?” His voice came out careful.
