He’s my Saint.
My constant. And the man who knew me before I became Doctor Grant.
If we gave in again, and it went wrong? If we tried and failed? What if, once the chase was over, would he still want me in the same way?
I’m not sure I’m willing to risk it and potentially to lose the best friendship I’ve ever had. And I would lose him if it didn’t work out. This thought alone makes me anxious at the mere thought.
And I’m not sure that’s something I could survive.
So, I’ll do what I’ve always done and tuck it away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Saint
I find some time in November to head down to North Carolina to see my sister and the kids. There’s a ball of guilt lodged between my ribs that refuses to move because it’s been too long since I’ve been here to visit. Sure, they made it up to a few games this season, but they’re busy too, and I really need to make more time to see them.
This season has swallowed me whole—again. Training, travel, film, and games create an endless churn of a season that demands every piece of me. And I still feel like I need to give more.
But today, I’m here.
I missed Remy’s entire baseball season. He’s into hockey now and has just started to play in a league. I make my way into the arena, the cold air following me inside to the rink. I have a Titans cap pulled low, so I can just be Uncle Saint today.
Making my way over to the plexiglass so I can see the rink closely, I see a group of seven-year-olds in oversize hockey pads wobble across the ice like tiny, armored penguins. And somewhere out there is my nephew, Remy.
I see a small body in a black and red jersey break away from the group, skating with determination toward the puck.
Number ninety-six.
Remy.
My chest tightens.
I might be a hero in some people’s eyes because of what I do on the field, but this right here—Remy using my number—hits something deep.
“Come on, bud,” I mutter as I watch him.
He’s not exactly fast, but he’s focused. His little brows pulled together under his cage mask, stick clutched tight in both hands.
Another kid bumps him from the side, and Remy teeters, but recovers quickly.
“That’s it,” I say under my breath.
He reaches for the puck with his stick, misses, spins halfway around, somehow staying on his skates, then smacks his stick hard enough to send it sliding across the ice in the wrong direction.
I can’t help but laugh.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a blur of pink and purple coming toward me.
“Uncle Wyatt!”
I look down just in time for my niece to launch herself at me like a glitter bomb with limbs.
“Ry Ry,” I say, clutching her under the arms before she can take my knee out. “Easy, there.”
She gasps, offended. “Easy? I’m fierce.”
“Absolutely. My mistake.” I smack a kiss on the side of her head.
