“That’s why I came to get you.” He sags with relief. “You’re the only person he actually—”
“I know.” I cut him off because I can’t hear the end of that sentence right now. Can’t afford to think about what I might be to Bennett Foster when I need to focus on getting him offthe asphalt before this becomes the only thing Sorrowville talks about for the next decade.
I push out the door and into the bright October morning, my flat-ironed hair already starting to rebel against the humidity, and head toward the growing cluster of people two blocks down.
Main Street is exactly as chaotic as Shep described. Traffic has rerouted around the intersection by the old hardware store, and a crowd has gathered on both sidewalks—rubberneckers and concerned citizens and at least three people I can see holding up phones. In the center of it all, sitting on the faded yellow line like he’s waiting for a bus that’s never coming, is Bennett.
He’s still in his practice gear. Joggers, team hoodie, hair a disaster from running his hands through it. His back is to me, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid line of his spine. He’s not moving. Not reacting to the whispers or the stares or Virgil, who’s standing next to Sleetwood Mac looking genuinely baffled.
I push through the crowd, ignoring the murmurs that follow me like a swarm of concerned bees.
“—someone should call Beth, she always knows what to do with him—”
“—is he drunk? High? Having a stroke? Lord, the poor boy—”
“—knew he’d snap eventually. That temper of his is just like his daddy’s—”
“—thank God Gisele’s here. That girl’s the only one who can talk him down—”
“—should we be filming this? This is going on the town Facebook group for sure—”
I block all of it out. The noise, the speculation, the weight of every pair of eyes tracking me as I step off the curb and walk toward the man who’s been my blind spot since I was fifteen years old and didn’t know enough to protect my own heart.
“Hey, hothead.”
He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t acknowledge me at all.
I circle around until I’m standing in front of him, blocking the sun so his face falls into shadow. His hands are braced on his thighs, knuckles white. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping. And his eyes—
His eyes are empty.
Not angry. Not sad. Not anything. Just... vacant. Like someone reached inside him and flipped every switch to off. And that’s worse than angry. Angry I know how to handle.
I’ve seen Bennett frustrated. I’ve seen him furious. I’ve seen him barely holding it together after losses that seemed like the end of the world. But I’ve never seen him implode.
It terrifies me.
“Bennett.” I crouch down, getting into his eyeline whether he wants me there or not. “Hey. Look at me.”
Nothing.
“You’re sitting in the street, which I have to say is not your best look. Virgil almost turned you into a speed bump. The aesthetic would’ve been tragic—can you imagine the headlines? ‘Local hockey captain flattened by Zamboni, details at eleven.’”
Still nothing.
“Okay.” I blow out a breath. “We’re doing this the hard way, then. Cool. Cool cool cool.”
I settle onto the pavement next to him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. The asphalt is cold through my jeans, and I can feel the grit of it against my palms when I brace myself. The watching crowd buzzes, but I don’t turn around.
This isn’t for them.
“You know,” I say conversationally, “I had three appointments booked this morning. Ida Montgomery’s highlights are probably processing into a lovely shade of traffic cone orange as we speak. Carrie’s good, but she panics underpressure. So if my client ends up looking like a construction sign, I’m billing you.”
The faintest flicker. A muscle in his jaw.
“There you are.” I bump my shoulder against his. “Thought I lost you for a second.”
He still doesn’t look at me, but his breathing changes. Gets rougher. Less steady.
