And the worst part—the part that’s going to keep me up all night—is that I’m glad he did.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Work
Archer
Ollie picks the bar—not Callahan’s, but somewhere new in Williamsburg, with low lighting and booths big enough for three NHL players to sit without their knees touching the table. Zayden is already there when we walk in, halfway through a beer and scrolling his phone.
“There he is,” Ollie says, sliding in across from him. “The married man.”
“Not married yet,” Zayden says.
“Practically married. You have a joint checking account. That’s basically married.” Ollie flags down the waiter and orders a round. “Arch, tell Zayden about the blocker save from Tuesday. He missed it.”
“It was on SportsCenter.”
“I want him to hear your version. You always undersell it.”
We talk hockey for a while. Zayden breaks down a defensive play from last week’s film that he thinks we’re running wrong. Ollie disagrees. I eat pretzels and referee, which is my usual role when these two start arguing, because they’re both right about different things and neither will admit it.
The second round arrives, and the conversation loosens up, as it always does after the hockey talk runs its course.
Zayden puts his phone down. “So, how’s Sydney?”
“She’s fine.”
“And how areyouandSydney?”
“We’re, uh—” I pick at the label on my beer. “I don’t know what we are. She gave me a whole speech about why we shouldn’t be together, and then I kissed her. Then Luke had a nightmare, and now we’re in this weird holding pattern where we’ve kissed but haven’t talked about it. She’s being careful around me, and I’m being careful around her, and the whole house feels like it’s made of glass.”
Ollie and Zayden exchange a look.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Zayden says. “Just, uh—you used more words in that sentence than you’ve used in the entire time I’ve known you.”
“She makes me talk. It’s annoying.”
“It’s healthy,” Zayden says. “Trust me.”
“Her speech wasn’t wrong, though.” I lean back in the booth. “The divorce has only been final for four months. I haven’t dealt with any of it. I just, uh—moved on. Bree left, and I put my head down and took care of the kids, played hockey, and didn’t think about what happened or why.”
“Did you think about Sydney?” Ollie asks.
“I thought about Sydney before the divorce was even final. I thought about her before the divorce was even a conversation. I’ve been thinking about her longer than I’m comfortable admitting.”
The beers arrive. We all drink. The bar fills up around us—it’s Friday night, the usual crowd—and I sit in a booth with two of the only people I trust, ready to say the thing I’ve been avoiding.
“Maybe she’s right. Maybe I need to deal with my own issues before I drag her into them. Bree and I were roommates for twoyears before she left, and I never once tried to fix things. I just let it die. I don’t want to do that with Syd.”
“Then don’t,” Zayden says.
“It’s not that simple.”
“It kind of is.” He sets his beer down. “After Sienna and I split, I was a mess. I thought I was fine because I was skating and scoring and showing up every day, but I was also angry all the time—at her, at myself, at the situation. Tori saw it before I did.”
“What did you do?”
