Page 312 of Saving Forever with the Hockey Captain

“So why tell me now?” she asks.

***

For a long moment, I don't answer.

The city glitters beyond the windows, thousands of lights stretching toward the horizon. I've looked out at that view hundreds of times over the years. After difficult losses. After playoff wins. After lonely nights when the silence in this place felt far louder than any arena crowd.

Tonight, for the first time, I don't see the skyline.

I only see Annette.

She waits without rushing me, her fingers still wrapped around mine, her quiet patience giving me the courage I've been searching for since we walked through the front door.

Finally, I let out a slow breath. "Because I almost lost you."

The words hang between us.

"I've been thinking about that day ever since the day you left." My voice is quieter now, stripped of every defense I've ever built around myself. "I kept replaying everything I'd left unsaid. Not because I didn't love you enough to tell you...but because I convinced myself there would always be more time."

I shake my head. "There almost wasn't."

Annette's eyes shimmer, but she doesn't look away.

"I realized something." I smile sadly.

"I've spent years carefully deciding which pieces of my life people were allowed to see. The hockey player. The captain. The guy who volunteers at the rehab center. The man who shows up at charity events."

I pause, searching for words that have lived inside me for far too long.

"But there was always one room I kept locked."

My gaze drifts around the penthouse.

"This wasn't the room."

I tap my chest lightly. "This was."

The silence that follows doesn't feel empty. It feels honest.

"I told myself I was protecting my privacy. Sometimes I was. Sometimes I was protecting my family. But if I'm completely honest..."

I meet her eyes again. "...most of the time I was protecting myself."

She gives my hand a gentle squeeze.

"From what?"

"From wondering."

I swallow. "Wondering whether people would still see Jamie. Or whether all they'd see was the money."

The confession leaves me feeling strangely lighter.

"I've watched it happen before. People's expectations change. Conversations change. Suddenly they're careful around me. Or impressed by something I didn't earn. Or suspicious of motives that were never there."

I shrug helplessly. "I hated it."

"So, I learned to separate my worlds."