Page 103 of Here We Go Again

“Probably just more targeted therapy. There’s a procedure I saw in nursing school called a hydro-dissection where they inject fluid to separate the adhesion from the tendon. But also, I could be totally off base here. I’m just guessing.”

He breathes out a sigh. “I’ll talk to Nico when we get back.” He lifts his hand from mine and curls it into a loose fist. “But if I’m struggling to get past here when I’m not holding anything, I’m not going to be able to handle a hockey stick.”

I don’t love the note of discouragement in his voice, but I can’t blame him. His body is his work—his life. It has to be frustrating.

“You’re going to get there,” I say. “I promise you will. What would you say to Carter if he were in your situation? Or to anyone else on your team?”

He hooks a hand around the back of his neck. “I’d probably tell him not to be so hard on himself,” he says. “Or remind him that nobody else is judging his recovery timeline. When he’s better, he’s better. And he contributes a lot more to the team than just his grip strength, and maybe he should focus on that for a while.”

“Huh,” I say. “Sounds like good advice.”

He finally grins, and I sense some of the earlier tension leaving his body. “Maybe, but it’s truer about Carter than it is about me.”

“Says the guy who scored more goals than his brother last season?”

He smirks. “Says the woman who looked up my stats?”

I bite my lip, my cheeks warming the slightest bit. “I was curious. And thinking about what it must be like to have someone you’re inevitably compared to all the time.”

“It’s not that big a deal,” he says. “Carter has the reputation as the slightly more effective Williamson. People always make comparisons. I’m used to it.”

I frown. “For real, people say that? Why would they when they know you might hear it?”

He lets out a little chuckle. “They don’t care about my feelings, Bec. I get paid millions of dollars a year to play a game for a living. They can say whatever they want.”

“Even if it isn’t true? Stats don’t lie, Theo. Overall, you’re more effective on the ice.”

He lifts an eyebrow, giving me a playful smirk. “You’re sexy when you talk hockey.”

This makes me grin, but I still don’t like that he’s being so dismissive. “I’m serious. Why would anyone say he’s more effective when it clearly isn’t true?” I finally release his hand, turning sideways on the bed and pulling my knees up under me.

“There have been plenty of years when he’s had the better stats,” Theo says. “And it’s never just about numbers. It’s about energy. Sportsmanship. Connecting with teammates in a way that makes everyone play better because they’re on the ice with you. That’s Carter’s superpower. I’m okay admitting that.”

“Fine,” I say. “But that doesn’t make him better than you.”

“No?” he says. He leans back on the bed, propping himself up on one elbow. “Are you saying you prefer me over my brother?”

It’s not lost on me that he’s joking around on purpose, teasing because that’s easier than admitting any real vulnerability. He used to do the same thing when we were in high school.

I stretch out beside him, mirroring his pose. “You’re by far my favorite Williamson,” I say. “But I also don’t want you to deflect and say you aren’t something because your brother already is. So he contributes a lot to the team. Cool. That doesn’t mean he’s any more deserving of their support than you are.”

He reaches over and runs a hand down my arm, then curls his big palm around mine. “Thank you,” he says. “It’s no small thing that you believe in me.”

I wait for him to say more, to offer some rebuttal, but he doesn’t do it. Instead, a heavy silence settles between us, encompassing all the words he isn’t saying but is very clearly thinking.

What did his agent say to him to turn him inward like this?

It had to be something—something bigger than regular season stuff—and I wish Theo would tell me what it was.

He squeezes my fingers. “Sorry I’m so grumpy,” he says. “I probably just need to get some sleep.”

I nod, fighting to keep my expression neutral. For the past three nights, we’ve stayed up talking late into the night—a lot later than eleven p.m.—so it’s hard for this not to feel like a rejection. But I’m in no position to push.

This isn’t high school. All the stakes are higher now. Hockey isn’t just a sport; it’s his entire career. I can’t pretend to understand all the nuances of how he fits into the league. I can’t even talk about his relationship with his brother. I know what it was. I know a lot less about what it is now.

I scoot off the bed, a prickle of uncertainty taking root right behind my ribs.

Vacation ends tomorrow, and we have to go back to our real lives. We have to face our jobs and our schedules and somehow figure out a way to make space for our individual priorities in a way that works for us both.