Page 20 of Power Play

That’s what happened after four years. Babies grew up. People changed.

“It’s crazy.”

I felt obligated to ask about his parents. I only met them a handful of times, but it seemed like the polite thing to do.

“And the Murphys? Do they still live next door?” he asked before I could.

The Murphys were his sponsor family. He and three other guys on his team from Canada lived with them during the hockey season.

“Yeah, they do. Matthew is almost ten now.”

He let out a bark of laughter. “There is no way. He’s my little buddy.”

Matthew was his little buddy. Back then.

“He plays hockey too. I guess years of living with you guys rubbed off on him.”

“That’s amazing. I’m going to have to reach out to them.”

He got a distant look in his eyes, and I hoped this was the end of our little reunion. Even though we’d been cordial to each other, that didn’t mean we had to pretend to be friends. We were one wrong move or word away from hurting each other at any moment. At least I was. It took every ounce of strength I had, and my mother’s voice reminding me to be kind and not make a scene, to keep from screaming four years’ worth of resentment at his stupid, perfect face.

“I’m sure they would like that.” There. Mom would be so proud.

“There are a lot of things about that time I would like to change, you know?” A darkness fell over his face. Almost like sadness. “I was young and stupid, but those aren’t excuses. I was smart enough back then to avoid the mistakes I made.”

My heart tightened, and I let out a tiny gasp hoping he wouldn’t notice while he stared at the small glass table between us.

He was calling me a mistake? The things we did? Who we were together? That hurt almost as much as when he left without a word.

At least before this moment, I could convince myself I’d meant just as much to him as he had to me. That our history mattered.

He wanted to change that? Call it all a mistake? How dare he. I wanted to reach over and strangle him or give him a good shake. That would probably draw less attention.

Before I could curse him into tomorrow, he sighed. “I told myself I was giving you space so you could enjoy college. I convinced myself it was best for you. That it was the right thing. But it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”

The vulnerability in his voice had me leaning forward. “Then why did you do it?”

“I was terrified,” he whispered.

“Of what?” I needed the answer, more than my next breath. I had to know.

“Failing you.” His head dropped. “I’d already let you down in the worst way possible. I hurt you, and I couldn’t do it again. I wouldn’t have survived. I was so scared through the draft, training camps, and even as I got to Florida. I couldn’t bear the thought, the possibility, of failing you.”

My mouth went dry. He never told me he felt like this. After all we’d been through. The things we survived. He never shared any of this. I knew he’d been in pain and suffered, too, but I had no idea this was how he saw things.

“So instead of failing me, you just left me?”

His eyes connected with mine for a split second. “I didn't know what else to do, Tay.”

I wanted to get mad. Scream at him. Unleash the years of practiced arguments I made up in my mind. But now that I finally had the chance to dump it all out on him, I couldn’t. He was just as broken as me. He still carried the burdens, too. I thought he’d moved on and forgot about me and what happened. Four years of thinking of myself as the victim and I never once stopped to consider he might feel even a fraction of what I did.

But now I knew, and I didn’t want to hurt him anymore. I didn’t want to scream. I ...I wanted to touch him. Hug him. Tell him it was okay. That we were both okay.

I reached out and placed my hand on the top of his on the table. “I think I understand.”

He turned his palm over and gripped my hand like a lifeline. “I know it was terrible and unfair, and I’ll regret my actions for the rest of my life.”

The aching I carried in my heart every single day for the past four years lessened for just one moment. It was enough to clear my mind. “You don’t need to, Jase.”