Page 138 of Scoring Lessons

The sun beat heavy against my skin, and the usual wind of the city was there and persistent as always. But I was so numb, I couldn’t feel any of it.

I slowly turned and gave him a quick nod.

He jerked his thumb back toward the building. “Can we go to the cafeteria?”

The walk there was nothing short of awkward.

We sat at a table by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the practice rink stretched out below us. The PWHL team was on the ice, running drills.

“I’m just going to come right out and say it.” He reached up and lifted his backward cap, ran a hand through his hair, and set it back down. “I’m sorry. What I said and the way I acted, it wasn’t okay.”

“I don’t blame you,” I said quietly.

He shook his head like that was the wrong answer. “You should. I spoke out of anger, and it wasn’t right.”

My heart dropped. I moved my gaze toward the rink. I couldn’t bear to look at him. “You were more than right, though.” Swallowing felt like pieces of jagged glass running down my throat. “I don’t deserve Olivia.”

“Do you honestly believe that?”

“Yes.” I forced myself to look at him. “I’m a fuckup, Anderson. Always have been.” My breath caught. Everything hurt all at once—my chest, my limbs, all of it. “I was never going to be good enough for her. I was a fool to think I was.” My eyes burned, but there was nothing left. I’d been in my head for weeks. Overthinking had become the only thing I was any good at. “Your sister is the most wonderful woman I’ve ever known. She deserves the world, and that’s something I can’t give her.”

Saying it out loud hurt more than I expected. All this time, all I wanted was to be enough for her.

But how could I be, when I wasn’t even enough for myself?

He was quiet for a long moment, watching the PWHL team run their drills below us.

“You know what my therapist said to me when I first started going?” he asked quietly, his voice mixing into the chatter of the people around us. “When I was still in the thick of the anger stuff?”

I looked at him expectantly.

“She said—and I’m paraphrasing here because honestly I wasn’t listening the first three times she said it”—he exhaled a quiet laugh through his nose—“that being enough isn’t something you are. It’s not a box you check. It’s something you build every day. Some days you’re better at it than others, and some days you’re a complete disaster, and both of those things are allowed to be true at the same time.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. Every word he spoke hit me right in my sternum, leaving me breathless and wondering if maybe—just maybe—there was some truth to it.

“She also said that loving someone is one of the hardest things we can ever do.” He leaned forward and dropped his elbows on the table. “Not because of the other person. But because of what it asks of you. It asks you to keep showing up every day. Even when you’re convinced you’re going to ruin it.” He ran his hand against the stubble of his jaw. “And loving yourself?” He let out a short breath. “That’s a whole other project. Takes longer. Hurts more.” He paused. “But I can tell you that letting Kennedy stay in my life and love me through it all has made it more bearable. She…she makes me better.”

I knew it was true, because I’d been a witness to it all. His anger issues, his piece of shit father coming back into his life time and time again until he finally stopped it. Until he decided he’d had enough of letting a miserable person control the way he felt.

Kennedy had been the lighthouse for him. She didn’t calm the water. Not really. But she gave him something to swim toward.

“Hayes.” His voice dropped. “I’ve known you for a long time. And I know what it looks like when you’re trying to talk yourself out of something good because you’re scared you’re going to lose it anyway.” He shook his head. “That’s not the same thing as not being enough,” he said. “That’s just fear. And fear is—it’s manageable. You can work with fear.” He sat back and pinned me in place with a stare. “You can’t work with giving up.”

The PWHL team below shifted into a new drill, sticks moving in clean, practiced lines. Low lobby music filtered through the speakers of the cafeteria.

My voice came out quieter than I intended when I finally found the words. “I don’t know how to be what she needs.”

“Nobody does,” Anderson said. “But you figure it out because she matters enough to try.” He looked at me steadily. “It’s clear you love my sister, and honestly? That’s all I could ever ask for. And I’m sorry I didn’t figure it out sooner.” His gaze dropped. “I’m still working through my anger, and it’s clear I have a lot left to grow, but I hope you can still forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. We’re good. I promise.”

His eyes met mine with a quick nod, then he reached for something from the pocket of his practice bag and placed a business card in front of me. “I think you should give therapy a try, Hayes. It’s time to stop doubting yourself and to stop believing you’re not capable of loving someone else. Because you are, man. You’re more than capable of anything.”

I picked the card and played with it between my fingers without a word. Loving Olivia wasn’t the part I doubted. The part I doubted was everything else—the fact that when the season ended, so did my time in Chicago. Something no one knew. Something I hadn’t figured out how to say out loud yet.

Before I could say a word, Coach Sloane appeared out of my peripheral vision and asked, “Hayes, I’m glad you’re still here. Can we talk?”

When I walked into the meeting room, Anthony—the Strikers’ GM—was already seated at the head of the table. Kennedy sat to his left, and Coach Sloane shut the door and took the chair across from her.