Page 70 of Nowhere to Hide
His shoulders come back up. “Fi?—”
“Don’t say fine,” I say. “Not when I still have the spatula.”
He takes a second. “It’s just — a lot. It’s the all-the-time part that’s?—”
He stops, but I keep pushing.
“Rowan…”
He restarts. “Every conversation in my life right now starts with ‘Captain.’”
I lean against the counter and wait for the rest, because I know there’s more.
He sighs. “And there’s the scout.”
“Okay,” I say.
His thumb presses into the countertop, whitening at the nail. “Mercer was the first scout, and there’ll be others.” He rotates the empty bowl on the counter a quarter turn. “And my dad texts me before every game, putting extra pressure on me: make it count, don’t crack, your stats are suffering…”
“And are they?”
“Yes.” He shrugs. “And it’s killing my pro chances.”
“Tell me about it,” I say, slow and careful, just to make sure. “The NHL.”
“I went undrafted, so now any team can sign me.” He says it like he’s reading a scouting report. “Being passed over gutted my dad, because it was always what he wanted for me.”
I nod for him to continue.
“But as Dad got busier and Mom got headaches and Ivy… well—” He laughs bitterly. “I guess at some point I just started taking care of everyone else, and now?—”
He doesn’t finish it, so I push again. “And now?”
“Now I just feel overwhelmed.”
His jaw works once — there’s one more thing under all of it, and I watch him decide I don’t need it, the way he decides what everyone needs — and then he swallows it back down. I feel the edge of it, and I let it go, because tonight is enough.
Then he exhales, slow. “I feel like I’m fucking everything up — the team, everything — and I’m trying to keep everything above water, and I’m just tired and feel like I’m drowning.”
I walk around the counter, stand in front of him, and step between his knees. I’m taller than him like this, so I put my hands on either side of his face and tilt his face up so he has to look at me.
“You don’t have to be all that in this room.” I hold his gaze. “Not with me.”
His eyes close, and his hands come up — slow, uncertain — and find my hips. They settle there, heavy, and his foreheaddrops against my sternum. The weight of him presses into my chest, and his breathing is slow and unsteady.
It’s the first time he’s stopped holding himself rigid in weeks.
I slide my fingers into his hair and hold him there. His shoulders tremble once, barely. His arms come up the rest of the way, finally, and wrap around my waist. He holds on.
I keep my hand on the back of his head, and neither of us moves.
eighteen
SLOANE
Rowan’s foreheadis still against my sternum and his arms are around my waist, but then his exhale lands warm on my skin, and his hands shift from resting on my hips to pressing, and my breath changes.
I slide my fingers from his hair to his jaw and lift his face.
