The Things We Don’t Say

SLOANE

I was halfway through explaining why the Titans’ power play needed cleaner puck movement—less heroics, more quick touches—when Marcus’s phone buzzed against the lounge chair arm.

He glanced at the screen, frowned faintly, then looked back at me.

“Sorry. Team group chat. They’re doing something stupid with the beer pong table again.”

“Sounds about right.”

He stood, stretched his arms overhead—casual, unhurried. “I should probably go make sure no one drowns. You want to come? I promise to protect you from the chaos.”

I laughed—small, surprised. “I think I’m good here. Safe zone, remember?”

“Fair.” He hesitated, then gave me that easy, genuine smile. “This was nice, though. Talking to you. We should do it again sometime. Maybe without the pool-party soundtrack.”

Something warm flickered in my chest—unexpected, soft. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Marcus nodded once—still smiling—then headed back toward the main crowd, disappearing into the noise and lights.

I sat there a minute longer, water bottle sweating in my hand, staring at the dark water rippling under string lights. Then I stood, grabbed my bag and keys from inside, and left.

Drove to The Early Bird.

Stayed longer than I meant to—notebook open, coffee going cold, writing anything except the way Marcus’s laugh had felt like a lifeboat in the middle of the party storm. Anything except the way Chase had watched us from the deep end like he was trying to set the water on fire with his stare.

When I finally pulled back into the driveway, the house was quiet.

No thumping bass. No shrieks from the pool. No laughter bouncing off the patio. The string lights were off; the backyard was dark except for the faint electric blue glow of the pool.

I sat in the car for a minute—engine off—listening to the tick of cooling metal and the distant chirp of crickets.

Then I walked inside.

Foyer light was off. Kitchen LEDs dim—only the under-cabinet strips glowing. I kicked off my shoes, padded barefoot across the hardwood.

He was there.

Leaning against the island in low gray sweats and nothing else. Arms crossed. Head down. Staring at the floor like it had personally offended him.

He looked up when I stepped into the light.

Neither of us spoke for a long second.

Then—quiet, rough:

“You came back.”

I set my bag on the counter. “Where else would I go?”

He pushed off the island—slow—stepped toward me. Stopped a foot away.

“You disappeared.”

“I needed air.”

He nodded once—like he understood. Then, lower: “Marcus is a good guy.”

I lifted my chin. “And what do you mean by that?”

“In case you want to pursue something. With him.”

“And what makes you think I’d want to date a hockey guy?”

“He made you laugh.” A pause. “More than once. That means something.”

I scoffed—sharp. “So you’re what—giving me your blessing now?”

Chase’s expression didn’t change. “I’m just saying—”

“You’re saying nothing that makes any sense.” I stared at him. “You pulled him away from me in the middle of a conversation. You watched us from across the pool like you were keeping score. And now you’re standing in a dark kitchen at midnight handing me your blessing to date him?”

“I was out of line. With pulling him away.” His voice stayed flat. Controlled. Like he’d rehearsed the words. “Marcus deserves better than me being weird about it. And so do you.”

“So this is what—an apology? You’re handing me your best friend like a consolation prize?”

“That’s not—”

“Because I didn’t ask for any of this, Chase.” I took a step toward him—close enough to feel the heat coming off his bare skin. “I didn’t ask for your blessing. I didn’t ask for your permission. I didn’t ask for you to decide what’s good for me or who I should talk to or how I should spend my time at a party I didn’t even want to attend.”

He said nothing.

I walked to the fridge, grabbed a water bottle. I was almost at the hallway when he spoke again.

“Tell me more about your mom.”

I turned. “What?”

“You mentioned her at the café. Said she made you feel stupid for caring.” He held my gaze—steady, unperformative, the way that kept catching me off guard. “I want to know more.”

I stared at him. “Why?”

“Because you went quiet when you said it. Like it slipped out before you could stop it.”

He wasn’t wrong.

I turned the water bottle over in my hands. Looked at the label. Looked at the dark window.

“It’s late,” I said.

“I know.”

“And we’re not exactly friends, Chase.”

“I know that too.”

“So why do you want to know?”

He was quiet for a beat. Then: “Because I’ve been vulnerable to you.” He shrugged one shoulder—barely. “Seems like it should go both ways.”

It was fair. Annoyingly, genuinely fair.

I pulled out the barstool and sat. Not committing. Just… leaving the option open.

Chase didn’t move closer. Stayed where he was—leaning against the opposite counter—giving me room to decide how much to give.

“I was twelve when she died,” I said. “Car accident. Funeral a week later. Closed casket—Dad said an open viewing would be too traumatic, that he wanted to protect me from seeing her like that.” I twisted the cap off the bottle, mostly to have something to do with my hands. “Then grief counseling. The therapist kept asking me to draw pictures of my feelings. I drew black scribbles. She said that was okay. That anger was part of it.” I paused. “I didn’t tell her I wasn’t angry at the accident. I was angry at my mom for leaving me alone with it.”

Chase stayed silent. No interruption. No shifting. Just listening.

“I kept one thing from her,” I said. “A scarf. Blue. Soft. She wrapped it around my neck the morning she left for work—the last morning.” I kept my eyes on the label. “After the funeral I slept with it for months. Still do sometimes. When the dreams get bad.”

I finally looked up.

He hadn’t moved. Arms still crossed, but shoulders looser. Eyes steady—dark, patient—like he was seeing me without any armor for the first time.

“I used to think if I’d been better—quieter, smarter, less… me—she would’ve stayed. That maybe I was too much. Too loud. Too sad. Too everything.”

My voice cracked on the last word.

Chase’s jaw tightened—not anger. Something deeper.

“That’s not how it works,” he said quietly. “Kids aren’t the reason people leave. People leave because they can’t hold themselves together.”

I blinked fast.

He took one small step closer—still careful. Still giving space.

“My mom didn’t leave physically,” he said. “But she left every other way. After the divorce she was there—but not. Always on the phone. Always at a showing. Always with someone new.” He looked at his hands—flexed them once, like he could still feel the stick. “I learned quick that if I wanted her to see me, I had to give her something worth seeing. Goals. Wins. Trophies. Scouts. Draft hype. That’s when she’d show up. That’s when she’d smile and say she was proud.”

The kitchen felt too small for both of us.

“I’m terrified of the day she stops,” he said. “The day I’m not performing and she just… drifts away again. Like I’m only worth something when I’m winning.”

I looked at him—really looked—and saw it clearly for the first time. The thing under the smirk, the shirtless arrogance, the revolving door of girls.

A kid who’d learned love was conditional.

Same as me. Different conditions.

“Does she know?” I asked. “That you’re scared of that?”

“Victoria?” He laughed—short, humorless. “No. And I wouldn’t tell her.”

“Why not?”

“Because then she’d know there’s something to worry about. And if she starts watching for it—” He stopped. Shook his head. “I don’t want to be a problem she has to manage.”

“You’re her son.”

“I’m her son who’s about to be drafted into the NHL. That’s what she sees right now.” He looked at the counter. “It’s easier to just be that.”

“Is it though?” I turned on the barstool to face him fully. “Because from where I’m sitting, being that looks exhausting.”

He glanced up. “What do you mean?”

“You woke up at five to practice alone. Morning skate with the team, then back at it in the afternoon. You hosted a party you didn’t seem to enjoy and spent half of it visibly miserable in the deep end.” I paused. “And now you’re standing in a dark kitchen at midnight talking to your stepsister about your feelings.”

“Stepfather’s daughter,” he corrected quietly.

“Technically.”

“Yeah.” His mouth moved—almost a smile. “Technically.”

Something shifted between us—small, almost imperceptible. Like a door that had been stuck finally moving a centimeter. Not open. Just looser.

“The scarf,” he said.

I looked at him. “What about it?”

“You said you still sleep with it sometimes. When the dreams get bad.” He held my gaze. “What are the dreams?”

No one had ever asked me that. Not the therapist with the drawing exercises. Not Riley. Not my dad.

I turned the water bottle in my hands.

“She’s always leaving,” I said. “In the dreams. She’s always walking away—down a hallway, out a door, across a parking lot—and I’m always calling after her. She can hear me—I know she can hear me—but she doesn’t turn around.” I pressed my thumbnail into the plastic. “Sometimes she does turn around. That’s the worst version.”

“Because?”

“Because when she turns around, it’s not her anymore. It’s just a version of her that doesn’t know me. That looks at me like I’m a stranger.”

Chase was very still.

“She was a good mom,” I said after a moment. “With her own baggage. There’s always baggage.” I stopped. Looked at the window. “Never mind.”

I slid off the barstool, picked up my water bottle and bag.

“Hey.” His voice was quiet. “Don’t do that.”

I paused. “Do what?”

“Pull back right when you got to the real part.”

“There isn’t a real part. I was rambling.”

“You said never mind. That’s not rambling. That’s deciding something isn’t safe to say.”

I set my bag back on the counter. Not because I’d decided to stay. Just because my hands needed somewhere to go.

“She had moods,” I said finally. “She’d go distant. Make me feel like too much.” I let out a breath. “But she was mine. And then she wasn’t.”

The silence after that felt different. Heavier. Like something had actually been said.

I picked up my bag again. “Goodnight.”

I took a few steps, then turned back.

“The thing you said. About your mom only seeing you when you’re winning.” I held his gaze. “For what it’s worth—and I know this doesn’t fix anything—I’ve seen you when you weren’t performing. Not the hockey player. Not the draft prospect. Just you.” I paused. “You’re still worth something.”

He looked at me for a long moment.

Something moved through his expression—slow, unguarded—the way it only did when the defenses had run out and he couldn’t rebuild them fast enough.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “So are you.”

Not *thank you*. Not *that’s nice of you to say*. Just the same thing, returned. Simple. Direct. Without armor.

I nodded once. Turned and walked down the hallway.

In my room I thought about what he’d said—about winning and worth and the ways people learn to earn love instead of just having it.

Then I thought about the smirk he’d given me the first night I moved in—leaning in the doorframe like the house was already his.

I pulled back the covers and got into bed.

Some things didn’t change.

But tonight—tonight something had.

Small.

Quiet.

Real.

And neither of us had said its name.