Chapter 2

The standoff between Keane and me lasted until the day he left for the championship.

He slung his bag over his shoulder and walked out without saying a word.

Once his footsteps disappeared completely, I pulled two empty suitcases from the closet and began to pack.

His clothes took up most of the closet. Mine occupied one small section.

On the bookshelf sat the thick photo album I'd made for him, along with the game puck he'd given me after his team's first championship five years earlier. His handwriting across it read, "Sharing this victory with you."

I stared at the words for a while before tossing the puck into the trash.

The photo album went in after it.

When I finished packing, I hadn't even filled a single suitcase.

Five years, and this was all I had to show for my life in this home.

That evening, my phone buzzed. A message from Keane. "Arrived."

Just one word. No warmth. No explanation. But I knew him well enough to recognize it as a peace offering.

It had always been this way. After every argument, he'd send a short message, and I'd happily fly to whatever city he was in, swallowing my pride to be the one who made up first.

This time, I didn't.

I typed a reply, deleted it, then started over. Before I could send anything, another message popped up. "Huh?"

A second later, a thirty-second voice message came through.

I tapped it. Silence filled the recording for several long seconds before his familiar voice finally came through, low and resigned. "Maeve... my game's tomorrow."

I replied simply. "Okay."

In the past, I would have bombarded him with messages. Is the hotel comfortable? How's the food? Don't push yourself too hard in practice. Remember to wear your protective gear.

Today, I said none of it.

Half an hour later, another text arrived. "Need me to bring you anything?"

"No."

"Didn't you always want that ammolite pendant?"

"Not anymore. Changed my mind."

He didn't reply after that.

Maybe he grew annoyed with trying to smooth things over while preparing for the biggest game of the season. Or maybe he was busy texting someone else. I didn't know.

The next day, I still turned on the live broadcast of the championship.

When the camera swept across the friends-and-family section, my gaze froze.

Mia was sitting in the center of the front row, smiling brightly as she held up a homemade sign.

He'd given her the friends-and-family ticket for the championship too.

I opened Instagram and searched for Mia's account.

Her latest post had gone up the night before. It showed the city lights outside a hotel window. In one corner of the photo was half the back of a man wearing a black dress shirt.

I knew that shirt. I'd spent an entire month's salary buying it for Keane's birthday.

He'd even told me it was too expensive, that I shouldn't have spent that much on him.

Mia's caption read, "The city's beautiful tonight because my favorite person is here with me."

Several of Keane's teammates had liked the post.

One commented, "Keane really takes good care of our favorite superfan."

Mia replied, "Of course. He's the sweetest man in the world."

I scrolled farther back. Over the past two months, she'd posted twenty-eight times. Every post was about Keane.

"The toughest guy on the ice is making soup for me."

"I said I was cold once, and now there's always a blanket waiting for me in his car."

"He always knows exactly which clothes and perfume I'll love."

I closed the app and placed my phone face down on the table.

The sharp ache in my chest had long gone numb.

For five years, I'd never called him when I was sick because I was afraid of interrupting his training. When the plumbing broke, I fixed it myself. When I had surgery, I signed the consent forms on my own.

I'd always thought hockey was the only thing that mattered to him, that he simply didn't know how to take care of someone else.

I'd been wrong. He knew how. He just had never done it for me.

They won the championship. The television erupted in cheers and celebration. Inside me, there was only silence.

The next evening, the front door clicked open. Keane walked in carrying an elegantly wrapped gift box.

He saw me on the couch first, then his eyes drifted to the empty dining table.

"You didn't make dinner?"

"Not hungry. Order takeout if you want something."

He dropped the gift box onto the coffee table with a heavy thud. His gaze icy, his voice thick with irritation. "Maeve, how long are you going to keep this up?"

"I'm not keeping anything up."

"Then why have you barely replied to my messages? I asked what you wanted, and you kept saying nothing."

I looked at the gift box and let out a quiet laugh. "So... this isn't meant for me."

His expression stiffened for the briefest moment. "The whole team picked it out for Mia. I forgot to give it to her."

"She stayed at your hotel, and she was at the championship. Why would you need to bring her gift all the way home?"

"How do you know that?"

Something seemed to occur to him. His tone softened. "Maeve... you watched the game, didn't you? Why didn't you come backstage? Do you know how worried I..."

He reached for me. I pushed him away.

"The livestream caught everything. And her Instagram is public."

His expression snapped back to that familiar mask of irritation. "I broke her ankle. She's still walking with a crutch. What's wrong with buying her a gift? Maeve, since when did you become this petty?"

"You can buy gifts for whoever you want. It's none of my business."

"Then stop acting as if it does!"

He kicked the base of the couch. "She's a fan. Why do you have to read something into every interaction I have with another woman?"

"I don't care what happened between you two."

"I'll sleep in the guest room. I won't bother you."

I didn't want to argue anymore. I got to my feet, walked into the bedroom, and locked the door behind me.