Page 11 of Heart Checked By the Hockey Heartthrob

“I’m not trying to play games,” I say. “I just…” I trail off. Because I don’t know what the next words are.

“I just don’t know how to not mess it up,” I add quietly. “She deserves more than the chaos I dragged with me.”

Abby gives me a look that’s more sad than judgmental. “She wanted you. All of you. Even the messy parts. You’re the only one who thought you had to be perfect.”

The words hit harder than I expect.

A few minutes pass in awkward silence, filled only by the soft hiccup breaths of a sleepy Violet and the hum of the fridge. Then the front door opens again.

Griff strolls in, fresh from practice, still in track pants and a hoodie with the youth academy logo. His hair is still damp at the temples, and he smells faintly of sweat and antiseptic—classic locker room combo. “Got your text,” he says.

He drops his gear bag by the door, the zipper half-open and revealing a pair of scuffed skates and an extra whistle. Not his old pro gear—those days are behind him—but enough to keep up with drills on the ice. His hoodie’s sleeves are pushed to his elbows, a clipboard tucked under one arm.

“You’re not still suiting up with the team?” I ask, glancing at the casual getup.

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head as he toes off one shoe. “Not full-time. I’m mostly running skills and development. Practice design, off-ice conditioning, mental prep.” He flops into the armchair and leans back. “Once in a while I’ll fill in if we’re short coaches, but the full body pads? I leave that to the teenagers who still think they’re indestructible.”

Beckett smirks. “Griff’s kind of a secret weapon. The kids don’t always know how lucky they are to have a current/former pro showing them the ropes.”

Griff shrugs. “They’ll figure it out when they’re older. Right now, they just want someone who doesn’t bark orders and understands what it’s like to bomb a tryout or tweak a shoulder mid-game and still push through a shift.”

He looks at me. “That’s why we need guys like you around, Wes. Not just guys who know how to skate, but guys who know how to get back up. You’ve got that edge—that ‘I’ve been there’ honesty. And that matters more than you think.”

“What’s going on?”

Beckett hands him a beer. “Intervention.”

Griff raises a brow. “Let me guess. Wes said something stupid.”

“Didn’t say enough,” Beckett mutters.

I drop onto the couch, elbows on knees. “I didn’t know how to explain it. Back then, I mean. When I left.”

“So explain it now,” Griff says simply, taking a seat on the armchair.

I exhale, staring down at the worn spot on the rug. “It wasn’t just the road schedule or the pressure. It was all the unknowns. One minute I was healthy, the next I was sidelined for three weeks because of a knee I didn’t even know I’d tweaked. I lived on adrenaline and ibuprofen and whatever sleep I could catch on flights. And she was just starting her career. I didn’t want her waiting around on someone whose life was basically a ticking time bomb.”

Beckett leans against the wall, arms crossed. “So instead of trusting her to handle the truth, you disappeared.”

“Yeah.”

The room goes quiet. Even Violet, now dozing on Abby’s chest, lets out a tiny sigh.

“I thought if I stayed, I’d mess up her life,” I say. “So I left. I thought it would be cleaner.”

“Newsflash,” Griff says. “It wasn’t.”

“I know.”

There’s a pause before Griff speaks again. “You know, my sister dated a guy like that once. Thought she couldn’t handle his job, the travel, the pressure. He left to ‘protect’ her. You know what happened?”

“What?” I ask.

“She handled it. She got over him. Married someone who stuck around.”

I nod slowly. “That’s fair.”

Beckett leans forward. “You still love her?”

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