Page 28 of Heart Checked By the Hockey Heartthrob

I remember how she used to tuck her legs under her on the couch, completely absorbed in whatever show we were binging—usually something medical that she’d roll her eyes at while still being obsessed with the show’s inaccuracies.

I remember Sunday mornings, coffee in hand, when she'd quiz me on anatomy terms just to see if I’d retained any of the ones she used during rotations. I remember her hands, always cold, always seeking warmth, slipping into the front pocket of my hoodie while we waited in line for hot chocolate after skating.

There are a thousand little snapshots in my head I didn’t know I’d memorized until now—and they’re all surfacing at once, leaving me raw and shaken. I’m not just missing her laugh or her touch. I’m missing our rhythm, the way we used to move through the world like two halves of the same plan.

It was nothing. It was everything.

She looked up at me like maybe—just maybe—there was something left between us worth fighting for. And then it was gone. A burst of laughter, a shouted joke, a dozen eyes too interested in our moment. The spark vanished into smoke.

But for that one instant, there had been something. Real and raw and maybe even redeemable. And I’d felt it—not just in my arms, but in the pit of my stomach, the ache in my chest, the sting behind my eyes. It was hope, and it terrified me.

What if that one look is the closest I’ll ever get to making it right?

I wanted to grab the moment and stretch it out, to freeze time and ask her what she was thinking, if her heart had skipped thesame beat mine had. But the world kept moving, and I was left holding the memory like it meant more than it should.

Because for me, it did.

I don’t cry. Not really. Not since the day I signed my first contract and learned that showing emotion was a weakness. But standing there, with the scent of her shampoo still lingering on my shirt and the weight of everything unsaid pressing against my ribs, I felt dangerously close to breaking that rule.

And part of me wants to let it happen. To stop pretending I’m fine. To finally admit how much losing her gutted me.

I’m still standing there like an idiot when Griff appears with two folding chairs and two sodas. “You looked like you were about to pass out. Sit down before someone adds you to the first aid report.”

I collapse into the chair and take the drink. “Thanks.”

He watches me a moment, then nudges me with his elbow. “So. That was a thing.”

I don’t answer.

Griff raises his eyebrows. “Are you gonna pretend you didn’t almost kiss her? Because if you are, you might need an acting coach.”

I groan. “Can we not do this right now?”

Griff grins. “Oh, we’re doing this. This is prime older-brother material. I should be charging admission.”

“I didn’t plan it.”

“Of course not. No one plans to fall face-first into a Hallmark moment. It just happens. You should’ve seen your face—like a golden retriever who just realized he’s holding a wedding ring in his mouth.”

“She stumbled.”

“Sure, she did. Into your arms. Like a rom-com extra with excellent timing.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You’re doing better than you think. You just need patience. And maybe a helmet.”

“She’s still angry.”

“She’s still here.”

I glance toward the spot where she disappeared into the crowd. “It’s not enough.”

“It’s more than nothing.”

Griff takes a sip of his soda and leans back, watching the fire with the kind of ease I envy. It’s the way he’s completely present—no second-guessing, no overthinking. He laughs when someone drops a marshmallow into the flames, tells a joke without weighing every word. He’s got Liz’s hand in his without needing to make a grand gesture out of it. That kind of peace—the kind where you know who you are and who you love—it’s something I never figured out how to hold on to.

And now, watching him so effortlessly rooted, I wonder if I ever really knew what stillness felt like until I lost her. “You’re doing what most guys can’t. Showing up. Sticking around. Letting her see you try.”

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