Page 97 of The Beautiful Collision
The words come out cracked, broken. I have to stop, take a breath that sounds more like a sob, and force myself to continue. And the irony isn’t lost on me that this episode of the Maine Show has twenty-five early-twenties hockey players captivated, so focused and quiet that you could hear a pin drop.
“She’s…”
Fuck.
I can’t.
My eyes are burning.
But then I think about Chloe, and the shame of my tears seems insignificant.
“She’s in the ICU. Has been for over a week now. They’re talking about experimental treatments that might buy her more time, but we can’t…” Another breath… another battle against the sob trying to claw its way up my throat. “We can’t afford it, because our insurance won’t cover it.”
I risk a glance up.
Every face in this room has gone pale.
“So there it is,” I say. “All on the table, the reason I’m struggling right now, the reason I’ve been shit on the ice, and the reason I need to forfeit the bet.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. I can hear my heartbeat, rapid and thready. I can hear someone’s phone vibrating in their bag. I can hear the drip of a leaky faucet inthe showers that’s probably been there for years, but nobody has ever noticed because it’sneverquiet in here.
Then Rook makes a sound like someone punched him in the gut.
“Dude…”
His voice is small. Rook’s voice is never small. He’s the loudest guy in any room on Earth, but right now he’s looking at me like I just told him I have three weeks to live. He stands up, and for once in his life, James Fitzgerald looks completely serious.
“I was just giving you shit,” he says. “I didn’t… Christ, Maine, I’m so sorry.”
Mike steps forward, his hand landing on my shoulder with the weight of an anchor. He doesn’t say anything—Mike’s always been better with actions than words—but the grip is firm, steadying. It says everything his voice won’t:I see you. I’ve got you. You’re not alone.
“Keep your money,” Schmidt says quietly. “Use it for your sister.”
“Yeah, man.” Kellerman’s voice cracks. “Nobody wants your money.”
One by one, they all refuse.
“The team takes care of its own,” Mike says simply. “Always has. Always will.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. The team takes care of its own. But I’m the one who’s supposed to take care of everyone else. That’s my job. That’s who I am. The easy kid. The performer. The one who never needs help andneverfucking asks for it.
“Hey.” Mike’s grip on my shoulder tightens. “Maine. Look at me.”
I do, though my vision is blurry now, and I’m pretty sure everyone can see that I’m about five seconds from completelylosing it. The first crack appears in the dam I’ve built around everything I’m feeling. Then another. Then another. And then a sob escapes.
“You should have told us,” he says. “Not about the bet. Fuck the bet. About your sister. About the money. About all of it.”
“I couldn’t?—“
“I know.” His voice is gentle in a way that Mike’s voice rarely is. “I know you couldn’t, but you should have.”
“We would have helped,” Rook says, and he sounds personally offended that we didn’t get the chance. “We would have done something.”
“That’s not…”
I start to saythat’s not your problem, but the words die in my throat because isn’t that exactly the thinking that got me here? That got me benched and Maya hating me? This belief that my issues are mine alone to carry and that asking for help is the same as being a burden?
“Maya knew, didn’t she?” Rook asks quietly. “About your sister?”
