Page 62 of Penalty Kiss
"That's not what I asked." His eyes search mine, looking for something I'm not sure I can give him. "Do you want me to leave?"
The honest answer sits in my throat like a stone. No. No, I want you to stay. I want you to keep making Korean corn dogs in my kitchen and remembering my favorite things and looking at me like I hung the moon. I want you to stay and fight for me and damn the consequences.
But Erik's voice echoes in my head: Keep him safe. Even if that means letting him go.
"I want what's best for you," I say instead.
"Come on, Tara!" The exasperation cuts through the morning air like a blade. "That's a politician's answer. I asked what you want. Not what you think is best or right or responsible. What do you want?"
My hands shake as I reach for my coffee mug, needing something to hold onto. "It doesn't matter what I want."
"It's the only thing that matters."
"No, it's not!" The words explode out of me, surprising us both. "Your health matters. Your future matters. Your family matters. You have people who love you, Cam. People who need you healthy and whole and safe."
"And what about what I need?"
"You need to get better."
"I need you."
The simple declaration hits me like a physical blow. I set down my mug with shaking hands, coffee sloshing over the rim.
"You can't need me. I’m nobody’s safe harbor. Plus, you barely know me."
"I know enough. You’re mine.” His voice carries absolute certainty.
“You’re my anchor when my brain can’t find shore.”
He steps closer, and I can see the gold flecks in his brown eyes, the scar on his temple from his last concussion.
"Cam—"
"I know you're the strongest person I've ever met, and you're terrified of letting anyone see you be weak. I know you ran from a billion-dollar empire because you'd rather be free than comfortable. I know you taste like vanilla and possibilities, and when you smile—really smile, not the customer service version—it feels like winning the Stanley Cup and Olympic gold while my halmeoni feeds me her best kimchi."
Tears blur my vision. "You're making this harder than it has to be."
"Good. It should be hard. Easy things don't matter."
"Your family worries," I say softly.
He doesn't look at me. "So does your father. Just in different ways."
The parallel hits like a punch. Both of us running from families who love us but can't let us breathe. His family sees him as fragile, a patient in need of protection. Mine sees me as an asset to be controlled and deployed.
Different cages. Same desperation to be seen as more than our circumstances.
"He's not wrong about the PCS," I say carefully.
"Don't." His voice is sharp. "Don't you start that again."
"I'm not starting anything. I'm stating a fact." I shift to face him fully, pulling the robe around me like armor. "You forget things. Important things. Sometimes you repeat yourself or lose track of where you are in a conversation."
He flinches like I slapped him.
"But you know what you don't forget?" I reach for his hand, relieved when he doesn't pull away. "You don't forget how to make someone feel safe. You don't forget how to read a room or protect the people you care about. You don't forget the things that matter."
"Memory exercises," he says bitterly. "Cognitive pacing. Rest and routine. Great, I sound like a geriatric patient."
