12. Lucas

Chapter 12

Lucas

Holly stared at me as if he didn’t know how to answer the question.

Connor returned, standing by our table, his eyes flicking between Holly and the coffee pot in his hands like he couldn’t quite believe who was here. He was just a kid, maybe seventeen, and his wide brown eyes were filled with stars.

He was a hockey fanatic and played with Kai’s local Diamonds team. I’d seen him around the shop, sometimes with his mom, spending far too much time in front of the section with Harriers merchandise, his fingers brushing the signed pucks and framed photos of Holly and the rest of the team.

And now he was face-to-face with his idol, holding a coffee pot as though it might help him impress the great Paul “Holly” Hollister.

“You, uh… you need menus?” Connor asked, his voice cracking as his gaze darted to Holly again.

Holly barely glanced at him, his focus locked on his coffee cup. “No, thanks,” he muttered, his voice low and distant.

Connor blinked, then stared at me, unsure what to do with the brush-off. I gave him a small smile, trying to reassure him.

“Thanks, Connor. We’re good for now,” I said.

He nodded, but his eyes lingered on Holly for another beat, full of admiration and awe. I could almost see the wheels turning in his head, the excitement of being this close to a hockey legend mixing with the reality that Holly wasn’t acting like said legend.

“Big fan, Mr. Hollister,” Connor blurted out, his words tumbling over themselves. “You’re, uh… you’re the reason I started playing defense. For the Diamonds. Just like you.”

Holly’s hand froze on his mug, his eyes flicking up to Connor for the briefest moment. I thought he might say something for a second, but then he nodded, his expression unreadable.

“Thank you,” he managed before staring back at his coffee.

Connor’s face fell, but he covered it with a nervous smile, muttering something about returning to work before shuffling off.

I watched him go, my chest tightening with sympathy for Connor and something else I couldn’t quite say. Holly hadn’t noticed the kid’s awe, the way Connor had lit up by being near him.

“Holly, for God’s sake,” I warned.

He didn’t look up, his fingers tightening around the mug. And for the first time, I wondered if he knew how much of a shadow he’d let himself become. He stared into the dark liquid as if it held the answers to something he couldn’t face. I shook my head, and our silence was thick and heavy.

He was nothing like the confident hockey star from the wedding. His hair was unkempt, sticking up in uneven waves as though he’d been running his hands through it too often. The dark circles under his eyes stood out starkly against his pale skin, and his shoulders slumped forward as though they couldn’t bear the weight he carried. Still clutching the mug, his hands shook just enough to make the coffee ripple. He was exhausted, shaky, and so full of regret it was almost tangible.

“Holly!”

“What?”

“Connor’s a huge fan,” I murmured, watching the kid retreat to the counter, his shoulders slumped. “Maybe you could give him a smile.”

Holly snorted, shaking his head. “A fan of mine? A fan of a loser who messed up a team?”

I frowned, leaning forward, my voice firm. “A Stanley Cup champion. A captain.”

“Not anymore,” he muttered, his gaze locked on the coffee.

“No one can take away your successes, Holly,” I said. “Apart from yourself.”

His expression alternated between anger and disbelief. I thought he might snap back for a moment, but then he huffed a laugh, his shoulders sagging even further.

“You sound like my therapist,” he muttered, the words slipping out before he realized what he was saying. His eyes widened, and he was clearly horrified, as though he’d revealed something far too personal.

I tilted my head, keeping my voice gentle. “Maybe your therapist has a point.”

Holly didn’t respond, just stared into his coffee, his jaw tight, his breathing a little heavier than before. Whatever storm he was wrestling with wasn’t over. But he wasn’t ready to share it, not yet. I leaned back, giving him space, but the tension in the air didn’t ease. It sat there, heavy and unspoken, between us.

“And?” I repeated my earlier prompt, leaning forward to catch his eye.

He flinched, his jaw working as if he were trying to figure out where to start. Finally, he swallowed hard and spoke, his voice rough and low. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

I didn’t say anything, letting him work through it. He needed this moment. He needed to say it on his own.

“I’m sorry for what I did at the wedding,” he continued, his voice cracking. “For the drinking, which was out of control, for everything I said back then. For what I did to you without your consent. For threatening you. It was all on me, and I’m sorry.”

His hold on the mug tightened, his breathing was uneven and shallow, and he wouldn’t look at me, his gaze fixed on the table.

The regret on his face was so raw it was almost painful to witness. He wasn’t deflecting or justifying. He owned it, piece by piece, and it was clear how much it cost him. The affection and attraction I held inside me was nudging aside the bad memories. Was this how falling for someone worked? Did it mean I could ignore the bad and focus on the good?

Why was my brain doing this to me?

“You made that kiss into something awful,” I said, breaking the silence.

“I know,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I know I did, and I hate myself for it. I’ve been trying to figure out how to make it right, but I don’t even know where to start. I was drunk, and everything inside me just… boiled over.”

His eyes, the color of melted chocolate, were glassy with emotion, the weight of his regret written all over his face. He was lost, a man who didn’t know how to stop punishing himself.

“And the kiss?”

“Was all me, and I’m sorry.”

“You regret the kiss?”

He blinked at me. “I regret how I made you feel.”

If he really knew how that kiss had made me feel, he’d be running by now. That kiss and the way he’d pressed me to the counter had provided fuel for my fantasies ever since. The rest of it, the threat, the leaving, the never contacting me after, was all secondary to the kiss.

“You look like you haven’t slept in days,” I said, not unkindly.

“I haven’t. Not properly.”

The admission hit harder than I expected, and something in me softened even more.

Connor returned, coffee pot in hand, shifting as he stopped by our table. “Would you like a top-up, Mr. Hollister?” he asked, his voice breaking on the name.

I glanced at Holly, expecting him to brush the kid off again. Instead, he surprised me by glancing up and offering a smile. It wasn’t big or over-the-top, just enough to pass for polite, sufficient to fool someone who didn’t know him well. But I could see through it. It didn’t reach his eyes or carry the warmth it should. It was a smile meant for the public, a mask he wore well, but beneath it, he was still tired, still worn down.

“Sorry, I’m useless before coffee,” Holly said smoothly. He gestured toward Connor. “So, you play defense?”

Connor brightened, the nervous energy around him shifting into something more confident. “Yeah, for the Diamonds. The senior team. It’s… it’s amazing, honestly. Coach Kai says I’ve got potential, maybe even for a career if I work hard enough.”

Holly’s brow lifted, the faintest hint of interest sparking in his eyes. “Kai said that, huh? He knows what he’s talking about.”

Connor nodded enthusiastically. “Not professional playing level or anything,” he admitted, a little sheepish. “I wouldn’t want that. But I’ve been looking at colleges, thinking about studying sports science and maybe going into coaching one day. It’s something where I can stay close to the game, and maybe I could even work here for Coach with a whole new team of Diamonds.”

Holly listened, really listened, leaning forward as Connor talked. He asked the right questions—what schools Connor was considering, what drew him to sports science, and whether he’d considered how he would balance academics with hockey. There was something steady in how Holly handled the conversation, a glimmer of the man he probably used to be, the leader he must have been on the ice.

Connor hesitated at one point, his words faltering, and Holly looked like he might let the silence sit. I nudged his foot under the table, catching his eye when he glanced my way. I gave him a slight nod, and Holly exhaled, his shoulders easing. He nodded back.

Reaching behind him, he pulled down a picture of him and Kai holding the Stanley Cup, their faces lit with unguarded joy. He gestured for Connor’s pen, before signing his familiar scrawl and his jersey number 59, his handwriting careful and deliberate.

“I remember this moment,” he said, handing the photo to Connor. “Best day of my life. Get Kai to sign it, too, and it might be worth something. You take it.”

Connor’s hands trembled as he clutched the frame to his chest. “I’ll never sell it, Mr. Hollister. Never.”

“Call me Holly,” he said, offering another smile. This one was soft, more natural, though tinged with a sadness he couldn’t hide from me.

“Will you visit the Diamonds, Mr. H—Holly? We’d love to see you skating with Coach Buchanan?”

He stiffened, his lips thin, all in a second before he hid it behind a smile. “Maybe not this visit,” he said, and I could see how hard it was for Connor to contain his disappointment. “But one day.”

Connor beamed, murmuring a heartfelt, “That would be so cool,” before stepping away, the photo still clutched in his hands. Holly watched him go, then finished the last sip of his coffee, carefully setting the cup down.

“I have to go,” he said, his voice low, avoiding my gaze as he stood.

“You don’t want to talk anymore?” I asked, keeping my tone light but leaving the invitation open.

“Not today,” he whispered, his voice thick with something he wasn’t saying. He paused, glancing at me before adding, “Just… I’m sorry. For everything. I hope one day you’ll forgive me.”

I touched his hand, but he yanked his back as if he couldn’t bear the touch.

“Holly, of course, I forgive you. The kiss—” I started.

He shook his head.

“I have to go,” he said, throwing some cash onto the table, his voice firm but quiet. With that, he walked out, leaving the ghost of his presence. I stared at the door until Connor broke my daydreaming when he arrived to clear the table, still with stars in his eyes.

“You’re so lucky to be friends with Mr. Hollister.” He beamed.

Friends? I wasn’t sure if we were friends. I cared about him in ways I couldn’t decipher. He cared that I was upset.

Hell, I knew that I wanted to be his friend.

I just wondered if he’d ever let me be that.

Or more.