32. Brett

Brett

"Just let me bail you out," my father says, standing in front of the cell, staring back at me. In some ways, looking at him is like looking at myself. A glimpse into what I'll look like twenty years from now. Same strong jaw, straight nose. His hairline is slightly receding, and it brings me a moment of joy to think about him going bald, even if it means that I might lose my hair, too.

There's something about being around my family that brings out the worst in me. That makes me throw punches, that makes me feel a pure kind of hate I don't feel anywhere else.

Even out on the ice, I know my opponents are just playing a game. That we're all there in good sport, for the love of the game. Each just trying to win and make our mark in the hockey history books.

But my dad—he's not here in good sport. Every time I see him, it's a reminder that he's been trying to manipulate me, trying to control my life, for as long as I can remember. That me being myself has never been good enough for him.

"I told you to get out of my fucking face," I snap. "I don't understand why you can't just leave me alone."

"Brett—"

"Hi, yeah," I say, ignoring my father as I stand and wave down a police officer. "How can I start the process of filing a restraining order?"

"Brett, you're being ridiculous!"

"You," I snarl, spinning toward him, rage and fury and hurt building in my best. "You ruined everything . That news story? It doesn't just jeopardize my career! You brought Bryson there knowing full well he would swing at me. Knowing I would defend myself. Knowing it would blow up on national television. Your only mistake was thinking I would let you get away with this, again. Do everything in your fucking power to take hockey away from me, Dad. I will never be the son that you want me to be. Even if you abuse me to within an inch of my life to try and make it happen."

"So dramatic," he sighs, pinching his nose. "You and this entire generation. Abuse? It's not abuse—I'm just trying to do what's best for you, son. Maybe you'll understand that someday, when you have children—"

"Not that it's any of your fucking business," I spit, enjoying the way his face breaks open, shock and pain rippling over it. I imagine he always thought he would be there for the birth of his grandchildren, get to enjoy them and manipulate them in his retirement, continuing the cycle forever. "But that baby? Yeah, she's mine. And I will never treat her the way you've treated me."

"You don't know—"

"Ratcliffe?"

I don't know how to quantify the relief that throttles through me when a guard appears, saying someone else has bailed me out. I grab my jacket from the bench behind me and follow him through the door, collecting my things.

"Brett, fuck man, we leave you alone for thirty seconds—" Sammy says.

"They ambushed me," I mutter. "Bryson targeted my leg."

"Whoa," Sammy says, as we push through the doors of the police station together. "What the fuck ?"

"My dad thinks if he takes hockey away from me, I'll come back home and be the perfect little son he always wanted," I explain, bitter. "But I'll give it up completely before I ever come back to Minnesota."

We climb into the back of a black SUV, and I take my phone out of the plastic sack, powering it on and watching as a flood of text messages come in.

PR people, the legal team, Coach Grey—they've all texted me, one after the other, each of them some iteration of we need to talk .

But nothing from Fallon. Swallowing, I open the text app and type one out to her.

Brett: Hey, something happened tonight. Can we talk?

I wait, holding my breath, but it remains unread . Maybe she hasn't seen what happened tonight—maybe I can get to her and explain it before she sees it on the news. My Google alert for my own name is alerting every five seconds, letting me know that even this late at night, article after article about me is going up.

"Dude," Sammy says, glancing at me as we get out of the car, hurrying into the hotel to avoid the modest crowd of reporters gathered there, clearly trying to catch me and get a word. We ignore them. "Is this gonna affect your game tomorrow?"

I grit my teeth. "I'll talk to Fallon before then. It will be fine."

***

My flight is landing in Vermont, and I can barely hold still.

After multiple texts and calls to Fallon, I've only gotten one thing in response.

Fallon: I need some space to think.

I'd responded to her, asking to talk, that she would understand better if I could just explain the situation to her. Still, nothing in response. The moment my flight lands, I exit the plane and ignore the crowd of reporters waiting for me outside, ducking into a car.

My worst fears are confirmed when I walk into the house. All the baby stuff I bought is crowded into the corner of the living room, stacked neatly. June's crib is gone. Dropping my stuff at the door, I sprint through the hallway and up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Fallon's clothes are gone. Her toothbrush is gone.

A refrain starts in my mind and starts to echo throughout my body: No, no, no.

The room that I planned to turn into a nursery is empty. Neither of them is here.

I make it back outside before the car has pulled away, and ask the driver to take me to Fallon's house—her old house. Her roommates' place. I could drive myself, but I'm so keyed up, it feels safer to have someone else do it.

When we pull up outside the house, I run up the front walk and knock three times on the door. After a moment, something shifts inside. I knock again—still nothing.

"I know someone has to be home," I say, raising my voice to be heard through the door. " Please . I just need to talk to Fallon."

The door opens.

"Uh, hi," an older guy says. It takes me a moment, but I recognize him as Gerald, Fallon's middle-aged roommate. "Fallon isn't home."

"Where is she?" I ask, breathless. "Where's June?"

"I, uh…" He says, scratches the back of his neck. "I'm not actually sure that—"

If Fallon isn't home, there's only one other place she could be. Leaving Gerald in the door, I turn on my heel and run back to the car.

Ten minutes later, we pull up outside of the PT clinic, and I slam the car door behind me, pushing through the glass double-doors and into the waiting room.

Chloe is standing behind the desk, and she looks like a deer in the headlights. "Oh, no—no, no, no—just—"

She tries to leave, but bumps into another person at the desk, and I make it to her before she can run and hide.

"Chloe, please," I say, bracing my hands on the desk. When she turns to look at me, there's nothing but sadness in her eyes. "I just need to talk to her."

"Brett," she sighs. "Here's the thing about Fallon. It takes her forever to trust you. And once she does, it's not forever. It's not unconditional."

"Are you telling me I lost my chance?"

"I—"

"Brett."

When I turn and see Fallon standing in the hallway, it's like all the breath leaves my lungs. She looks gorgeous, like always, her hair in two braids. Her eyes are pink, like she's been crying, and it makes my heart squeeze.

I did this.

"Fallon," I say, clearing my throat and taking a step toward her. "Please. Don't shut me out. We just need to talk this through—"

"Come outside." Her voice is low, and I realize everyone in the waiting room is staring at us. When she wraps her hand around my arm and pulls me into the parking lot behind the clinic, it sends a thrill straight down my spine.

I've been gone for just two days, and I miss her. Her touch, her face, her voice.

The only way I can think to describe the feeling building inside me is panic . Panic that she's already pulling away from me. Desperate, aching want for her to stay.

"You can't just come and find me at work," Fallon says when we make it outside. The sun is bright, gleaming off her hair, and when she turns around, crossing her arms and glaring at me, I feel like I need sunglasses to deal with her stare.

"I'm a patient here," I say lamely. But instead of making her smile, it just makes her look even more like she's going to cry.

"Let me explain," I try again, "I'm guessing you saw what happened. But it was purposefully twisted to look—"

"You didn't punch your brother? Again?" Fallon asks, pressing her lips together.

I frown, not knowing what to say to that.

"Right," she says, laughing. "You know, when I was growing up, my mom did this thing—I mean, she was with a lot of guys. That meant that they were always coming and going, and—well, my mom, obviously she's not really that…put-together. Obviously."

Something in my gut twists, identifying the tone of her voice. Like she's saying goodbye. But I stay quiet—beyond the fact that her mom left June at her door, I don't know much about her. And I'll take any chance to learn more, to hear Fallon opening up.

"She—what I mean is that it can be kind of scary, And unsettling. To have these guys moving in and out of your life. First, you know, there are the ones who are just plain mean, and the ones who are scary, but more than that, and worse than that," she goes on, eyes meeting mine, and I see that hers are a little glassy, somewhere between angry and sorrowful. "Worse than that is the guys who are wonderful. The ones who come into your life for a little while and make you feel like you're—well, it just sucks. To think you have that, and then for them to leave. Does that make sense?"

"I…" I bite my lip. I'm having a hard time following what she's saying, but I can see that her hands are shaking, and she's struggling to get it out. "Yeah."

"Okay," she says, nodding and deflating a little, relief coursing through her. I feel like I'm losing grasp of something, like the kite in my hand is getting ripped away by the wind, but I can't quite get a firm grasp on it. "So—so you understand."

I nod slowly as my brain puts the pieces together. Fallon's mom dated a lot of guys. And it was hard for her when the good ones gave up on her. So, she's looking for a man who's going to stick around for June, be there for her.

I can be that guy. Even with the mistakes I've made.

"Fallon, I—" I start, stepping toward her, pulling my shoulders back, preparing to explain what happened with my father and brother. That I would never act like that if it weren't for being around them. The words are hanging on my tongue, like ghosts, my mind willing me to get them out.

I love you .

"I'm glad you understand," she says, putting her fingers to her eyes and breathing out, slowly. "Because that's just not something I could ever do to my sister. No matter how much I liked a guy. I'd never risk her happiness, her mental stability, just to make myself happy."

I stare at her. Everything is falling apart, just like I told my dad. The people who are supposed to be my family are responsible for me losing the best thing that's ever happened to me.

Fallon isn't telling me this because she thinks I could be the guy that stays. She's saying it because she doesn't think I will. She thinks June will get attached to me, and I'll break her heart.

I swallow, opening my mouth and closing it again, trying to find the words to tell Fallon that I would never do that to June. That I'm here for the long haul.

But what proof do I have that I'm a stable, steady guy? Getting on that damn waterski? The partying? Proposing to her when I barely knew her? Fighting my brother in public?

Sure, he went after my leg, purposefully trying to wound me, but I probably could have gotten out of the situation without punching back. If I'd been thinking outside of that sick, curling rage.

If I open my mouth and tell her that I can stick around, I can be there for her and June, it's going to sound like an empty promise. And maybe that's what it is—just wishful thinking. Me hoping I can be somebody more, somebody better than I am.

"Okay," I say finally, nodding and taking a step back.

"Okay?"

"Yeah." I clear my throat and heading back for the car that brought me. "Okay."