Chapter 22

I wakeup just after two a.m. with a crick in my neck and a desperate need to pee.

Nathan is sleeping soundly beside me, his breathing deep and easy. He rolled off my chest sometime in the past few hours, but he's still close—close enough that it's easy to rest a hand on his chest, feel the reassuring rise and fall of his breath or lift a hand to his forehead.

I'm not sure his fever broke completely, but he doesn't feel nearly as warm as he did when I first showed up. That has to be a good sign.

Moving slowly to avoid waking him, I slide off the bed and tiptoe to Nathan's bathroom. I'm itching to explore, to see what I can learn about Nathan from his house and the way he keeps it, but honestly, I'm not sure it would do much good. Nathan's place is clean and comfortable. But it's only sparsely decorated. It could be an Airbnb for how impersonal it feels. Nathan might live here, but it doesn't look like he's made it his home.

I would understand it if he were living with the reality that, at any moment, he might get called up to the NHL. But I've read Nathan's contract. The Appies won't let him go. If he wanted to, he could likely play out the rest of his career right here in Harvest Hollow.

He is on the road a lot. Maybe he just hasn't had time?

After using the bathroom, I pause in front of the mirror long enough to wipe away the smudged mascara from under my eyes. It's pretty much raccoon-level bad, so I'm counting on the likelihood that Nathan was too sick to notice.

His father's Stanley Cup ring is on the bathroom counter next to the sink, and I pick it up, hating the reminder of Nathan's opposition to relationships. I half wonder if this has something to do with his impersonal home—like he's averse to creating any kind of life off the ice. In a way, it's weirdly noble. That's the term he used when I told him why it took me so long to quit, so I understand. I know Nathan well enough to know he's only motivated by a desire to protect other people. But that's completely unfair because he's denying himself so much. And he's denying everyone else—me, in particular—the opportunity to love him.

I put the ring back on the counter, then clean up Nathan's shower, pulling the barstool out and picking up the wet towel he left inside. I wring it out so it's dry enough for me to carry it to the laundry room.

Honestly, I don't know how I made it through that shower. It was one of the most intimate things I've ever experienced. And it didn't have anything to do with the fact that, under his towel, Nathan was naked. It was more just…the touch. The act of washing his hair. His complete vulnerability. He couldn't even sit up all the way without leaning against me. He wasn't making a move or trying to be close, he just needed me.

And I really liked being needed.

Nathan is still asleep when I cross through his room and head to the laundry room, so I start a load of towels, then pull my leggings and tank top out of the dryer. They're completely dry, so I could put them back on, but Nathan's clothes are comfortable and soft and they smell like him, so I'm in no particular rush. His Appies t-shirt was only against my skin for a matter of seconds before I decided I would never be giving it back. It's perfectly soft and is just the right length for sleeping in—pants not required.

You know. Unless you're sharing a bed with a man who is not your boyfriend, pretending that you are not falling in love with him. In which case, yeah. Definitely put on some pants.

I drink a glass of water in Nathan's kitchen, respond to Parker, who texted to check in earlier, then answer a text from Lucy that came in while I was asleep.

Lucy

How are things? Did you survive? Did HE survive?

Summer

He's clean and whole and sound asleep. He's very heavy. But I survived. My heart, on the other hand…

Instead of texting a reply, Lucy calls.

I quickly answer, whispering hello, then asking her to hang on while I tiptoe across Nathan's living room and slip onto his front porch. Nathan's teammates may say he can sleep through anything, but that's never been the case around me, so I'd rather not take any chances.

"Hey," I say once I'm outside. "Aren't you still working?"

"Nah. The hospital's dead, so I get to go home early. Is your patient feeling better?"

"I think so," I say. "He's still feverish, but he's hydrated and sleeping peacefully."

"It sounds like you're doing everything right. I'm sure he'll be okay in a day or two."

"Thanks for helping."

"Of course. Should we talk about your heart now? Has anything new happened since the Yellow Jackets game?"

I drop onto the top step of Nathan's porch. The night air is cool, but less biting than it was a few weeks ago. It's a spring cool instead of a winter one, and my hoodie is keeping me plenty warm. "I mean, little things," I say, answering Lucy's question. "He brought me coffee every morning this week. And we've texted a lot. And then tonight—I don't know. I just feel like it has to mean something that he called me when he needed help."

"That's all really sweet," Lucy says. "And is all the more reason for you to talk to him about how you're feeling."

I breathe out a sigh. "I don't know what to say. I don't want to push him away."

"Have you talked any more about his dad?"

"Not really."

"So you're just pretending. Not asking for anything real?" Her tone is gentle, but there's an edge to her voice that hints at her underlying concern. "Summer, you're falling in love with a man based on a relationship that's entirely fake."

"It isn't," I say. "That's the point. Nothing about this feels fake."

"Your friendship isn't fake. I don't have any doubts about that. I also don't doubt how you feel about him. But how does he feel?"

I bite the inside of my cheek. Of course Lucy is right. I don't know how he feels. But only because I keep chickening out whenever I think about asking him.

"I think he feels something," I say. "Tonight, when I first showed up, he kept telling me to leave, saying he didn't want my help. Finally, he admitted that it was only because of how much he wanted me to stay."

Lucy groans. "Summer! That doesn't make me feel better about this."

"Why? I thought it was really sweet."

"Sure," Lucy says. "It's also conflicted. Does this man have any idea what he actually wants?" Through the phone, I hear the familiar sounds of her climbing into her car, the click of her seatbelt, the wind chime tone her car makes whenever it connects with her phone. "Just take your own feelings out of the equation for a second, okay? So far, Nathan has told you that he isn't interested in a relationship, that he doesn't think he's capable of dating while he's playing hockey, and that he wants you to leave becauseof how much he wants you to stay."

"But if all of this goes back to his dad, then Nathan is wrong. He isn"t his father, and he does deserve to fall in love."

"But what if you can't convince him of that?" she argues. "Are you supposed to just break your own heart in the process?"

"There's so much more to it," I say. "So many looks and touches and feelings."

"Your feelings," she says. "Not any that he has admitted. I'm not saying he doesn't feel something. I'd like to think you're a good enough judge of character that you'd be able to tell if he were just playing you. But I don't want you to get hurt. And I don't think you're being honest with yourself about that potential."

I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. I may hate what my sister is saying, but I recognize the truth in her words. "You sound like me."

She lets out a little laugh. "Well, someone has to, because you sound like me."

"But that's a good thing, right? You're always telling me to trust my heart."

"And you're always telling me not to abandon all reason," she says. "I'm not telling you not to love him. I'm telling you to talk to him. You can't live in this middle ground for long, Summer. If he doesn't want a real relationship, you have to stop seeing him. You have to protect your heart."

The thought of not seeing Nathan makes my insides twist into painful knots. But Lucy is right. I do have to talk to him. And I have to do it sooner than later.

"Okay. You're right," I finally concede. "I promise I'll talk to him as soon as he's healthy enough to think clearly."

"Good," Lucy says. "I could use a dose of grounded, logical Summer. Find her quick, please."

I sit up, not loving the sudden uncertainty in Lucy's voice. "Lucy. What did you do?"

"Oh, nothing," she says. "Except, maybe agree to have dinner with the new attending."

"The Dr. McDreamy one? I thought you said he was married with twelve kids."

"Not married," she says. "Divorced. But no kids."

"And he asked you to dinner."

"Yes? Is it a terrible idea? He's, like, ten years older than I am."

"Um, it might be a terrible idea?" I say. "But also, age is just a number. Do you like him?"

"So much. He's so charming. And so good with patients, and he has this amazing smile, and I am completely enamored in a way that scares me a little bit."

"Right. Got it. So you need me to lecture you and remind you of all the reasons why you need to be supremely careful."

She breathes out a sigh. "Yes, please."

I love it when my sisters give me free rein to use my attorney brain on them, and I do a very thorough job for Lucy. We talk about power dynamics and age gaps and motives and job security and all the questions she should be asking herself before and after their date. We talk about what she wants for her future and whether it will align with what he wants, considering their differing circumstances. We talk about her tendency to give everyone the benefit of the doubt and how risky that can be when this man is already in a position of authority over her.

By the end of my lecture, Lucy seems sufficiently grounded. But somewhere about halfway through, I started to feel like I was also lecturing myself. Lucy's situation is entirely different from mine, but all the reminders about goals and motives and future plans—those matter for me too.

I end the call with my sister and make my way back inside, newly determined to be more careful with my heart.

But then I sneak into Nathan's bedroom to check on him and find him awake.

There's a light on in the hallway, and the bedroom door is cracked, so I can just make out the shape of him on the bed. He's on his back, one arm over his head, the covers pulled up to his waist. His eyes are clear, his face relaxed, and he looks…perfect, honestly. There's no other word to use.

He holds out a hand, beckoning me forward, and I immediately go, slipping my fingers into his and letting him tug me onto the bed. "I thought you might have left."

"I wouldn't leave." I lift my free hand to his forehead. "How are you feeling?"

"Better? I think. Medicated, at least."

I offer him the rest of the Liquid IV he didn't drink before he fell asleep, and he downs it in just a few swallows.

"Good job," I say as I take the empty bottle back and set it on the nightstand.

Nathan chuckles as he leans back on his pillow. "You must be pretty special because I'm not normally such a compliant patient."

He scoots over a little, patting the bed beside him, and I stretch out, resting my head in the crook of his shoulder, his arm wrapped around my back.

So much for my lecture about protecting my heart. Thirty seconds in Nathan's presence, and I'm already forgetting. It just feels so good, so easy to be here with him.

"When have you been a patient before?" I ask, stifling a yawn.

Nathan chuckles. "Pick an injury. Broken collarbone, busted knee, torn ligaments in my shoulder. Concussions at least three different times. Then there's the contusions, lacerations, stitches more times than I can count…"

"I don't want this to sound like a judgmental question, because it isn't," I say. "But why do you do it?"

"Why do I play?"

"Yeah."

He takes a deep breath, my head moving with the rise and fall of his chest. "Because I'm good at it, I guess?"

"That's not a real reason."

"Sure it is."

"It's not. You're good because you've been playing for so long. Also genetics, and the fact that you work so hard. But why did you play before you were good? Why did you keep at it?"

This question takes him longer to answer, so long that I wonder if he's fallen asleep. The only thing that lets me know he hasn't is the light touch of his fingers brushing up and down my back.

"This probably sounds cliché," he finally says, "but I really just love the game. Sometimes the world really sucks. It lets you down. It disappoints. It turns its back. But none of that matters in a hockey game. You always know what to expect. You know what the game promises, and if you play by the rules, it always delivers."

I think about how comfortable Nathan seemed when he took me ice skating, and his answer makes total sense. "Even when you lose?"

"Sure. It isn't just about winning. It's about being out there."

"Being out there…and losing teeth," I add. "And getting beat up."

"What happened to your lack of judgment?" He squeezes my side, and I let out a little giggle as I shimmy away from him. I sit up and take off my hoodie—snuggling with this man is basically snuggling with a campfire—and toss it toward the foot of the bed.

He reaches up and tugs on the hem of my shirt—his shirt. "Nice shirt."

I lie back down, looping an arm across his middle. "You like it? It's for this hockey team I know. Word is they're pretty good, but I'm not convinced they're worth all the hype."

"They probably aren't," he says flatly. "I'd toss the shirt if I were you."

"Definitely not tossing it." I lift my head and prop my chin on his chest, looking up at him. "I'm keeping it. I hope you don't have a problem with that."

He lifts a hand, tracing his fingers across my forehead before tucking my hair behind my ear. He keeps his hand on my face, his thumb sliding over to the corner of my bottom lip. "I like you in my shirt." His voice is low, his molten tone lighting my skin on fire.

I breathe out a shaky sigh of laughter. "Nathan Sanders, if you were not so sick right now, I would…" I shift so I'm resting my head on his chest again, and he chuckles, his fingers tracing a line up and down my bare arm.

"You would what?" he asks.

"I'm choosing not to answer that question for both our sakes," I say. "Trust me. It's better this way."

"I'm not that sick," Nathan argues, his tone playful.

"Says the guy who literally collapsed on his bathroom floor less than eight hours ago? I don't think so. You said yourself I needed to be careful, that I shouldn't be so close to you."

"And you said you didn't care."

I push up on my hands, facing him again. "You still have a fever, Nathan. You really want to risk kissing me when you might have lingering barf breath?"

Nathan frowns. "Way to kill the mood, Callahan."

I smirk, then collapse back onto his chest, ignoring the fact that we're talking about kissing—real,not-for-the-public kissing—like it's no big deal. "That's what I thought," I say.

We're both quiet for a beat before I ask, "How old were you when you started skating?"

"Less than two," Nathan answers. "Barely walking." His voice is calm, contemplative. "My dad was big, then. A huge star in the NHL, and there were pictures all over the news of the two of us on the ice together, me holding onto his stick as he pulled me around the rink. Headlines like, Hockey star by day, star father by night."

"He wasn't though, was he?" I ask gently, thinking of our conversation in Eli's backyard.

It takes Nathan a long time to respond, but I don't regret asking. If I really do want something real with Nathan, we have to have this conversation.

"It wasn't entirely his fault," Nathan finally says. "He was on the road all the time. Once I was old enough to understand, I liked that his name had so much power. My hockey coaches and teammates treated me differently because of who he was. But in hindsight, I'd have given all that up to just…have a dad."

I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat.

"I remember being glad when I found out he'd been hurt, thinking it would mean he'd be home more. Turns out it had never been about his schedule. He just didn't want to be around us."

I have so many questions. But the most important one doesn't have anything to do with Nathan's father. Regardless of why Nathan felt what he felt in the past, what matters more is how he feels now. Is his arm around me now simply because he's sick? Because it's easy to let me comfort him, to pretend there aren't walls between us because we've been pretending for so long? Can we joke about kissing because we already have kissed? It didn't mean anything then, so why would it mean anything now?

Or has Nathan changed his mind?

After everything we've been through, is he still against the idea of a relationship?

I slide my hands up Nathan's chest, my fingers brushing through the soft hair between his pecs. "Thanks for telling me about your dad," I say, because it feels like a good way to start the inevitable part of this conversation. The feelings part.

Nathan answers with a tiny, breathy snore.

Now the big dummy really has fallen asleep.

I sigh and roll onto my back. I can't wake him up. He's sick—he needs to sleep more than he needs to ease my concerns. But I have to be braver than this.

Because I promised Lucy I would be.

And Nathan deserves to know.