Chapter 25

I waitin the wide hallway with Mom and Blake, the three of us lined up on an uncomfortable wooden bench across from the heavy courtroom doors. We still have fifteen minutes before Blake's hearing is supposed to begin, but I'm already anxious, my foot bouncing nervously against the tile floor.

Honestly, my anxiety probably has as much to do with Summer as it does with Blake's hearing. It doesn't feel right to be here without her—to be anywhere without her. And yet, the thought of accepting her as a permanent part of my life still scares the hell out of me.

Yesterday, on the way to the airport, when I was feeling particularly frustrated, maybe even a little desperate, I called Felix. He's always talking about his therapist like the guy is one of his best friends, so I figured he might have some words of wisdom for me.

He did, and they were blunt and incisive.

It isn't about hockey, man, and you don't need to overthink it. Just be better than your father was. Do better.

There was more. Stuff about believing I deserve happiness and not getting in my own way. I understand the concept in theory, but so far, that understanding hasn't done anything to loosen the knot that's been in my chest since Summer pulled out of the parking lot at Mulligan's.

"Dude, what's wrong with you?" Blake asks from beside me. He's bigger than he was the last time I saw him, his shoulders a little broader, his voice a little deeper. "I'm the one on trial here," he says. "Why are you the one freaking out?"

"I'm fine," I lie. "Just anxious for all this to be over."

He scoffs. "Tell me about it."

Franklin's last text said he was almost here, and he would update us on exactly what to expect once he arrives. That was ten minutes ago, so we're expecting him any moment.

I still haven't met Franklin in person, but we've texted a few times, and he's assured me we don't have anything to worry about today.

He's been a lifesaver in every sense of the word—just one more thing I owe to Summer.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and rest my forehead in my hands. I think of Summer's face the last time I saw her, the earnestness of her expression when she told me how she feels.

No one but my immediate family has ever said I love you, not unless I count my teammates who usually only say it when they're slamming me into the boards.

But Summer said it. And knowing how well she knows me, she said it with no expectation that I would say it back.

I don't care what Felix says. I will never deserve her.

I also don't think I can live without her.

On my other side, Mom lifts a hand and gently pats my shoulder. "I'm glad you made the trip up, Nate. I know it means a lot to your brother."

Nate. It was what my dad always called me, so I was more than happy to leave it behind when I started with the Appies and everyone just called me Nathan. But there's something nostalgic about hearing it now. There's a warmth in Mom's voice, a tenderness I've forgotten.

"Did I miss it?" my sister, Cassie, says as she walks toward us. "I thought that phone call would never end. The babysitter couldn't find Allie's meds, and I literally had to suggest fifteen different places for her to look. You know where she finally found them? On the counter, exactly where I told her they would be in the first place."

I feel a twinge of excitement at the thought of seeing Cassie's girls tonight. I don't see them enough, and I've always had a particular soft spot for Allie.

"You didn't miss anything," Blake says. "We're still waiting for the attorney."

"Oh, good." She looks at me and smiles. "Hey, Nathan."

I stand and pull my sister into a hug. My flight got in late enough last night that I just grabbed a hotel room in Boston rather than making the drive up to Portland, and when I got to the courthouse, Cassie was on the phone, so I haven't seen her until now. "It's good to see you," I say.

"How are you?" She lifts her hands to my cheeks, holding my face while she looks into my eyes. "You look like hell."

"Thanks, little sister. Appreciate it."

"Are you sleeping? Eating enough? Is the team working you too hard?"

"I asked him the same thing," Mom says. "Without the swear word. We're in a courthouse, Cassie. Show some respect."

Cassie rolls her eyes. "It's not a church. And no one's going to arrest me for saying hell."

"There's Franklin," Blake says, standing up.

"We aren't done talking about you," Cassie says as she squeezes my arm. "As soon as all this is over."

I ignore Cassie's warning and focus on the attorney striding toward us. He's tall and broad, with deep brown skin and a shrewd gaze. At first glance, he's pretty intimidating, but when he smiles, his entire face shifts, revealing a warmth that immediately puts me at ease.

"Franklin," I say, reaching out to shake his hand. "Nice to finally meet you in person."

"Likewise," he says. "I've already told you how big of a fan I am." He shakes hands with Mom and Cassie, then leans in and gives Blake a hug. "How are you holding up?" he asks.

Blake nods. "Doing okay. Just ready for this to be over."

"It will be soon," Franklin says.

He gives us a quick walkthrough of what to expect once we're in the courtroom. Given the new evidence from the neighbor's ring cam that places Blake in the vehicle the entire time his friends were breaking and entering, combined with the affidavits speaking to Blake's character and integrity provided by his hockey coach and his high school principal, the district attorney should move to drop the charges against Blake completely.

We hope.

Franklin keeps insisting there are no guarantees, but he doesn't seem worried, so I'm taking that to mean the rest of us shouldn't worry either.

The whole thing takes about fifteen minutes. For all the frustration and struggle we've dealt with over the past two months, it feels anticlimactic to have it all end so easily.

But just like that, Blake is free, his record clear. Like the whole thing didn't even happen. The judge admonishes Blake to choose his friends wisely and to always remember that guilty by association is still guilty. Then we're free to go.

For weeks, I've been walking around with this weight on my chest, this worry. And now it's gone.

I turn and pull my little brother into a hug. He drops his head onto my shoulder and sniffs a few times, his whole body shaking. I squeeze a little tighter. If I'm practically floating with relief, I can't imagine how he must feel.

"You're all right," I say. "You're good. It's over."

All thanks to Franklin.

Thanks to Summer.

"Blake," a deep voice booms from behind us. We turn to see a large man walking toward us, a broad smile on his face.

"Hey, Coach," Blake says, wiping his eyes.

The man pulls him into a hug, patting Blake on the back with a firm hand, before extending his hand to me. "Coach Rivers," he says, introducing himself. "And you're Nathan. I haven't seen you since you were this high." He holds up his hand level with his waist. "I follow your career. Love what you're doing with the Appies."

My eyes narrow, trying to place the man standing in front of me, but I have no memory that includes him. "Yeah, thanks. It's a great organization."

"Coach Rivers was a Bruin," Blake says, admiration clear in his voice.

The older man chuckles. "I mostly rode the bench with the Bruins, but hey, they still give you a Stanley Cup ring even if your skates only touch the ice during warm-ups."

"Wesley Rivers," I say, suddenly placing the man's name, though not because I remember ever having met him in person. "I remember you. Left defender. You had a great run in Providence before they called you up to Boston."

It suddenly strikes me as odd that even after playing on his team for all this time, Blake has never mentioned that Coach Rivers played hockey with Dad. Even just now, when he introduced him, all he said was that his coach was a Bruin. Technically correct, but he wasn't just a Bruin. He won a Stanley Cup with our father.

But then, Dad's time in the NHL was a distant memory by the time Blake was born. Any pride he might have felt watching tapes of Dad's games or seeing his Stanley Cup ring was easily eclipsed by the frustration and struggle of our day-to-day lives. Mom working long hours to support us, Dad never doing much besides drink.

Maybe it isn't so odd after all. I'm not proud of my father. I don't know why I should expect Blake to be.

Coach Rivers looks pleased and a little shocked by my mention of his career. "Yeah. I did. Wow. Not many people remember that I played at all."

"Don't feel too special," Blake says. "Nathan is into stats. He remembers everything."

"Hey, now," Coach Rivers says, playfully punching Blake in the shoulder. "You trying to keep me humble?"

He reminds me of Coach Davis. Blake clearly respects his coach, but he isn't afraid to joke around, to talk to him like he's a person. I've played for coaches who are all business, who intimidate and scare players into working hard. But in my experience, teams work a lot better when relationships are built on mutual respect.

"Listen," Coach Rivers says to Blake, his tone all serious now. "I know you heard this from the judge, but I'm going to say it again. You're getting a second chance here, son. I don't want you to waste it. I've seen a lot of players make a mess of their lives"—his expression sobers as his gaze moves from Blake to me, then back to Blake again—"who failed to realize how much the company they kept impacted the men they were becoming. Do better. Surround yourself with men who do better, who inspire you to greatness. Good teammates and good friends will always want what is best for you as an individual."

Blake nods, his expression serious. "Thanks, Coach. I'll remember. I promise."

Coach Rivers says goodbye, shaking my hand one more time before turning and heading toward the exit, but I chase him down, catching him before he's even reached the courthouse steps. "Coach Rivers," I call, and he turns, eyebrows lifted.

"Sorry to stop you," I say. "But…what you said back there." The words feel clunky in my mouth, my discomfort ratcheting up and up and up. I don't like talking about my father, but it's not very frequent that I meet people who knew him personally, so I push through my hesitation and ask the question I came out here to ask. "Were you talking about my father?"

He's quiet for a moment before he slowly nods, compassion filling his dark brown eyes. "A lot of us tried to help him after he got hurt, to keep his spirits up, but he pushed us away. Chose to spend time with men who were only good for a drink and a conversation about the glory days."

I push my hands into my pockets. "That sounds about right."

Coach Rivers nods. "He never was the same after his injury, but I hope you can remember the good times. I'll never forget seeing how proud he was whenever your mom showed up at our games with you and your sister."

I frown. "I'm sorry, what? I don't know what…" My words trail off, and I shake my head. Mom took Cassie and me to games?

"I suppose you might have been too young to remember, but your dad—he was an example to the rest of us." He chuckles, like he's lost in his memories, before looking back at me. "The number of times that man was late for practice because he was dropping you off at school or taking you skating or getting ice cream with your sister. I learned a lot from him about how to prioritize my family first. He was a good man in that regard."

My jaw tightens. "Respectfully, sir, he wasn't. He was an emotionally abusive alcoholic who neglected my mother and barely acknowledged his children."

He holds up his hands. "I know. I know that's how it ended. And I can't imagine the pain he put you through. But that wasn't always who he was. He was an addict, Nathan, and it ruined him. But he was also my teammate. My brother. I think about him every day and wish I could have done more to help. That he would have let me do more. I know you have your memories, but I have mine too." He reaches over and drops a hand on my shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze. "He was the same man—both versions. I hope one day you can remember that."

I nod, emotions battling inside my chest. "I, uh…yeah." It's the most I can choke out, but it seems to be enough for Coach Rivers.

"Take care, son," he says, dropping his hand and stepping away.

"Hey, Coach," I say, calling after him one last time. "Thanks for being there for Blake."

He nods. "He's a special kid. You both are."

It's not a conversation I expected—and definitely not one I'm prepared for. I've listened to people talk about my father like he's some kind of hero my entire life. But those accolades have always had everything to do with his time on the ice. No one cares what kind of father he was.

But Coach Rivers just talked about Dad as a man. As a person—not just a hockey player. And he actually had nice things to say.

It always frustrated me growing up that Mom was so tolerant of Dad's poor behavior. He wasn't a violent man, so that made it easier. Instead, he was an emotional drunk—weepy and sad. But he endlessly took advantage of her kindness. Walked all over her. Spent her money. Never held down a real job.

I sometimes hated her for being so passive…as much as I hated him for being so absent. But…is it possible she saw something in him that I couldn't?

Was there more to my father than I was ever willing to see?

I ride with Mom, Blake, and Cassie back to Portland. Blake has school tomorrow and will need to be back in Boston, but I've got a flight out in the morning anyway, so I'll grab a rideshare for us both, drop him off at school, and head to the airport from there.

I think we all feel a need to be together tonight, even if we aren't saying as much out loud. It's been years since we have been, and with Blake's charges dropped, it feels like we have something to celebrate.

It's nice being with my family, listening to Mom and Cassie's easy conversations, talking hockey with Blake, but Summer is ever-present in my thoughts. The more time that passes, the more I wish she were beside me, holding my hand, grounding me. She matters to me like my family matters to me. It doesn't feel right to be with them…without her.

"So," Cassie says, turning around in the front seat to face me. "I'm just wondering if the reason you look so exhausted has something to do with the girlfriend you told me was just a publicity stunt but clearly isn't."

I look up from my phone. "What?"

Cassie gives me a smug look. "That was some make-out session. Do you kiss all your fake girlfriends that way?"

"Cassie. What are you talking about?"

She rolls her eyes and holds up her phone, revealing a grainy video of me and Summer outside of Mulligan's. I recognize the old Chevy truck Summer is sitting on. It has one of those two-toned paint jobs, white with a faded teal stripe down the side, so it's easy to remember. The clip is short, and there's nothing to truly identify us, which is probably why I haven't heard about the video before now.

Parker keeps a pretty close watch on stuff like this, and she would have let me know if there was a reason to be concerned.

"You can't even tell that's us," I say. "Where did you even find that?"

"A friend from high school sent it to me. She's a crazy Appies fan and said she found it on one of the fan sites. There's a vote happening right now regarding the validity of the video and whether people think it's really you and…Summer? Is that her name? Only twenty percent think it's you, but I know better. I recognize your shoes, and I can also see Dad's ring hanging around your neck." She gives me a pointed look. "Now, spill it. Clearly, this is more than a fake relationship."

I sigh and prop my head on my hand, my elbow resting on the door.

"Dude," Blake says, watching the video over Cassie's shoulder. "You're dating her for real? She's smoking?—"

"Stop," I say, not wanting to hear what my little brother has to say about Summer's appearance. "Can we not talk about this?"

Mom meets my eye through the rearview mirror. "We're just excited for you, honey. When can we meet her?"

"I don't even know if there's anything to be excited about. We're not really…" I have no idea how to summarize the nature of my relationship with Summer. Not without unpacking the whole thing, and I have no desire to do that with my entire family. "Nothing is official," I finally say.

"Well, then make it official," Mom says. "Bring her home to meet us. You aren't getting any younger, Nathan. And you won't always have hockey to boost your appeal."

"Yeah, man," Blake says. "Gotta land a wife before you get fat and ugly."

I roll my eyes, reaching over to punch my brother in the shoulder. But I can't get my mom's words out of my head.

She, of all people, should know that hockey is a negative, not a positive, when it comes to relationships.

Once we're at the house, we do the family thing for a few hours. Eating pizza, hanging out with Cassie's kids, watching tapes of the last hockey game Blake played before his arrest forced him to take some time off.

Hearing how excited he is to play in his next game almost has me reaching for my phone to text Summer, to tell her again how much I appreciate what she did for us.

That's been happening all day. Impulses to tell her something, text her something. I keep resisting, mostly because the last thing Summer said to me was I love you and texting her a random hey feels incredibly stupid and anticlimactic.

But I can't just text her that I love her.

Wait.

Do I love her? Is that what this feeling is?

I think my chest might explode, and I lift a hand to my sternum, rubbing up and down like that might somehow help to diffuse the building pressure.

"Uncle Nathan," Allie says, crawling into my lap. "Want to read me a story?"

I take a deep breath, grateful for the distraction. "Absolutely, I do," I say, taking extra care to position her legs so her braces won't pinch her skin.

The book is hilarious. It has no pictures, just words written in a way that forces the reader to make all kinds of ridiculous sounds and say words that feel mostly made up. Allie loves it, and her full-on belly laugh makes me laugh.

As soon as we turn the last page, Allie flips the book over, bouncing in my lap as she says, "Again. Again!"

I read it a second time, and this time, Allie's sister Caroline joins us, taking up the other half of my lap. I ham it up this time, exaggerating the funny parts, making them laugh harder and harder. When we hit the last page, Allie turns around, shifting onto her knees and pressing her tiny hands against my cheeks.

"Thanks, Uncle Nathan," she says. "You should be a dad."

Both girls scramble off my lap, the book forgotten as they move on to a puzzle Cassie is spreading out on the coffee table.

"Did she just say I should be a dad?" I ask.

Cassie shrugs. "They're learning about families in her pre-k class. She doesn't have any cousins, and I told her she won't until you have kids."

Two months ago, a comment like that from Allie would have only made me roll my eyes. She's a kid. What does she know? But now, with my mind full of Summer, Allie's words trigger a wave of emotions that take me by surprise.

I'm not ready to say I want to be a dad. That would be like going from zero to sixty in mere seconds. But for the first time, I find myself considering the possibility without the sense of dread that usually accompanies thoughts like those.

It's not hard to imagine that kind of life with Summer. A home. Kids. A family.

I don't know what's happening to me.

Two months ago, I was perfectly happy with my single life. Playing hockey. Taking care of myself, determined to be, above all else, nothing like my father.

Now, I'm very likely in love with Summer, I'm talking to Felix like he's my therapist, and I'm considering the possibility that I might not be giving my father enough credit.

Talk about a paradigm shift.

I push out of my chair. "Hey, where's Mom?"

Cassie tilts her head toward the back porch. "Here. Take her this," she says, handing me a throw blanket from the arm of the couch. "Maine still hasn't figured out it's officially spring."

Mom is sitting on the top step of Cassie's back porch, her elbows propped on her knees.

I stop behind her and drape the blanket over her shoulders, then sit down beside her.

"Thanks," she says, tugging the corners of the blanket together under her chin. She eyes me. "Want to share?"

"I'm okay."

"Used to the cold," she says. "That"s what your father always said."

I'm quiet for a beat before I say, "Mom, can I ask you something?"

"Of course. You can ask me anything."

"Was Dad ever a good dad?"

Mom's expression softens, her eyes curious as she studies me.

"I know he wasn't after he quit hockey. And I don't want you to defend him. He was awful to all of us. But before—when I was too little to remember—was it ever good?"

Mom takes a deep breath, her eyes shifting out to the shadowy yard. A slight breeze ruffles through the trees, and the swing on Allie and Caroline's playset squeaks as it moves.

"It was good," Mom finally says, a wistfulness to her voice that I've never heard before. "Really good. He always loved hockey a little too much—I think that's why his injury hit him so hard. But he loved you kids, too."

"Honestly, it never really seemed like it."

Mom shakes her head. "I know. He wasn't present like he should have been—not after the accident. I won't excuse him for that." She looks over at me. "Why? What's made you so contemplative tonight?"

"Nothing. Blake, I guess. All this stuff with him." And Summer, I don't say out loud. Though I'm a fool to blame how I'm feeling on anyone but her.

"And the girlfriend?" Mom says, clearly reading my face.

I run a hand over my beard, resisting the urge to flee, to run away from this conversation like I have so many times before. "Dad once told me that I can't have both," I say. "I can't play hockey and also have a family. Not without making everyone miserable."

Mom narrows her eyes. "He said that, did he?" She huffs out a disgruntled laugh. "The big idiot."

"It was true, though, wasn't it?" I say, pushing back. "He couldn't do both. Even when he wasn't playing, he couldn't leave the game alone."

"Nathan, your father was a drunk," Mom says. "It wasn't hockey that made him a bad father. It was alcohol. Any lie he told to absolve himself of responsibility was just that—a lie. The only time he was even a halfway decent dad was when he was playing hockey. I'm sure he didn't want you to follow in his footsteps, and I'd rather you not as well. But if you don't want to turn out like him, the only thing you need to avoid is alcohol. Don't blame the sport. That's just ridiculous." She hedges for a second. "Are you avoiding alcohol?" she asks, her words laced with concern.

I nod. "Yeah. I am. Don't worry."

Growing up, Mom mentioned the genetic component of alcoholism enough times that even in college, when my friends and teammates were partying every weekend, I never drank a drop.

I've never really done things halfway. All or nothing. Probably why this thing with Summer has been so hard.

"Didn't you hate it when he was traveling?" I ask Mom, clinging to my quickly fraying excuses. "You had two kids you were basically raising alone."

"I did hate it. But I wouldn't have changed it. He loved to play, and I loved watching him play. Honestly, what was the alternative? We were in love, and he was a hockey player. I wanted to be with him, so the schedule, all the traveling, it was just part of the deal."

I shake my head, not wanting to accept the reality she's presenting.

She shifts to face me, like she's warming up to the topic. "There were perks, too. Your dad made good money when he was playing, and it was fun being a Bruin. It was a good job, Nathan. For a while there, it was even a good life." She nudges my knee. "I know that's hard for you to believe. But it's true."

"It is hard for me to believe."

She picks up the blanket and wraps it around my shoulders, rubbing a hand across my back. "I can't think of anything more tragic than you keeping yourself from having a life outside of hockey because you're afraid of winding up like your dad."

Behind us, the sliding door opens, and Cassie steps outside, a cup of coffee in hand. "What are we talking about?" she asks as she drops onto the back porch swing.

Mom squeezes my shoulders. "Nathan was just getting ready to tell me all about Summer."

"Ohhh, I timed this well," Cassie says. "I've been dying to know if everything the internet has already told me is true."

I narrow my eyes. "What has the internet told you?"

Cassie puts down her mug and ticks things off on her fingers as she talks. "She's an attorney who works for the Appies. Originally from North Carolina. She has an identical twin sister who does something in the medical field. And—I will absolutely freak out if this one is true—her other sister is married to Flint Hawthorne."

"The actor?" Mom says. "Oh, he's handsome."

"Is it true?" Cassie says. "If it is, you have to marry her so you can have a wedding he will attend."

"It's true," I say, "but don't go telling your crazy Appies fan friend."

Cassie squeals. "Oh my gosh, oh my gosh! This is so exciting!"

I hold up a hand. "Like I said, nothing is actually official with Summer. We're not…we still have some stuff to talk about." Even as I say the words, I feel the emotions in my chest start to shift, the feeling from earlier, right before I read to Allie, coming back with double the force.

I'm still terrified. It's hard to rewrite a narrative I've been living my entire adult life.

But for the first time, I'm realizing it isn't just about letting myself love Summer, it's also about letting Summer love me.

A peaceful warmth flows through me, reaching all the way out to my fingertips and all the way down to my toes. It's what I want.

She is what I want.

I'm not sure I knew that before I met her. But she changed everything. She changed me.

I stand up, pulsing with sudden energy.

I reach for Mom's hands, pulling her to her feet, then wrap her in an enormous hug. Cassie is next, and she only protests a little when I pull her coffee cup out of her hands and hug her, too.

Blake appears in the doorway, looking at me with furrowed brows. "What's going on?"

I let go of Cassie and pull Blake into a hug, lifting him off the ground.

He groans and beats on my shoulder. "Dude. What is wrong with you?"

Behind us, Mom starts to laugh. "I think Nathan just decided that he's in love."

I spin back around and take Mom's face in my hands, planting a kiss on her forehead. "I am in love. And I can't wait for you to meet her."

Late that night, before I crawl into a too-small twin bed in my too-small childhood bedroom, I take off my father's ring and carry it to my mom's room. She answers the door when I knock, and I reach for her hand, lowering the ring into her palm.

"I want you to take this back, Mom," I say, closing her fingers around the ring. "I don't need it anymore."