20. Connor

Ineeded space, a moment to breathe and to think away from the intensity that defined my interactions with Brooke. The emotions swirling between us had become a tempest, too powerful and unpredictable.

"I"m going to pick up dinner for us," I announced abruptly, leaving no room for her to respond before I stepped out into the still-pouring rain. The cool air hit me like a slap, a stark contrast to the warmth I"d left behind, but it was the jolt I needed to clear my head.

Instead of heading towards any of the nearby eateries, I drove towards Westwood"s manor. The fury boiling within me needed an outlet, and Dean Westwood seemed like the most fitting recipient of my wrath. As I approached the manor, the grandiosity of the estate struck me as ostentatious. Tall, imposing gates guarded the entrance, beyond which lay a sprawling lawn that stretched towards the main house, a structure that boasted of wealth and old money. The architectural beauty, which under different circumstances might have commanded my admiration, now seemed like a facade, hiding the dean"s failure to protect his own daughter.

I stormed up the pathway, my steps heavy, each one fueled by the anger at the dean"s involvement—or lack thereof—in Brooke"s predicament. He had turned to me to solve a problem he was either unwilling or unable to handle himself. The thought sickened me. As I reached the front door, my hand clenched into a fist, ready to confront the man who had set this entire chain of events into motion.

Before I could second-guess my impulsive decision, I rang the doorbell, my heart pounding not from the physical exertion of my brisk walk from the driveway but from the anticipation of the confrontation. The seconds stretched into what felt like hours as I waited for the door to open, the sound of the rain around me a fitting backdrop to the storm brewing inside.

When the dean finally appeared, he twisted his expression to one of surprised annoyance at finding me on his doorstep. "We need to talk," I said, my voice cold and hard, a reflection of the resolve that had crystallized within me on my way over.

I was furious, not just for Brooke but for myself as well, caught in a situation that was spiraling out of control, all because of the decisions made by the man standing before me.

Worry etched deep lines across Dean Westwood"s face as he saw the storm brewing in my eyes, but he stepped aside, allowing me entry into the manor. As I barreled past him, the grandeur of the interior struck me. The foyer was vast, with marble floors that reflected the soft glow of the crystal chandelier hanging overhead. Opulent artworks adorned the walls, and a sweeping staircase led to the upper floors, its banister polished to a shine. The lavishness of it all was a stark contrast to the desperation that had driven the dean to my doorstep. Every inch of the space screamed wealth and meticulous care, a testament to the dean"s priorities.

Why he couldn't sell this shit to pay his debts, I didn't know.

"How can you afford to keep this place if you"re racking up so much debt?" I demanded, my voice echoing in the expansive space. The question hung between us, a pointed accusation that cut through the pretense of his well-crafted domestic facade.

The dean glared at me, his discomfort at the question evident, but he remained silent. His eyes flicked away, unable to meet mine, a clear admission of guilt in his avoidance.

"I guess you"d rather keep things that mean something to you close, right?" I pressed, the bitterness in my tone unmistakable. "Brooke"s just collateral damage." The words were harsh, but they needed to be said, a verbal slap to wake him up to the reality of his actions, or rather, his inaction.

"What do you want?" the dean finally asked, resignation lacing his voice. It was the question of a defeated man, one who had gambled and lost more than he was willing to admit. In that moment, the opulence surrounding us seemed like nothing more than a gilded cage, a pretty facade masking the rot within. If he even noticed.

"You sent Stephen Hanson to my place," I said, my voice low but filled with an unmistakable edge of threat. "I broke the kid"s finger. I"ll do much worse if he thinks he can swoop into my home and rescue her."

The dean gave me a long look, as if assessing the veracity of my words or perhaps the depth of my resolve. "I"m sure you could forgive a man for trying to save his daughter," he finally said, a feeble attempt at justification.

"Maybe if the action was genuine," I spat back, the anger boiling inside me at the hypocrisy of his statement. "You"re only doing this because you dragged her into your mess in the first place. Deep down, you know it"s your fault she"s with me. But I don"t think you actually care. You"re sitting pretty comfortable here while she... well... I"d say she"s satisfied after what happened just now."

"That"s my daughter," he said, his voice tinged with disgust at my implication.

"Don"t pretend like that distinction matters now," I growled, my patience wearing thin. "You"re a shitty father. The only reason I"m talking to you instead of doing much worse is because..."

My voice trailed off, the realization that my anger was not just on Brooke"s behalf but also a reflection of my own feelings for her—feelings I wasn"t ready to fully acknowledge.

"If Hanson comes back again, or if word gets out that Brooke is living with me, you won"t like what I"ll have to say about it," I warned. "This isn"t just my reputation we"re talking about. It"s Brooke"s." The threat hung heavy in the air between us, a clear line drawn.

With that, I left, stepping back into the rain.

From there, I drove to pick up pizza, trying to make sense of everything that had transpired. It was in this contemplative silence my phone rang, breaking through my reverie with its insistent tone. I hadn"t heard from my manager in months, so Gary's name flashing on the screen caught me off guard.

"Toronto wants you." Gary"s voice came through the line, clear and direct, cutting through the noise of the rain pelting the car. His words took a moment to register. "They"re willing to enter into negotiations. What do you want me to say?"

I was floored. "What?"

The idea of getting back into the NHL, of playing at that level again, was something I had almost resigned myself to never experiencing again.

"Toronto wants you," Gary repeated. "They"re doing you the favor here. What do you want me to say?"

"Well, shit, Gary, can you give me a day to think about it?" I said, trying to steady my voice over the sound of the rain. "I need to wrap my head around the possibility, the ramifications of what this could mean for me, for my career, and for…" I stopped myself from mentioning Brooke.

"Don"t think too long," Gary warned, his voice serious. "I don"t think they"re willing to wait."

As I ended the call, the weight of the decision loomed large. The prospect of rejoining the NHL, of reclaiming a part of my identity that I thought was lost, was both exhilarating and daunting. And yet, as I pulled into the pizzeria"s parking lot, my thoughts weren"t on the ice or the roar of a crowd; they were on Brooke, on the promise I had made to her, and on what returning to the league would mean for me…for us.

Was there even an us?

The rain continued to fall, a relentless reminder that no matter how hard you try to outrun the past, it always found a way to catch up with you.

After grabbing the pizza, I made my way back. But as I entered my place, what greeted me was a scene so far removed from the tumultuous thoughts swirling in my head.

Brooke had decorated the tree.

It stood in the corner of the living room, adorned with lights that cast a warm, inviting glow throughout the room. Ornaments of various shapes and colors hung from its branches, each one catching the light in a way that made the tree seem alive with a gentle, festive sparkle. Tinsel draped elegantly around it, completing the picture of holiday cheer.

Brooke was putting the final touches on the tree, adjusting an ornament here, straightening a strand of tinsel there. For a moment, I could do nothing but stare at her. Bathed in the soft glow of the Christmas lights, she had never looked more beautiful. The way she moved, the look of concentration on her face as she worked on the tree, it was a picture of domestic bliss that I found unexpectedly captivating.

And that she wore nothing but my T-shirt?

I wanted to fuck her in front of the fireplace.

I wanted to mark up the other side of her neck.

I could get used to this, to coming home to her like this. The thought hit me with a startling clarity, a realization of just how much I had begun to crave her presence in my life, how much I looked forward to these moments of shared simplicity.

Which was dangerous.

Acknowledging the depth of my feelings for Brooke, allowing myself to entertain the idea of a future that included her so integrally, it threatened the carefully maintained boundaries I had set for myself, for us. It was a vulnerability I wasn"t sure I was ready to confront.

Nevertheless, I set the pizza down on the kitchen counter, the mundane action a stark contrast to the complexity of emotions coursing through me. The sight of Brooke, the decorated tree, the sense of home they collectively invoked, it was a reminder of what was at stake, of what I stood to lose—or gain—depending on the choices I made.

Brooke approached me with a delicate star in her hand, its surface catching the light from the room and casting a soft glow.

"What"s this?" I asked, curiosity piqued by the item in her grasp.

"The star," she replied simply, as if it should have been obvious.

"Why are you handing it to me?" My tone was genuinely curious, unsure of the significance she placed on the act.

She rolled her eyes, a gesture I"d come to recognize as her default response to my sometimes deliberate obtuseness. Yet, beneath the surface annoyance, there was a hint of discomfort, a vulnerability she was not keen on displaying.

"I thought you could be the one to put it on the tree," she said. "It"s your house. You got the tree."

"Westwood—" I started, but she was quick to retract her offer.

"Right." She snatched the star back, her actions brisk. "I forget what a Scrooge you are. I"ll just do it myself?—"

Before she could turn away, I grabbed the star back from her, holding it high out of her reach. A small smile played at the corners of my mouth at her feigned attempt to retrieve it.

I walked over to the tree, the star in hand. It felt like a big deal, placing the star atop our tree.

Our tree.

I couldn"t remember the last time I"d engaged in such a tradition without Mom, yet somehow, with Brooke, it felt right. It meant something.

Carefully, I placed the star at the pinnacle of the tree, taking a step back to admire the completed work. My heart cracked open a little at the sight, the simplicity of the act underscoring the depth of what I was beginning to feel for her.

"It"s perfect," she murmured, her eyes not leaving the tree, a softness in her voice that echoed in the quiet of the room.

I turned to look at Brooke for a long moment, taking in her expression, the way the light from the tree illuminated her features. "It is," I agreed, the acknowledgement heavy with a multitude of unspoken thoughts and feelings.

But this time, I didn't banish them from my thoughts.

I let myself feel them…regardless of the risk.