Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 114951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 575(@200wpm)___ 460(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 575(@200wpm)___ 460(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
“They helped me off the ice,” he added. “I kept telling them I’d be fine. That I’d be back by playoffs.” A brief, humorless exhale left him. “Turns out you don’t rehab your way out of that.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Shane slid his gaze to me. “That’s it,” he said. “One bad second.”
And then he reached for a candle, holding it up to ask the booth attendant how much it was.
In the end, I left with one called old bookstore and Shane picked neighbor’s freshly cut lawn to take home. When we had our bags in hand, I turned the conversation back to his injury.
“I thought you would end up playing again,” I said. “After the injury.”
“I told you I never could.”
That memory made my stomach twist, how we’d stumbled upon each other by chance in Boston not long after his career had ended in a flash.
“I know, I just… I guess I kind of thought somehow you’d find a way. You’ve always been so driven, so passionate.” I swallowed. “I know hockey is everything to you.”
Shane’s expression went flat, like those words were an insult instead of the truth. “Yeah, well, I learned quickly there’s only so far a can-do attitude can get you, and apparently it’s not very far when you shatter your hip and tear your ACL at the same time.”
I swallowed, eyes on where my hands were tangled together in front of me. “I’m sorry, Shane.”
“Not your fault,” he said. His eyes floated to mine as we came to a stop next to a jewelry tent. “We both know the blame is all mine.”
“It was an accident.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it again, a tight smile finding his lips before he gestured to the next tent.
I wondered if I was thinking what he was, if I’d read the implication of those words he’d muttered correctly.
He wasn’t to blame for the injury that ended his hockey career.
But he was to blame for the ending of us.
The Guilty One
Ariana
2013
Three knocks on the window next to our table made us scream.
I was out to dinner with my boss and two of my coworkers, celebrating a successful holiday fundraiser event for the family services nonprofit I’d been working with for a little over a year. I had childcare for Georgie for the evening, a rare occurrence, and was excited to have a glass of wine and eat as much pasta as I could without feeling sick.
But one glance at the man outside the window, and it was a futile hope.
I was sick instantly.
Shane McCabe stood on the other side of that glass, snow falling down around him and sticking to the brown beanie and dark green parka he wore over his hoodie. The six years that had passed since I’d last seen him were evident in his every feature, from the scruff lining his square jaw to the angular shape of his face. Gone was the softness of the young Shane I’d fallen in love with. He was all sharp angles now, from his jaw to the bones over his eyes.
Those eyes were somehow the same and so different I hardly recognized them. They were still that sharp blue-gray, as striking as ever — but they were haunted now, adding to the eerie image of him standing in front of me after all this time.
He truly was like a ghost, so much so that I blinked several times to be sure it wasn’t my brain playing tricks on me.
His mouth was slightly open, his brows raised in surprise, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, either.
Once my own shock settled, I realized he was slumped, that tiredness in his eyes evident in the lines of his face and the sad way in which he carried himself.
And that’s when I saw what I hadn’t before.
He was on crutches.
“Do you know this man?” my boss asked, one hand pressed to her chest like she was steadying her pulse. She was smiling a little now that we all knew there was no evident threat, but a strange man staring at us wasn’t exactly comforting, either.
“I did once,” I answered.
I apologized, excusing myself from the table and asking the hostess for my coat before I shrugged it on along with my hat and scarf. Then, I braved the winter cold.
The snow was falling harder now, softening the noise of the city. Shane stood against the brick, away from the window, the glow from Christmas lights painting a serene image for what felt like an impending car crash in my mind.
I stopped a few feet away from him, hands buried in the pockets of my coat.
For a long moment, we just stared at one another. The disbelief had passed, but neither of us knew what to say.
My body’s natural impulse was to break down. I felt it in the sting of my nose, the prickling behind my eyes. I wanted to cry. I wanted to run to him. I wanted to hug him and be held and kiss him stupid and thank the universe for bringing us together again. I wanted to hit him and scream and look him right in the eyes when I said he’s dead to me and has been for years, that I never want to see him again, that I’m better without him.