Page 137 of On the Power Play

"Jack, I'm sorry. It was the middle of the night and the thought didn't cross my mind that you might make it here before visiting hours."

That was fair. He'd caught the last flight out of Calgary by the skin of his teeth. Anything else would've put him in the city around noon. "I'll be there at nine. Thank you for taking care of her."

"The doctors did the hard part. See you soon."

Jack stood with the other passengers and dropped his phone in his pocket. Once they were off the airplane, he headed straight to the rideshare pick-up location and scheduled a trip to Maha's. It was well past the hospital, but it had been one of his favourite haunts when he'd lived in Toronto.

He rode through the city in a daze, grateful his driver wasn't chatty. When he arrived, he tipped the driver, then waited for a table for one. It wasn't until he sat down and ordered that he remembered why he'd found Maha's in the first place.

Pieces clicked into position, shifting and moving like a Rubik’s cube until the colours were complete. Of course he’d ended up here. He knew exactly what he had to do next.

Jack ate to the sound of conversation and clinking forks. His body drooped, his head thick. It was bad enough, he briefly considered booking a hotel room for a few hours until he realized the only hotels that would allow that wouldn't have rooms or sheets he'd want to nap in. Instead, he finished his meal and started walking. In the past, he’d driven to this part of town, but since he didn't have a car and the weather was surprisingly warm for seven in the morning in April, he opted to walk.

It was a thirty-minute walk to the cemetery, and the tip of his nose and his cheeks were chilled by the time he made it to the gates. He pulled. They didn't budge. He trudged to the corner and read the sign that listed their posted hours from eight until four, then sat on a bench in full sunlight.

He'd nearly dozed off with his arms wrapped around his backpack when the jangle of chains snapped the world back into focus. He stood and followed the caretaker through the gates, then started down the path he had memorized. He pressed a hand against the trunk of the ancient maple that marked Angie's row, then walked down the aisle of barely green grass.

Jack stopped in front of the headstone he'd visited weekly when he still lived there. The one he hadn't come to in over two years.

Angela Merrick (1995 - 2021)

A spirit too bright for this world, whose love and laughter will forever light our way.

He'd been pissed that her mother had fought for that statement for her headstone. It had seemed too generic. Maybe it still did. But he'd given in when her eyes had shimmered with tears, and he didn't regret that.

Jack dropped to his knees, wishing he'd thought to bring flowers. "Hey, Ange." His voice sounded strange in the stillness. The sounds of the city were far enough away, all he could hear were the birds. "I still miss you."

It sounded like a confession. I still miss you, even though . . . Jack ran his hands through his hair. "I came here today because I love you, and I needed to tell you the truth, so here it goes. I've spent the last three years wishing you didn't get in that accident. My life would've been so different—so much richer. Instead I went back to living with hockey teammates, now with Clara, and I couldn't ever make my NHL dream happen, either. So that time we argued, and I told you that you wanted too much from me? That I needed more time on the ice? Yeah. I was dead wrong. More time didn't solve the problem. Especially not away from you."

He paused and pulled a fresh spring shoot out of the dirt. "Then I got a dream job. You would've called it a miracle." He chuckled and shifted to sit on the ground. "That was terrifying and . . . probably the most fun I've had since you left. Which brings me to the last part of my story." Jack's chest tightened, and he clenched his jaw. "I met someone, Ange. At first it was just this game we were playing for the press, but I think I knew right from the get-go that it was going to be more than that if I let it. I didn't want to, at first. I felt like I would be letting you down. But then, it wasn't something I could fight anymore."

Jack looked up and ran his eyes over her name. The dates she'd lived. "Delia got in an accident last night. I know. Dark irony. But that's why I'm here. The second I heard something had happened, I didn't even think. I had to get here to Toronto, and the only other time I've experienced that was—" Jack's voice caught. He took a minute, working against the emotion welling up like water in a bucket. He coughed and cleared his throat. "Was when you phoned and asked me if I wanted to go to the rink. That night we met up with Sammy and Eva. That was the night I knew I wanted to marry you."

He wiped his eyes and drew in a ragged breath. "So. I don't know how things will go from here, but I love her, Ange. I wanted you to be the first to know."

Jack sat on the chilled ground and waited. What for, he didn't know. A pillar of light? A bird to land on her headstone? Something mystical to show he had her approval?

He listened to the waking city and searched for any sense of that feeling Country had described. Something whispering this was unfinished.

His heart laid still.

And he knew.

After a few minutes, Jack exhaled and patted the dirt, then dragged himself up and slung his backpack over his shoulders. He whispered one last I love you, then started back to the gates.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Delia laughed when the first thought that came to her head was that she ached like she'd been hit by a truck.

"You just woke up, and you're giggling?" Mary stood from her chair and approached the hospital bed. Her hair was a mess, and she had raccoon eyes from smeared mascara.

Delia groaned when she tried to turn her neck, and pain shot up her spine. "I wasn't giggling."

Mary rolled her eyes. "How do you feel?"

"Like shit."

"Excellent. That means you're lucid." Mary pulled up the sleeve of her hospital gown. "Doesn't look like it's bleeding anymore."

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