Page 65 of Rosie and the Beast Next Door

Hudson’s hand grabbed my arm in a tight grip that cut off my apology. “It wasn’t your fault.”

I clenched my jaw. “I should have anticipated something like that could happen. I should have passed the puck to Gage or Bret or taken it all the way in myself.” It had been a series of bad events, one after the other. Shiloh uncharacteristically slipping on the ice and falling. A player from the other team not seeing Shiloh in time as he raced forward. An accidental injury caused by the impact of that player’s skate against the soft skin of Shiloh’s unprotected neck.

When it happened, I’d felt as though I’d fallen through the ice into a murky lake. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t get to him fast enough even though I thrashed desperately toward him. I’d known it was bad. Just not how bad until three hours later, when I was sitting in the hospital waiting room with Shiloh’s wife and saw the doctor’s expression when he came to get us.

Hudson’s hold on my arm tightened. “There was nothing anyone could have done to prevent it. Not even you, Dyl.”

My memory flashed on the image of Shiloh crumpled on the ice as I roared his name. I tried to calculate the distance, the rate of my skating, the blur of faces in my periphery, and urged myself to get there faster.

But I was never fast enough to rewrite the past.

I’d been going to therapy twice a week since I got to Winterhaven, but I hated to talk about it, much less think about it.

Hudson gave me space to process. I’d missed him. I thought I’d pushed him away since Shiloh died, but I was wrong. Hudson had respected my need for solitude, and he’d stepped back temporarily. But I could tell by his determined expression, his time of allowing me to push him away was over.

“We’re facing our hardest opponent tonight—the Bookish Ballers,” Hudson said. “They’ve won the last three games against us, and I, for one, am sick of seeing Max Eriksson’s smug grin around town.”

The ache of emptiness where Shiloh used to be was almost overwhelming, but I grabbed the olive branch Hudson was extending, and I felt a little less like I was drowning.

Plus wiping a smug grin off Max seemed like a pretty good idea.

“Do you have a jersey that’ll actually fit me?” I asked, my joviality sounding forced.

Hudson’s hold tightened, and he pulled me into a whole, comforting hug and then released me before my emotions could take over once again. “I’m sure I do somewhere. But what’s the fun in that?”

I let out a snort-laugh, surprising both of us. How could I be laughing right now? Having fun? Something in my expression must have shown my thoughts, because Hudson turned serious once again.

“It’s okay to be happy, Dylan. You know he’d want that.”

He would, because that was the kind of person Shiloh was. So I nodded and followed Hudson at a jog back to the team.

Chapter 25

Rosie

I was up tobat.

Max was on the pitcher’s mound, facing me down with a distractingly charming grin. We were in the third inning, and even with Dylan’s help, we were down by one.

I got into position, and the ball came right for me. I swung too late and missed.

“Strike one!” the umpire, aka the high school football coach, Luis Farnsworth, yelled out.

“You’ve got this,” Bennett said. “Just focus on the ball.” He was speaking to someone else when he added, “She’s one of our best hitters, except when we play the Bookish Ballers. She chokes under the pressure.”

Ouch, Bennett.

But he wasn’t wrong.

I peered over my shoulder to see Dylan—still in that second-skin orange jersey—standing next to Bennett. I couldn’t believe he actually wore it. Or that he’d joined the team. I didn’t know what Hudson said to him, but the lines around Dylan’s eyes seemed less deep when they’d rejoined us before the game.

I got back into position, and Max lobbed the ball in a perfect strike. This time I swung too early and had flashbacks of practice last week.

It was just … Max. He made me all tense when he was smiling at me like that, and my brain couldn’t compute the right time or way to swing, the way it could when anyone else was pitching.

“Strike two!”

My team groaned.

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