Page 92 of Shift Change

Our gazes locked, and I couldn’t miss the flicker of caution in his eyes. Chuck was smart. I wouldn’t be able to fool him for long.

It broke my heart because I’d put that hesitation in his eyes. I clung to a sliver of hope that this was normal. It was a rough patch, me getting used to the idea of being happy. Maybe if I kept moving forward without looking down, we’d make it over the bump in the road. Maybe we’d be okay.

* * *

We had afternoon practice instead of morning skate because of a scheduling conflict, and it turned out to be our best in weeks because everyone was dialed in. The locker room afterward was all chirps and confident predictions; most of the guys were already tallying up tomorrow’s win against Toronto. Since I was old-school superstitious, I didn’t touch that kind of banter.

Chuck had carried his line during the scrimmage, and he seemed upbeat on the drive home. I could still feel it, though, a low thrum of unease. One advantage of playing Holky all my life was that I was an expert at being upbeat and jokey, so I pasted on a grin and did everything I could to make things feel easy again. It worked, at least a little. He smiled more and even laughed a few times.

We stopped at Wegman’s for groceries, then hit our favorite Chinese place to pick up dinner. Once we got home and put the groceries away, Chuck laid out our appetizers: hot and sour soup, spring rolls, and shrimp toast. We tore into it like we hadn’t eaten in days.

The room was eerily quiet—only the sound of chewing, the occasional slurp, and the distant hum of city traffic outside. We were halfway through the beef and broccoli when Chuck glanced over his chopsticks.

“You looked good at practice.” His voice was casual, but his eyes were alert. “That goal you snuck past Gabe was a real beauty.”

Despite the smile that warmed me all over, the caution in his eyes remained. That broke a tiny piece off my heart, so I forced another grin. “Appreciate that. I was trying to keep up with your chaotic energy.”

He snorted. “You’re welcome for the inspiration.”

I pointed at him with my chopsticks. “You’re basically my muse, one with great flow.”

“Careful,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Complimenting my hair is dangerously close to calling me your sunshine and saying I help you fly.”

“Don’t tempt me. I’m one metaphor away from telling you your love makes me glide across the ice like a swan.”

He muttered into his noodles, “I will physically throw you out the window.”

“You’d miss me.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’d finish dinner and move on.”

I chuckled through the sting that comment left behind. He was joking, but something in the way he said it tugged at the frayed edge of everything I wasn’t saying. Was he teasing, or was it a test?

Trying to steer us back to safe ground, I gave him my best chirpy smirk. “Let me put it another way. Your stickhandling’s filthier than a gas station bathroom. And that’s a compliment, in case you’re wondering.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “You buttering me up for sex?”

“Perhaps. Or maybe I’m saying I notice you—all of you.”

He looked at me for a beat too long. “You’re amazing too. Better than brownies and ice cream.”

I scoffed. “Okay, that was cheesy.”

“Nope,” he said, still watching me. “That was factual reporting.”

The banter had erased the cautious glint in his eyes, and after we talked about visiting Nana before playoffs began, we went downstairs to watch a movie.

Chuck choseGroundhog Day, one of our shared comfort picks. We always said it reminded us of life on the road: same schedule, different city, rinse and repeat.

After we curled up on a couch, Chuck leaned his head against my shoulder and hooked a socked foot around mine. The movie is hilarious from the get-go, and those first belly laughs felt so good I wished they could last forever. Chuck’s forehead smoothed out and the line between his eyes faded. He became the carefree version of himself I remembered from before I got so weird, nudging me during the dumb parts and shaking with laughter until he wheezed.

Through it all, I watched him. The flickering light from the TV played across his face, catching new details with every shift—the soft curves of his cheekbones, a glint of laughter in his eyes, the slow, sensual promise of his lips. I already loved him more than I could believe, but watching that movie, I fell harder every minute. Chuck was mine. Once, that had made me feel lucky beyond belief; now it felt heavier, like holding something too precious to risk hurting.

As the movie continued, some of my laughter was real. How could it not be with Chuck quoting Ned Ryerson like a lunatic? But too many of my cackles were forced, pasted over the guilt that wouldn’t stop whispering at the edges of my mind.

He deserves better.

My parents didn’t abandon me because they were cruel. They left because I was hurting them somehow.There was no other explanation. When your mom walks away and your dad turns so mean he can’t stand to be in the same room with you, you stop asking what went wrong. You realize the answer was always you.

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