Page 40 of Checking It Twice
“I don’t know if I’m what he needs,” I admit quietly. “This whole thing is... complicated.”
“The best things usually are.” Tom refills my glass. “You know what I learned in thirty-five years of marriage? Love isn’t about finding someone perfect. It’s about finding someone worth fighting for—someone good and kind—and then just accepting them as they are.”
He pauses, studying my face in the soft light.
“Mitchell’s been fighting his whole life—on the ice, for his career, for his family’s approval. But he’s never fought for his own happiness. Never believed he deserved to.”
The words settle something in my chest, some piece of understanding I didn’t know I was missing.
“What if he’s not ready?” I ask. “What if I’m just a rebound, a way to feel better about what happened?” It’s more honest than I planned to be.
Tom’s smile is knowing, paternal. “Honey, the way that boy looks at you? There’s nothing rebound about it. He’s terrified because this matters. Because you matter.”
I stare into my wine, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Could he be right?
“The question isn’t whether he’s ready,” Tom continues. “The question is whether you are. Whether you’re brave enough to fight for something real with someone who’s worth it.”
I look up at him, this quiet man who’s raised three children and been married for decades, who’s watched his son’s heart break and is now watching it heal.
“Is he? Worth fighting for?”
“That’s not for me to answer.” He finishes his wine and stands. “But I will say this: I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. Not even her.”
He squeezes my shoulder as he passes—gentle, fatherly—and my throat tightens.
“Give him time to figure out what he wants,” he says. “But don’t be afraid to show him what you want too.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me alone in the kitchen with half a glass of wine and a head full of dangerous possibilities.
When I finally make it back upstairs, the shower has stopped. Mitch is in bed, facing away from me, his breathing too controlled to be asleep.
After brushing my teeth, I slip under the covers, hyperaware of every inch of space between us and the careful way we’re both avoiding contact.
“Mitch?” I whisper into the darkness.
“Yeah?”
“Whatever this is... we’ll figure it out.”
He’s quiet for so long I think he’s not going to respond. Then his hand finds mine under the covers, fingers threading through mine with desperate intensity.
“Promise?”
The single word is rough, vulnerable—nothing like the confident man who charms reporters and commands attention on the ice.
“Promise.”
His thumb traces across my knuckles, and I close my eyes, letting myself imagine what it would feel like if this were real. If Monday never came and we never had to go back to being professional colleagues who maintain careful distance.
If we were brave enough to fight for something that matters.
Chapter Seventeen
Bad Day
Clare
