Chapter 111 The Apology

Chapter 111 The Apology

I didn’t sleep.

I lay on the couch because I couldn’t bring myself to walk into our bedroom. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the same thing.

Torin standing in front of me.

His voice calm.
His eyes anything but.
“You promised me.”

That hurt more than the suspension.

The apartment stayed silent for the rest of the night after he’d walked away. I heard our bedroom door close just before midnight, but neither of us tried to bridge the distance between us.
For the first time since we’d moved in together, we slept under the same roof without saying goodnight.

I deserved that.

The digital clock on the coffee table blinked 5:42 a.m.

I gave up pretending I might fall asleep.

My body felt heavy as I sat up, rubbing both hands over my face. My shoulders ached, not from hockey, but from carrying the weight of every decision I’d made the night before.

The suspension had already been announced.

Three games.

Three games where I’d watch from the stands while my teammates fought without me.

Three games I’d earned.

I reached for my phone.

Forty-three missed notifications.

Texts from teammates.

Messages from reporters.

Voicemails I had no intention of listening to.

My thumb hovered over the screen before I locked it again.

I wasn’t ready.

Not yet.

The smell of fresh coffee drifted down the hallway.

I looked toward the kitchen.

Torin was already awake.

He always woke early after a loss.

For a second, I thought about walking in there.

About apologizing again.

But what was I supposed to say?

Sorry I ignored everything we learned in therapy?

Sorry I left you to answer for me?

Sorry I became exactly the person I promised I wouldn’t be?

None of it felt big enough.

The bedroom door opened.

Torin stepped into the kitchen wearing gray sweatpants and an old team hoodie. He didn’t look at me as he poured coffee into a travel mug.

The silence between us wasn’t hostile anymore.

It was tired.

He reached for his keys.
“I’ve got treatment this morning,” he said quietly.
I nodded.

“I know.”

He finally looked at me.

There was no anger in his face now.

Just disappointment.
That somehow hurt worse.

“I’ll be home later.”
“Okay.”

Another silence.
Then he walked past me, stopping just long enough to rest his hand on the back of the couch.
“I meant what I said.”

My chest tightened.
“I know.”

“You can’t keep letting people choose who you become.”
His hand slipped away.
The front door opened.
Then closed.
I sat there long after I heard his truck pull out of the driveway.

…

By nine o’clock, my phone started ringing.
I ignored the first call.

The second.
The third.

The fourth came from our team’s public relations director.
I answered.

“Cassian.”
His voice was gentle, which somehow made this worse.
“Morning.”
“You holding up?”
I let out a humorless laugh.
“What do you think?”
He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.
“We need to talk about a statement.”
I leaned back against the couch.
“I figured.”
“The league has already released the suspension. Every network is running the clip.”
“I know.”

“The organization would like something from you today.”
There it was.
The polished version.
A statement.
An apology.

Probably drafted by lawyers before I’d even left the arena.
“I’ll write it myself.”
A pause.
“Cassian…”
“I said I’ll write it myself.”
He sighed softly.
“Okay.”

“It won’t be a PR statement.”
“I understand.”
“It’ll be mine.”
“Send it over before you post it.”

“I will.”
The call ended.
I stared at the blank notes app on my phone for nearly five minutes before typing the first sentence.
To everyone I let down…
I deleted it immediately.
Too rehearsed.

I tried again.
Last night, I made a decision I regret.
Delete.
Too cold.
Again.
There is no excuse for losing control.
I stopped.

That one stayed.
For the next hour, I wrote.
Deleted.
Rewrote.
Every version sounded like someone trying to save his reputation.
That wasn’t what I wanted.
I wasn’t trying to convince strangers.

I was trying to tell the truth.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard before I finally typed the sentence I’d been avoiding.

I let down my teammates.
Another line followed.
I let down the organization that trusted me.
Then the hardest one.
Most of all, I let down the man who has spent every day teaching me to be better.
I stared at that sentence until my vision blurred.
Torin never asked me to be perfect.

He’d only ever asked me to keep choosing who I wanted to become.
Last night…

I hadn’t.
I kept writing.
Not because someone expected an apology.

Because Torin deserved one.
And this time…
I wasn’t going to hide behind two simple words.
“I’m sorry.”

They weren’t enough.
Not anymore.

By the time I finished writing, the sun had climbed high enough to pour through the apartment windows.
I read the statement once.

Then again.
I changed a single word.

Deleted another.

When I finally stopped editing, it no longer sounded like something a public relations team would approve.
It sounded like me.

Last night, I made a choice that hurt my teammates, my organization, our fans and the game I love. There is no excuse for losing control, no matter what was said to me. I accepted the league’s suspension because I earned it.

To my teammates, I’m sorry for putting you in a position where you had to finish that game without me.
To our coaches and staff, I’m sorry for letting my emotions become more important than the crest on my jersey.

Most importantly, I’m sorry to my partner, Torin. He asked me to walk away. He believed I was stronger than my anger. I proved him wrong, and I let him carry the consequences of my decision.
Hate isn’t defeated by more hate. I forgot that for one moment, and one moment was enough. I’ll spend every day earning back the trust I lost.

I read it one last time before sending it to the PR director.
Less than two minutes later, my phone buzzed.

Looks good. It’s honest. Post whenever you’re ready.
My thumb hovered over the screen.

Once it went live, there was no taking it back.

I thought about the thousands of strangers waiting to judge every word.
Then I thought about Torin.

I pressed Post.

…
The responses came almost immediately.
Some people called me weak.
Others said the apology wasn’t enough.

Some accepted it.
Some never would.
For the first time in days, I didn’t keep scrolling.

I locked my phone and set it face down on the coffee table.
I’d spent too much of my life letting people I’d never met decide how I felt about myself.
Therapy had taught me that.
Apparently, I needed the reminder.

The apartment stayed quiet until I heard the front door unlock.
I looked up.

Torin stepped inside, still wearing his team jacket. His knee brace showed beneath his sweatpants, and exhaustion clung to every line of his face.
He spotted me sitting on the couch.
Neither of us spoke.

He slipped his keys into the bowl by the door and walked toward me.
“You read it?” I asked quietly.
“I did.”
I swallowed.

“I meant every word.”
“I know.”
He sat beside me, leaving just enough space between us to remind me we still had work to do.
“I almost didn’t post it.”

He looked over.
“Why?”
“I kept thinking people would tear it apart.”
“They probably will.”
I let out a short laugh.
“Yeah.”

“But you didn’t write it for them.”
His words settled over me.
“No.”
“You wrote it because it was true.”

I nodded.
“I should’ve listened to you.”
“You should have.”
“I thought I was standing up for us.”
“I know you did.”
“I wasn’t trying to be the hero.”

“I know.”
“I just…”
My voice caught.
“I got so angry.”

Torin watched me for a long moment before reaching over and taking my hand.
His fingers were warm.
Steady.

“I was furious with you,” he admitted.
“I know.”
“I still hate what you did.”
“I hate it too.”
He squeezed my hand once.
“But I don’t hate you.”

The tightness in my chest finally broke.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“I need you to hear this.”

He held my gaze.

“I embarrassed the team. I embarrassed you. I made you stand in front of cameras and answer for something that wasn’t your fault. You asked me for one thing, and I couldn’t give it to you.”
My eyes burned.
“I don’t expect you to forget that.”
“I won’t.”
His honesty stung.

“But I forgive you.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
I looked away, blinking rapidly.
“I don’t deserve that.”
“Maybe not today.”

I looked back at him.
“But forgiveness isn’t something you earn after you’ve fixed everything.”
His thumb brushed slowly across my knuckles.
“It’s something you choose when the person in front of you is willing to keep growing.”
Silence settled between us.

Not the painful silence from the night before.
This one felt different.
Lighter.

“I meant what I said after the game,” he continued. “You can’t fight hate with hate.”
I nodded slowly.

“I know.”
“You don’t beat people like that by becoming what they expect.”
His eyes never left mine.
“You beat them by showing them who you are.”
A tear escaped before I could stop it.
“I want to be that person.”
“You already are.”
He smiled faintly.

“You just forgot for one night.”
I leaned forward until my forehead rested against his.
“I’m going to do better.”

“I know you will.”
He wrapped his arms around me, and this time I didn’t hold anything back.
I held him just as tightly.
Not because everything had been fixed.
Not because one apology erased what I’d done.

But because we were finally facing the same direction again.
And for the first time since the game…

It felt like we were on the same team.