Chapter 20 WELCOME BACK
RYAN
By the time we pull up to the Hockey House, my stomach is in knots. Not from the car ride—though every bump feels like a personal attack—but from the idea of walking into their world like some fragile extra credit project. I brace myself for the chaos of eight twenty-somethings crammed into a frat-adjacent house, for the noise, the smell of stale beer and cologne, for the awkward pity stares.
But when Fynn's assistant, Amit, helps me through the door, it's not chaos waiting on the other side.
It's them.
All of them.
Even Julie.
The living room is warm with laughter and this buzzing energy that makes me pause in the doorway. They've clearly been waiting. Mason is pretending to argue with Ty over a screwdriver, Rae's got Emma doubled over in laughter on the couch, and Zach is hovering near the stairs like he's personally planning my safe ascent. And Julie—she's perched on Sean's knee, her manicured hand resting casually on his shoulder. It stings, sure. But she came. And that's... something.
I haven't seen the fourth member of my close girls' group apart from Sean like ever, and she's rarely around when I stopped by the dorm to spend some time with Ems and Rae. I appreciate that
she came today, and I might even see it as her showcasing her white flag.
The tension was never something she or I intentionally caused, I just happened – when Sean did. And we went along with causally avoiding each other and the conversation that perhaps was already long overdue.
"Welcome home, MK," Zach says, grinning, before darting forward to steady me. "Or, you know, temporary annex to the House of Astor Hughes & Co."
I roll my eyes, but my throat feels weirdly tight. "Astor Hughes?"
He shrugged.
"You guys didn't have to—"
"Oh, we did," Ty interrupts, bounding up beside me with the kind of determination usually reserved for a penalty shot. "Bathroom? Totally revamped. Anti-slip rugs, safety bar by the shower.
Custom install, courtesy of yours truly. OSHA would be proud."
Mason claps him on the back. "Please. That man nearly drilled his own thumb off putting the bar in. If anyone deserves OSHA, it's him."
"Don't listen to him," Ty mutters, cheeks red. "You're safe now. No more falling on my watch."
Before I can thank him, Mason gestures toward the kitchen with a proud flourish. "Fridge is stocked. Spirulina, kale, whatever weird swamp potion you call smoothies—I hunted them down."
I blink the tears threatening to fall. "You bought me greens?"
"Don't get used to it." He smirks, but there's a softness there. "That aisle smelled like grass clippings."
The laughter around us feels like sunlight.
Rae immediately cackles. "You would gag in the health aisle. What, did the kombucha bottles glare at you?"
Mason rolls his eyes. "Laugh it up. I was doing her a favor."
Emma claps her hands once, practically vibrating. "I already made a chart!"
I groan. "Oh no."
"Yes!" she beams, pulling a notebook off the couch. "PT checklists, pain med schedule, smoothie rotation—color-coded. Look."
She flips it open, and sure enough, there are tabs. Tabs.
Ty leans over her shoulder, squinting. "Are those... stickers?"
"Of course." Emma nods firmly. "Motivation is key."
Mason mutters under his breath, "This house is turning into a nursing home."
Zach elbows him in the ribs. "Shut it. You didn't see me hunting down the extra pillows for her bed."
My head jerks up. "Pillows?"
Zach shrugs, suddenly fascinated by the floor. "You... always steal my extra pillows. So. Figured you'd need them." His ears are pink, and he looks anywhere but at me.
The room breaks into teasing groans.
"Awwww." Rae fans herself. "Look at Vanilla Ice Cream turning soft."
Zach glares. "Say that again, Collins."
She grins wickedly. "Vanillaaaaa."
Julie finally pipes up, voice smooth and cool. "Cute. Though extra pillows won't help if she can't even get out of bed without falling." She glances at me, expression unreadable. "Still—thoughtful."
It's not quite kind, but it's not cruel either. Neutral. For Julie, that's basically a compliment.
And then Sean speaks. He's been quiet this whole time, his arm looped around Julie like he's trying to anchor himself in place. His eyes meet mine once, quick and unreadable, before he drops
them to the floor. "There's a walkie-talkie on your nightstand. Channel three. One of us will always have the other one on. In case... you need anything."
I don't know what to say. My throat locks up. A walkie-talkie. Of all things. It's ridiculous and sweet and exactly the kind of stupid, protective detail I didn't know I needed.
The whole room watches me, waiting for my reaction.
And for a second, I think I might cry.
Instead, I manage a shaky laugh. "You guys really turned this into a rehab palace, huh?"
"Palace might be a stretch," Rae teases, curling up with her legs tucked under her. "But yeah. It's yours."
It's too much—their effort, their care, the fact that even Julie is here. My body is broken in a thousand places, but somehow, standing in this crooked living room with them, I feel whole.
Overwhelmed, I let out a breath. "Thank you. Seriously. All of you. This is..." My voice catches. "It's a lot."
Sean doesn't look up. But his hand tightens on Julie's thigh, like the words mean something to him too.
〰️〰️〰️
It's quiet in the House in the way it never is during the day. The hum of the fridge, a floorboard creaking overhead, Ty's muffled snoring bleeding faintly through the ceiling vents. Everyone else is asleep, but sleep and I are on separate planets tonight.
So I'm in the kitchen, tucked against the counter with a saucepan steaming in front of me, whisking almond milk and spices into something warm and golden. Cinnamon, cardamom, turmeric—my holy trinity. I add extra ginger because if I'm going to be wrecked, I might as well breathe fire.
"You and your witch potions," Sean mutters.
I glance over my shoulder, already smirking. "You really need new material, Callahan."
He lingers by the counter, hands shoved in his sweats pockets, looking... not exactly guilty, but definitely unsettled. "About earlier," he starts, voice low. "Julie. The way she was... forward. Sorry."
I shake cinnamon into the pan, watching it disappear into the foam. "Sean, it's no biggie. Really. Honestly—I actually thought it was nice of her to show up tonight. Unexpected, but sweet."
That makes him pause. His shoulders loosen just a fraction. "Yeah," he says slowly. "She... she wants to help. She's been on me about media training—stuff I've mostly gotten used to with the Terriers' social team hovering all the time. TikTok trends, interviews, soundbites, whatever PR flavor of the week." He shrugs, leaning against the counter now. "But with her, it feels a little more... professional. Like practice reps. And I like that. Feels useful."
I pour the latte into a mug, watching the spices swirl together like some bottled-up galaxy. "Makes sense. You're heading into a bigger spotlight than BU. If she can help you sharpen up for the Bruins circus, why not?"
He huffs a laugh, soft and self-deprecating. "Yeah. Exactly. Good to have someone push me on that stuff."
The words hang there, and for a second I think he's going to say more. But instead, his eyes flick to me. "What about you? How'd the interviews go?"
I exhale hard, sliding the mug across the counter toward him, but he doesn't reach for it. "They went... fine. Nervous, but fine. I know I don't need to be nervous. Goldman, Morgan—they love legacies. Dad, Fynn, Theo—they carved out enough of a name that I'm basically walking in with neon arrows pointing at my last name." My voice catches, sharp at the edges. "But I don't want to disappoint them. Or him."
Sean tilts his head. "Your dad?"
I bark out a laugh, bitter and too loud in the quiet kitchen. "Yeah. Which is twisted, because he's the definition of a meanie. Cruel, even. But still—I don't want to hand him more ammo."
Sean studies me for a beat, like he's filing that away. He doesn't press, doesn't prod. Just lets me exist in the contradiction.
I clear my throat and grab a second mug from the shelf. "Here." I pour another golden stream, handing it over despite his skeptical grimace.
He accepts it with exaggerated reluctance. "You know I hate ginger."
"Then you better learn to love it." I smirk, dropping onto the stool across from him. "You're with a Latina now. Spices are non-negotiable."
His ears go pink instantly, his hand tightening on the mug. "That's... not—" He cuts himself off, looks down at the drink instead. "You're impossible."
I grin into my own cup, letting the warmth sting my tongue. "And yet, here you are, drinking my potion anyway."
He takes a careful sip, winces like it's fire. "Still too much ginger."
I roll my eyes, but my chest feels lighter than it has in weeks.