Burning Ice - Chapter 34: Chapter 34

The rain comes down in sheets, loud against the roof of my car as I pull into my parking spot. It's the kind of storm that makes the world feel smaller, like everything outside the reach of my headlights has disappeared into the darkness.
I kill the engine, exhaling as I listen to the rain batter the windshield. It sounded like sharp glass on the freeway, every drop slicing through the silence, but I made it home in one piece. That's something.
Inside, the apartment is quiet. Warm. I kick off my heels and peel off my damp jacket, letting the weight of the day slip from my shoulders as I head straight for the shower.
The hot water soothes me, washing away the chill from the storm. I close my eyes, inhaling steam, trying not to think too hard. But my mind has other plans.
I haven't heard from Nate.
It's not that weird, not really. He has practice, and playoffs are coming. He's locked in, focused. I should be happy about that. But still... usually, there's something. A text. A call. Some smartass comment just to remind me he's there.
I towel off, throw on a pair of sweats, and check my phone. Nothing.
Maybe I scared him off.
The thought slides in before I can stop it, slinking its way into my chest like something venomous. Maybe saying I love you was a mistake. Maybe he realized what he's gotten himself into—who he's gotten himself into—and now he wants out.
I sit on the couch, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead, willing myself to stop. I know how I get. The overthinking, the spiraling. Just because he's quiet today doesn't mean anything.
Maybe he's just tired. Maybe he just got caught up in practice.
Maybe...
I take a breath. Shake it off.
Whatever it is, I'm not letting it ruin my night.
The night stretches on, the kind of deep, heavy sleep where I don't feel rested when I wake up. Maybe it's the storm still raging outside my window, or maybe it's the feeling that's been gnawing at me since last night.
I roll over, reaching for my phone with half-open eyes, hoping, praying there's some kind of message from Nate. But there's nothing.
I blink at the screen, almost willing the words to appear, but they don't.
It's okay, I tell myself. It's early. He's probably busy. Probably asleep still.
But it doesn't stop the gnawing. The tightness in my chest.
I check again. Nothing.
I text him, keeping it casual.
"Hey, how's it going?"
No reply.
I wait. I wait a little longer, staring at the screen as if maybe, just maybe, he'll text me back. But nothing.
My stomach starts to twist. Something's wrong.
I call him.
It rings, and I wait, biting the inside of my cheek, hoping that this time he'll pick up. I'm trying to convince myself it's nothing. That he's just distracted. That he's in practice or doing something that doesn't involve me. But the phone rings, and then, it goes to voicemail.
My heart drops, heavy and full of uncertainty.
I try again.
The same result.
And with each passing second, each unanswered attempt, that feeling in my chest gets harder to ignore. Something's wrong. He's not answering.
The thoughts I pushed away last night come flooding back, more vicious now, more insistent. What if he's pulling away? What if he's regretting everything? What if it's over before it even really started?
I sit down on the edge of my bed, the weight of the silence pressing down on me. I know I shouldn't be freaking out. I know I should stay calm, but the worry twists and tightens around me, suffocating in a way I can't shake.
The buzz of my phone startles me, pulling me out of the spiral of worry, but when I look at the screen, it's not Nate's name. It's Evan, one of his teammates.
I stare at the message, confused, unsure why he's reaching out to me. But that confusion fades the second my eyes land on the words:
"Billie, it's Evan. Nate was in a serious car accident last night. He's in critical condition. They're doing everything they can. I'm so sorry. He's at St. Dennis. Please, get here as soon as you can."
The world tilts.
I feel the ground beneath me start to crumble. My breath hitches, sharp and shallow, and I grab the edge of the bed, trying to steady myself. I can't breathe.
I can't...
I choke on the panic rising in my throat.
Critical.
The word echoes in my mind, like a drumbeat that drowns out everything else. I can't think. I can't process. All I see is the message, the words, and the silence that follows it, the silence that's already been too long between us.
The tears hit before I can stop them, streaming down my face as I scramble for my keys. I grab my jacket off the back of the chair, my hands shaking so violently I can barely get the car door open. But I don't care.
I don't care that it's raining, that the roads are slick and dangerous. None of that matters.
Nate. I need to get to him.
I'm already in the car, my fingers white-knuckling the wheel as I fight to steady my breathing, fight to push the panic back. But nothing works. My hands tremble so badly I'm scared I might not make it there in one piece, but I push forward.
St. Dennis. St. Dennis.
That's all that matters now.
I don't care about anything else. The only thing in my mind, the only thing my heart can focus on, is Nate.
The hospital smells sterile, sharp, almost suffocating, but none of that matters. None of it even registers as I rush through the hallways, asking anyone who looks like they might know where he is. Every step feels like it takes longer than it should, every second dragging on in a way I can't escape.
When I finally get to his floor, it's chaos. Nurses, doctors, visitors. I don't know who they are, don't care. All I care about is finding him. I ask again, my voice trembling, too frantic for my own liking, and when they point me toward the room, I don't even wait for them to finish speaking.
I see the crowd outside his door first. His teammates, some of the staff. I don't recognize a couple of the faces, but it doesn't matter. I brush past them all, not waiting, not stopping to say a word. I don't need their pity or their well-meaning whispers.
I push open the door, and everything goes still.
My eyes lock on him instantly, lying there in that sterile white bed, hooked up to more machines than I care to count. The beeping of his heart monitor fills the room, steady, rhythmic, but it doesn't make me feel any better. It doesn't make the fear clawing at my chest go away.
Nate's face is almost unrecognizable, bruised and pale, like he's been drained of color. His eyes are closed, and he looks more like a ghost than the man I know. His strong, unshakable presence is gone, replaced by this fragile, broken version of him.
I move without thinking. I don't care about anything except getting to his side.
My fingers tremble as I touch his hand, and the tears start falling, hot and fast, before I can stop them.
I try to keep it quiet, but it's impossible. My body shakes with the force of it, with the anger that surges inside me. Anger at the world, at the car that took him from me like this, at myself for not being able to stop it. For not being there.
I press my face into the side of his bed, whispering his name, my voice thick with everything I don't know how to say.
"Nate... don't do this to me..."
But there's no answer. There's nothing but the soft whir of machines and the dull ache in my chest that threatens to swallow me whole.
I don't leave his side. Not once.
The hours stretch on, but I don't notice the time slipping away. I stay glued to that chair, my hand never leaving his, even as the room fills with the quiet hum of hospital machines. The sterile smell, the constant beeping, it all reminds me too much of a time I thought I had buried deep.
My mother's death.
I hate hospitals. I've always hated them. They've never been kind to me. Not when I needed them the most. Not when I needed her. The sterile walls, the harsh lighting, the cold touch of nurses' hands. It all feels like a graveyard, like a place where hope goes to die.
I don't want to be here. I don't want to be reminded of the loss I felt when I was younger, of the day I had to watch my mother slip away. I thought that pain was behind me. But now it feels like it's rising up, crawling beneath my skin.
The thought of losing Nate... It's too much.
I feel my chest tighten, and I can't breathe for a moment, my eyes stinging with more tears that I don't want to shed.
But then, somehow, I find myself praying.
It's been so long since I last prayed, not since my mom was in that bed, slipping away. Not since I begged for a miracle that never came. But now, with Nate lying here so still, so lifeless, I don't know what else to do.
I close my eyes, my voice barely a whisper.
"Please. Please, don't take him from me. I... I can't do this. I can't lose him too."
I don't know who I'm talking to, or even if anyone's listening. It's just me and the quiet prayer, pouring out of me like it's the last thing I have left to hold onto.
The silence is suffocating, thick with the weight of all the things I never got to say to him. The things I never thought I'd need to say. The things I never thought I'd need to ask for.
But here I am. Alone. Praying for something I don't think I have the right to ask for.
But I'll ask anyway. Because I can't lose him.
Not like this. Not now.
The door creaks open, and I don't look up immediately. The steady rhythm of the machines, the muffled sounds of voices down the hall, the soft weight of my hand in his is all I can focus on.
But then there's a shift in the air, a presence I didn't expect. I turn my head slowly, eyes red from tears, swollen from the hours spent at his side. A man stands in the doorway, taller than Nate, but with a similar frame. His features are sharp, like they belong to the same family, but there's a seriousness about him that's different from Nate's usual cocky smile.
"Hey," he says, his voice low and steady, but there's something in his eyes—something soft, something broken—that I recognize.
"I'm—" he hesitates, stepping into the room, "—I'm Bennett. Nate's brother."
For a second, I just stare at him, the words not quite registering. I can barely form a sentence in my head, let alone respond.
His eyes flick to Nate's unconscious form, his jaw tightening slightly, before he meets my gaze again.
"You're..." His voice cracks, just for a second. "You're Billie, right?"
I nod, my voice catching in my throat. I can't seem to find words. I just... nod.
Bennett looks between me and Nate, and there's something in the way he holds himself—something that tells me he's been through this before, standing next to someone who might never wake up. But the pain in his eyes is fresh. It's raw.
He steps forward, a hand rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flicking between me and the machines keeping his brother alive.
"I—I didn't know if you were here yet," he says, voice steady but tight, like he's forcing the words out. "I just wanted to introduce myself. Nate talked about you a lot... he..." He pauses again, like the words are too heavy. "He cares about you, Billie."
I swallow, trying to hold back the sobs that threaten to break free. "I care about him too" I manage, the words coming out barely above a whisper.
Bennett's face softens at that, and he nods slowly, his expression darkening as he looks at Nate again.
"I know you do" he says quietly.
Bennett stands there for a moment, eyes lingering on his brother, his face unreadable. I can feel the weight of the silence pressing down on us both, and I can't bring myself to look away from Nate, my hand still tightly holding his.
"Is there... anything I can do?" Bennett asks quietly, his voice hoarse but steady. "Do you need anything?"
I shake my head, wiping away the fresh tears that keep falling. "I don't know what I need. I just... I don't know if he's going to wake up." The words feel like a punch in the chest, but they leave my lips anyway. "He has to wake up."
Bennett nods, but it's a slow, reluctant motion. "I'm not going to lie to you, Billie... it's bad. They're doing everything they can, but the doctors are being cautious. He's... he's in a really tough spot."
My heart lurches. The room feels colder, somehow, and I pull the blanket around Nate's body closer, wishing I could somehow shield him from all the pain.
Bennett steps closer, and for a moment, I'm aware of how much he looks like Nate except for the hardness in his expression, the way he's holding himself. I wonder if this is what Nate would look like if he were standing here instead of lying in that bed, motionless.
I suddenly realize that this is probably just as hard for him as it is for me. He's lost the person he's always known as his brother, and that's a pain I can't even begin to imagine. I've known Nate a fraction of the time that Bennett has, and yet... here I am, trying to hold on to something slipping away.
I take a deep breath and clear my throat, trying to steady myself. "Bennett," I say softly. "I... I know this is hard for you too. Maybe you should have some time alone with him."
Bennett glances at me, surprise flashing in his eyes. "What? No, Billie, I—"
"I can stay out here," I continue, my voice gentle. "I don't want to take away any time you might need with him. I know what he means to you."
For a moment, there's hesitation in his eyes. He looks at Nate, his hand resting briefly on the edge of the bed before he sighs deeply.
"Yeah," he finally says, his voice rough. "I appreciate that, Billie. Thank you."
I nod, giving him space to move closer to Nate. As I stand, I feel the weight of the room shift, and I make my way toward the door, but not before giving one last glance at Nate.
"I'll be right outside if you need me," I tell him quietly.
Bennett nods, but his attention is already back on his brother. I close the door softly behind me, my heart heavy but filled with the smallest bit of relief that Bennett can be here for Nate the way I've been, even if only for a little while.