stick around • matthew schaefer

chapter twenty-three

matthew's pov.

the night after the first playoff game, i didn't sleep.

again.

i kept replaying her shift in the second period—the blocked shot, the breakout pass, the way she anchored the blue line like she'd been born there.

and then i replayed us.
not from highlights. not from videos.

from my head.

because the memories—real ones—are starting to bleed through now. fast. relentless. like someone finally flipped a switch.

⸻

i remember the first time we didn't fight at practice.

we were paired up for a penalty kill drill, and neither of us spoke for the first ten minutes. just played. passed. read each other like we were wired for it.

afterward, coach muttered, "finally," under his breath.

i looked at her.

she rolled her eyes and said, "don't get used to it."

but there was something else in her voice that day.

not sarcasm.

not bitterness.

reluctant respect.

maybe more.

⸻

i remember a late skate after a bad loss.

just the two of us.
sticks echoing.
cold air in our lungs.

she'd stayed late because she was pissed. i'd stayed because i couldn't go home.

we didn't say much—until she slammed a puck off the boards and yelled, "do you ever feel like nothing you do is enough?"

i didn't answer. just passed her the puck.

and she passed it back.

over and over.
in silence.

it felt like the beginning of something.

it probably was.

⸻

i remember her chirping me in the locker room before our last road game.

i'd forgotten my elbow pads. again.

she tossed them at my chest and said, "you'd forget your own name without me."

i'd muttered, "guess i'm lucky i've got you, then."

and she froze.
for just a second.

like maybe we both heard the double meaning.
and neither of us wanted to touch it.

so we didn't.

and gosh, i wish we had.

⸻

i tell her all of this.

the next day, when she walks into the hospital again—still sore from the game, hair damp from the cold, cheeks flushed—i tell her.

not all at once.

just in pieces.

like breadcrumbs.

"i remember the drill. the first time we played together and didn't try to kill each other."

"i remember the late skate. you screaming at the boards."

"i remember the elbow pads."

with every memory, her face shifts.

hope. heartbreak. something like fear.

"you really remember all that?" she whispers.

"it's like someone flipped on the lights."

and then—

"adrianna, we were almost something, weren't we?"

she blinks fast. her breath catches.

but she doesn't look away.

"yeah," she says. "we were."

and hearing her say that?

it wrecks me.

because the memories are coming back, yes.

but we didn't run out of time because of the coma.

we ran out of time before it.

i was already too slow. too careful.

too afraid to admit what we were turning into.

and now i don't want to waste another second.

⸻

"why didn't i say something?" i ask her later, voice raw. "why didn't i tell you how i felt?"

she gives me a sad little smile.

"you didn't know how."

i shake my head. "i don't think i wanted to lose you if it went wrong."

"matthew," she says softly, "you almost lost everything anyway."

and she's right.

gosh, she's right.

⸻

i spend the rest of the night digging.

into old memories.

old conversations.

old texts i finally had the courage to open again.

there are more than i expected.

some short. some sharp.
some funny.
some that felt like we were dancing around something bigger than either of us wanted to say.

and one, from two nights before the accident, that makes my heart stop.

don't let me down out there tomorrow. i'm trusting you

i don't remember what i said back.

but i know what i should've said.

i won't

i never will

⸻

she texts me the next morning.

team meeting at noon. i'll swing by after

i write back without thinking:

i'll be waiting

and i will be.

because i'm done pretending.

done hesitating.

done wasting time on anything that isn't us.

the next time she walks through that door, i'm going to tell her exactly what i feel.

because i remember now.

and i don't want to forget ever again.
________
a/n: feelings are being confessed??????