The Hockey Star’s Remorse by Riley Above Story

Chapter 233

The car ride was suffocating. I felt the ropes digging into my wrists, rubbing the skin raw. Glancing sideways, I saw Bruce, his face etched with conflicting emotions as he drove. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, wrestling with a dilemma that I couldn’t quite place.

I needed to find a way to crack through his facade, to spark a flicker of realization in him, a glimpse of the person he thought he was.

“You know, Stella was right,” I ventured cautiously, my voice shaky yet deliberate. “You’re nothing like

Timothy.”

The words seemed to jolt Bruce. He shot me a quick, intense glance, his jaw tightening as if trying to suppress an eruption of emotions. “What the hell are you talking about?” His voice was sharp, cutting through the tense silence in the car.

I pressed on, sensing a crack in his armor. “Timothy would’ve killed me already if he wanted. He’s just that determined as a person, even to a vicious degree.”

Bruce’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles whitening. “Don’t test me, Evie,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous.

But something stirred inside me, a desperate need to reach the person I once knew. “You always had my best interests at heart, even when you didn’t know how to show it,” I continued, ignoring his warning. “You never learned to express it because you never had anyone to teach you.”

The mention of his mother seemed to strike a nerve. Bruce’s eyes flickered with a mix of anger and pain. .“Stop it,” he bit out, his voice strained. He reached for the device streaming our conversation

and

abruptly shut it off.

But I couldn’t stop now. “Where was your mother when we were teenagers?” I pushed, ignoring the fear that simmered beneath my skin. “We were left to navigate our own chaos.”

Bruce’s knuckles turned white as he clenched the steering wheel tighter. “I said stop talking about that!” His voice shook with a raw intensity.

“I had to deal with my mother’s sudden return,” I pressed on, desperation lacing my words. “It tore

open old scars, Bruce.”

The car fell into an eerie silence, the tension thick enough to suffocate us both. Bruce’s grip relaxed on the steering wheel, his jaw twitching. His gaze flickered to me, a whirlwind of emotions swirling in his eyes anger, confusion, and a hint of vulnerability.

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“You have no idea what it was like,” Bruce muttered, his voice barely audible.

“I do, Bruce,” I replied softly, hoping to bridge the gap between us. “I do.”

“What do you want from me?” Bruce finally asked, his voice hoarse. “A sob story? Because that’s not. happening.”

“You don’t have to,” I whispered, my voice laced with hope. “We all cope differently.”

A hesitant pause lingered between us before I went on, my attempts more desperate. “I always had a soft spot for you,” I lied, my voice tinged with manufactured sincerity. “Even when your mother left you. alone.”

He snorted. “Sure.”

“We’re more similar than you think,” I added, attempting to bridge the gap between our tumultuous histories.

His gaze softened, a flicker of surprise and something akin to understanding shining in his eyes. “Maybe,” he replied.

The silence returned as the car rolled along the dark, winding road, the hum of the engine a constant companion in our tense silence. I stole glances at Bruce, his face etched with a mix of turmoil and contemplation.

“I can’t believe Mia had the nerve to show her face to you again,” Bruce started out of nowehere, his voice laced with bitterness. “But she always seemed…nicer than my own mother.” He glanced at me, his eyes holding an unfamiliar vulnerability. “Even before my father decided to abandon us.”

His words hung heavy in the air, revealing a certain pain beneath the surface. “What did Mia used to do

for you?” I asked, hesitant yet curious about this unseen side of Bruce.

A hint of wistfulness softened Bruce’s features as he spoke. “When she still lived with us, she used to cook for me,” he began, a flicker of nostalgia coloring his words. “Whatever I wanted to eat, she’d

just make it. And it would usually taste perfect.”

I hummed in agreement. “Yes, if my mother knew one thing, it was how to feed just about anyone. Even picky eaters.”

It looked like he was ready to laugh at that, but he fixed himself quickly and cleared his throat. “She

even helped me join sports at school. I would’ve never even considered doing track if she didn’t

encourage me to.”

The image of Mia, a nurturing figure in Bruce’s life, conjured a pang of unexpected empathy within me. I

don’t know if her amount of mothering could’ve saved Bruce. He seemed to have already been

harboring an unfixable darkness before their families blended.

“She’d hug me without question,” Bruce continued, a hint of vulnerability seeping into his tone. “She

was…there for me.”

As Bruce spoke, memories of Mia drifted through my mind like elusive shadows. The thought of her cooking for him,

something denneering him on at games, offering simple yet profound gestures of affection, tugged at

within me.

The realization struck me like a bolt of lightning – Bruce’s loss of Mia was also my own. The absence of this woman, who had been an integral part of his life, had inadvertently left a void in mine too.

The car ride became an echo chamber of shared silences and unspoken sentiments. Bruce’s

“vulnerability, once shielded behind a facade of indifference, now lay exposed in the subdued glow of

‘the dashboard lights.

“Thank you for sharing that,” I murmured softly, surprised at my own genuine tone of sincerity.

Bruce’s gaze lingered on the road ahead, a myriad of emotions playing across his features regret, longing, and a yearning for something irretrievably lost.

“I didn’t realize,” I admitted quietly, “That she made an impact on you.‘

I couldn’t reach out due to my bound hands, though that may not have helped matters anyway. “Neither of us should let our horrible families define us,” I offered softly. “They don’t deserve that

power.”

Bruce’s gaze softened, his guard momentarily lowered.

“Not even Timothy would define me,” I continued, my voice steady with conviction.

For a moment, something shifted between us, a fragile connection built on shared wounds and

unspoken truths. But Bruce quickly retreated into his familiar stoicism, as if realizing the vulnerability he’d exposed.

He cleared his throat, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “Since Stella’s likely dead,” he said

abruptly, as if changing the course of our conversation, “I won’t get paid by her.”

A surge of realization hit me. “Bruce, what…”

“Finishing the stream…that’s the next best thing for me,” he finished.

My jaw dropped. “W–What? No!”

Bruce nodded tersely, his jaw set in determination. “I’ve made up my mind.”

The car veered off the main road, heading toward a secluded area shrouded in darkness. Bruce pulled over, his actions deliberate as he reached for the camera that had been streaming our lives to an

audience hungry for closure.

“It’s time,” he muttered, his voice carrying a weight of finality. “Say your farewell to the viewers.”