Updated Mar 22, 2026 • ~10 min read
Chapter 25: Five Minutes
POV: Rory
Rory – THE PLAYOFF GAME
Rory’s been successfully avoiding covering hockey for two months—her reassignment to basketball has been approved and implemented and she’s been writing competent but uninspired articles about teams she doesn’t care about while trying not to think about Henrik or the voicemails he keeps leaving or the letter that arrived last week that she’s read approximately fifty times without formulating a response—when her editor calls her into his office with an apologetic expression.
“Castillo, I need a favor,” Jim says. “Williams is sick and we need someone to cover the Frost playoff game tonight. You’re the only person on staff who knows the team well enough to write good analysis on deadline. Can you do it?”
Rory’s stomach drops because covering the Frost means seeing Henrik for the first time in two months, means being in the same building while maintaining professional distance, means confronting exactly how much she’s been avoiding dealing with their situation by just not engaging.
“I can do it,” Rory hears herself say, because saying no would require explaining why she can’t cover her former beat, and she’s not ready to admit to her editor that she’s too emotionally compromised to be professional around Henrik Andersen.
She shows up at the arena that evening with her press badge and her notebook and the careful emotional armor she’s been constructing for two months, and she makes her way to the press box trying to convince herself that she can absolutely handle seeing Henrik without falling apart.
The team takes the ice for warm-ups and Rory spots Henrik immediately—number 19, skating with the mechanical precision of someone going through motions without joy—and her heart clenches because he looks terrible in ways that are visible even from press box distance.
He’s thinner than he was two months ago, moving with less confidence, missing the easy grace that used to characterize his skating, and even from here Rory can see the exhaustion in the way he carries himself.
This is her fault.
She did this to him by refusing to engage for two months, by letting him believe they were done without actually saying the words, by being too scared to respond to his voicemails and letters.
Henrik glances up toward the press box during warm-ups and their eyes meet for the first time in eight weeks, and Rory watches shock and hurt and something that might be hope flash across his expression before he deliberately looks away, skating back toward his teammates with shoulders tight with tension.
The game starts and Rory takes notes on plays and formations while trying not to focus exclusively on how Henrik’s performing, trying not to notice that his game is better than it was during his slump but still not back to his usual standard, trying not to care about the way he keeps checking the press box like he’s hyperaware of her presence.
Chicago wins in a close game that comes down to the final minute—Henrik assists on the winning goal with a play that shows flashes of his old brilliance—and Rory makes her way down to the media area for post-game interviews while trying to figure out how to be professional around the man she’s still desperately in love with despite two months of trying to convince herself she’s moved on.
Henrik emerges from the locker room looking exhausted but satisfied with the win, and when he spots Rory in the media crowd something shifts in his expression—goes carefully neutral in the way she recognizes as his armor against hurt.
Other journalists ask standard questions about the game and Henrik gives standard athlete answers, and Rory waits until they’ve dispersed before approaching him with her recorder held like a weapon against vulnerability.
“Henrik Andersen, great game tonight,” Rory says, and her voice comes out more professional than she feels. “Can you talk about that assist in the final minute?”
“Team effort,” Henrik responds, and his voice is flat. “Right place, right time. Lucas made a great shot.”
Standard answer that tells her nothing except that he’s not going to make this easy.
“Your game has improved significantly from earlier this season,” Rory presses, because she needs him to actually talk to her instead of just giving canned responses. “What changed?”
Henrik looks directly at her for the first time since warm-ups, and there’s something almost challenging in his gaze.
“I started therapy,” he says, and it’s clearly not a standard athlete answer, clearly meant for her specifically even though other journalists might hear. “Working on some personal issues that were affecting my performance. Made a difference.”
“That’s good,” Rory manages, thrown by his honesty. “Therapy is… that’s good.”
They stare at each other for a moment that stretches too long, both aware of the subtext beneath this conversation, both trying to maintain professionalism while everything unsaid sits heavy between them.
“I got your letter,” Rory hears herself say quietly, dropping the recorder slightly so it won’t pick up this part. “Read it. Multiple times.”
“And?” Henrik asks, equally quiet, stepping slightly closer in a way that might look casual to observers but feels deliberately intimate.
“And I don’t know what to say,” Rory admits. “You said everything right. You’re doing everything right. Working on yourself, taking responsibility, being honest. But Henrik, I’m still scared.”
“I know,” Henrik says. “I’m scared too. But Rory, I miss you. Constantly. Every day. And I know two months isn’t long enough to prove I’ve changed, isn’t long enough for you to trust that I won’t hurt you again, but I’m willing to keep trying however long it takes. I’m willing to—”
“Andersen,” another journalist calls, interrupting. “Got a minute for questions about the playoff strategy?”
Henrik glances at the journalist, then back at Rory with an expression that clearly says this conversation isn’t finished.
“Can we talk?” Henrik asks quietly. “After this? Not about the game. About us. Actually talk instead of just avoiding each other.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Rory says, even though she desperately wants to say yes.
“Please,” Henrik says, and there’s something raw in the word. “Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking. Just five minutes of actual conversation.”
“Okay,” Rory agrees before her rational brain can interfere. “After you’re done with press. Outside by the parking lot entrance.”
Henrik nods and turns to handle the other journalist’s questions, and Rory escapes before she can change her mind or do something stupid like hug him or admit that she’s missed him just as desperately as he’s apparently missed her.
She files a quick article about the game—competent analysis that meets deadline requirements without revealing that she’s emotionally compromised about one particular player—and then makes her way to the parking lot entrance to wait for Henrik while trying to figure out what she’s actually going to say to him.
I miss you too.
I listened to every voicemail.
I’ve read your letter so many times I’ve memorized it.
I’m still in love with you.
I’m still terrified.
I don’t know how to choose you without destroying myself if this doesn’t work.
Henrik appears twenty minutes later, still in his suit from the game, and he looks nervous in a way she’s never seen him look before a conversation.
“Hi,” he says inadequately.
“Hi,” Rory responds.
They stand in awkward silence for a moment, both uncertain how to bridge the gap that’s opened between them over two months of no contact.
“You look good,” Henrik offers. “Tired, but good.”
“You look terrible,” Rory says honestly. “You’ve lost weight. You look exhausted.”
“I’ve been playing terrible hockey and not sleeping and generally being a disaster without you,” Henrik admits. “But I’m working on it. Therapy is helping. I’m learning about my commitment issues and my fear of abandonment and all the ways I sabotaged our relationship by protecting myself instead of actually being vulnerable.”
“I read that in your letter,” Rory says. “Multiple times.”
“Did you believe it?” Henrik asks.
“I want to,” Rory admits. “I want to believe you’ve actually changed, that you’re working on your issues, that this time would be different. But Henrik, I’ve spent two months trying to move on. Trying to convince myself that loving you isn’t worth the constant fear of getting hurt. And seeing you tonight… all those feelings came right back and I don’t know if that’s good or if I’m just setting myself up for more pain.”
“What do you want?” Henrik asks. “Honestly. Not what you think you should want, or what’s safe. What do you actually want?”
“You,” Rory says, tears starting now because she’s too tired to keep lying. “I want you. I want us. I want to stop being scared and just trust that you love me enough to actually work through the hard parts. But I don’t know how to take that risk again after spending two months protecting myself.”
“Then don’t decide right now,” Henrik suggests gently. “Don’t put pressure on yourself to have an answer tonight. Just… can we try talking again? Not about whether we’re getting back together, just about how we’ve been. What we’ve been working on. Can we just be two people who miss each other having a conversation?”
“I can do that,” Rory agrees, and they end up at the same coffee shop where they had their first real conversation about trying to date, and they talk for two hours about therapy insights and basketball coverage and how Henrik’s mother visited last month and asked about Rory constantly.
It feels easy in ways their relationship hasn’t felt in months—no pressure to make decisions, no conflict about career versus relationship, just conversation between two people who know each other deeply and are trying to figure out if knowing each other is enough.
“Can I ask you something?” Henrik says around midnight when they’re both exhausted but neither wants to end the conversation. “What would it take for you to trust me again? Actually. What specific things would need to happen for you to believe I’ve changed?”
Rory considers the question carefully. “Time, probably. Consistency. You continuing therapy and working on your issues. Us rebuilding friendship before jumping back into relationship. Proof that you can handle conflict without shutting down or making grand gestures. Evidence that you’ve actually internalized the therapy insights instead of just saying the right words.”
“I can do all of that,” Henrik says immediately. “Time, consistency, therapy, rebuilding friendship. I can prove I’ve changed. Just give me the chance.”
“Okay,” Rory says, surprising herself. “Okay. Let’s try being friends. Actually friends who talk and hang out and support each other. No pressure about getting back together romantically. Just… let’s see if we can rebuild trust through friendship.”
“I’ll take it,” Henrik agrees. “Friends who used to date and are figuring out if they can date again someday. I can work with that.”
They exchange a careful hug goodbye that lasts slightly too long to be just friendly, and Rory drives home thinking that maybe they can actually fix this.
Maybe friendship is the right place to start.
Maybe rebuilding from the ground up is what they need instead of trying to resurrect something broken.
Maybe there’s still hope.
🔥
END CHAPTER 25
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