Updated Mar 22, 2026 • ~13 min read
Chapter 18: He Finds Out
POV: Carter Vaughn
Carter hears about the date from Tyler Morrison—casual mention in the locker room after Sunday’s practice, the rookie not realizing he’s dropping a bomb that’s about to detonate Carter’s entire existence—and the words hit like taking a skate blade to the chest, sharp and devastating and impossible to process through the sudden roaring in Carter’s ears.
“Saw one of your PTs out last night,” Tyler says while taping his stick, completely oblivious to the way Carter’s gone completely still across the room. “Priya, I think? She was at that Italian place in the North End with some guy. Looked like a date.”
A date.
Priya was on a date.
With some guy.
Not Carter.
The jealousy that hits is immediate and vicious—worse than when he saw her laughing with Kevin, worse than any possessiveness he felt during their arrangement, worse than anything Carter’s experienced because this isn’t just Priya being friendly with a colleague, this is her actively trying to move on, actively seeking someone else, actively dating when the thought of her with another man makes Carter want to put his fist through a wall.
“You okay, Cap?” Tyler asks, clearly noticing Carter’s expression has gone from neutral to homicidal.
“Fine,” Carter grits out, the lie obvious even to himself. “Just—fine.”
He’s not fine.
He’s the opposite of fine.
He’s losing his mind over the thought of Priya on a date, Priya laughing with some other man, Priya potentially kissing someone else, potentially moving on when Carter’s still completely stuck on her, still in love with her, still hoping despite everything that they might find their way back to each other.
Carter makes it through the rest of practice on autopilot—body going through the motions while his brain spirals through images he can’t stop creating, scenarios he doesn’t want to imagine, the possibility that Priya’s already found someone else while Carter’s been doing therapy and writing letters he’s too scared to deliver and generally trying to become worthy of a second chance he might not get.
By the time he’s showered and changed, Carter’s decision is made—he’s going to her apartment, going to confront this, going to make Priya listen even though she’s made it clear she’s done with him, because the thought of losing her to someone else without fighting is unbearable in ways Carter can’t articulate.
Jamie tries to stop him in the parking lot—clearly sees the determined devastation on Carter’s face and recognizes it as a terrible idea in progress—but Carter’s already in his car, already driving toward Cambridge with his heart pounding and his hands shaking and jealousy burning through his system like fire.
He makes it to Priya’s building in record time—probably broke several traffic laws getting there, definitely wasn’t paying attention to speed limits or stop signs, just needed to get to her before he lost his nerve or came to his senses or did anything except confront the woman he loves about dating someone else.
Carter’s pounding on her apartment door before he’s fully thought through what he’s going to say—fist hitting wood with probably too much force, desperation and jealousy and love all tangled together into action that’s definitely not respecting Priya’s boundaries but feels necessary anyway.
“You went on a date?!” Carter demands the second Priya opens the door, her expression shifting from confusion to shock to anger in rapid succession as she processes his presence and his accusation.
“That’s none of your business!” Priya’s voice rises to match his, and she’s clearly not backing down, clearly not going to let Carter’s jealousy dictate how she lives her life.
“The fuck it isn’t!” Carter knows he’s being irrational, knows he has no right to be here, knows this is probably destroying any chance he had left—but he can’t stop, can’t calm down, can’t do anything except let months of suppressed emotion pour out. “You’re mine—”
“We’re not together! You made that clear!” Priya cuts him off, and there’s pain underneath the anger, hurt that Carter caused and is now making worse. “You rejected me. Multiple times. You don’t get to show up here acting jealous when you’re the one who ended things!”
“I made a mistake!” The admission comes out desperate, honest, the truth Carter’s been sitting with for weeks finally spoken out loud. “I fucked up. I was scared and I pushed you away and I’ve regretted it every day since but I’m trying to fix it—”
“Oh NOW you realize? Too late, Carter!” Priya’s crying now, angry tears streaming down her face, and Carter’s never hated himself more than he does watching her break down because of him. “You’ve had months to realize! I gave you chance after chance and you kept choosing fear over me!”
“I love you! Is that what you want to hear?!” Carter’s shouting now, all his control gone, everything he’s been trying to express rationally for weeks coming out in desperate confession. “I’m in love with you and the thought of you with someone else is killing me and I know I don’t have the right to feel this way but I can’t help it!”
“Not like this! Not because I went on one date!” Priya’s voice breaks completely. “You don’t get to confess love because you’re jealous! You had months to tell me! You had me begging for a relationship and you said it could only be sex!”
“I loved you before! I was just too scared!” Carter’s aware he’s making this worse, aware that confessing out of jealousy isn’t romantic it’s toxic, aware that he’s fucking this up but unable to stop. “I’ve been in love with you for months and I was too much of a coward to say it and I’m sorry—”
“Well I’m scared too! Scared of loving someone who won’t love me back!” Priya’s full-on sobbing now, and Carter wants to reach for her, wants to hold her, wants to fix this but doesn’t know how. “Scared of giving you another chance and having you panic and push me away again! Scared that you’re only saying this because I’m trying to move on!”
“I DO love you back!” Carter takes a step toward her, desperation overriding common sense. “I love you and I’m in therapy and I’m doing the work and I know I’ve fucked up every chance you’ve given me but please—”
“PROVE IT!” Priya’s voice echoes in the hallway, raw and demanding and completely fair given Carter’s track record. “Prove you love me! Prove you’ve changed! Prove this isn’t just panic at losing me! PROVE IT!”
And Carter freezes—because how does he prove it? How does he demonstrate love when words have failed repeatedly, when promises have been broken, when his track record suggests he’s not capable of follow-through? How does he show Priya he’s changed when change is ongoing work rather than completed transformation?
The silence stretches between them—Carter searching desperately for words that won’t come, for some declaration or promise or proof that will convince Priya he’s serious, that his love is real, that this time will be different—but everything he thinks to say sounds hollow, sounds like another empty promise from someone who’s already broken too many.
“That’s what I thought,” Priya says quietly, devastated resignation replacing anger. “You can’t prove it because it’s not real. It’s just jealousy. Just panic. Just you wanting what you can’t have instead of actually being ready to commit to loving me.”
“That’s not—” Carter starts, but Priya’s already stepping back, already closing the door, already shutting him out.
“Go home, Carter.” Her voice is tired, broken. “Go back to therapy. Figure yourself out. But stop showing up here confessing love you can’t prove, making promises you can’t keep, acting like jealousy is the same as commitment.”
The door closes in Carter’s face—not quite a slam but final enough—and he’s left standing in her hallway with his heart pounding and his confession hanging unfinished in the air, having just made everything exponentially worse by confessing out of jealousy instead of love, by showing up demanding instead of proving through action, by being exactly the impulsive mess Priya needs him to not be.
Carter stands there for a long moment—hand raised like he might knock again, might try to salvage this disaster, might find words that can undo the damage he just did—but ultimately lowers his fist and walks away because Priya’s right, showing up here was wrong, confessing out of jealousy was wrong, demanding she believe him without proof was wrong.
He makes it to his car before the full weight of what just happened crashes over him—he had a chance to prove himself, had an opportunity to demonstrate love, had a moment where Priya was asking him to show her something real and he froze, couldn’t find words, couldn’t offer anything except desperate declarations that sound empty after months of broken promises.
“Fuck,” Carter says to his empty car, voice wrecked. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He drives home in a haze—probably shouldn’t be operating a vehicle given his emotional state, probably a danger to himself and others, but makes it back to his apartment without incident and immediately calls Dr. Chen despite it being Sunday evening because he needs help processing what just happened, needs professional guidance on how thoroughly he’s destroyed any remaining chance with Priya.
“I fucked up,” Carter says when Dr. Chen answers, and the concern in her voice when she responds makes him feel worse. “I heard Priya went on a date and I lost my mind and showed up at her apartment and confessed love like a jealous asshole and she asked me to prove it and I couldn’t.”
“Okay.” Dr. Chen’s voice is calm, clinical. “Let’s talk through this. What happened exactly?”
Carter explains—the jealousy, the confrontation, the shouting, the confession that came out wrong, Priya’s demand for proof that he couldn’t meet—and hears himself from outside his own perspective, recognizes how toxic and controlling his behavior was, understands why Priya slammed the door instead of accepting his declaration.
“You know what you did wrong,” Dr. Chen observes when Carter finishes. “You can hear it in how you’re describing it. So what are you going to do differently?”
“I don’t know,” Carter admits. “I wrote her a letter weeks ago but I was too scared to give it to her. And now showing up seems like harassment. And I don’t know how to prove I’ve changed when I keep acting like I haven’t.”
“The letter,” Dr. Chen says thoughtfully. “Tell me about it.”
Carter explains—the honest account of his therapy, the acknowledgment of his fear, the confession of love divorced from jealousy, the demonstration that he’s doing work regardless of whether Priya takes him back—and as he’s describing it, he realizes that’s the proof she was asking for, that’s what he should have said at her door, that’s the answer to her demand that he froze on instead of delivering.
“Give her the letter,” Dr. Chen says. “Not tonight—tonight you give her space. But soon. Show her the work you’re doing through written evidence instead of desperate verbal confession. Let her see the progress on paper where she can process it without the pressure of you standing there demanding she believe you.”
It makes sense—more sense than Carter’s jealous confrontation, more sense than his parking lot confession weeks ago, more sense than any of his previous attempts to win Priya back through words alone.
“Okay,” Carter says. “Okay. I’ll give her the letter. Tomorrow maybe. Or Tuesday. Just—soon.”
“Good. And Carter? In our next session, we need to talk about the jealousy and possessiveness. That behavior tonight wasn’t healthy. Wasn’t respectful of Priya’s autonomy. We need to work on that.”
“I know,” Carter says quietly. “I know it was fucked up. I just—the thought of her with someone else—”
“Is something you need to process in therapy, not by showing up at her apartment making demands,” Dr. Chen finishes firmly. “Priya has the right to date whoever she wants. You ending your relationship means accepting those consequences, including her moving on.”
The words hurt but they’re true—Carter ended things, Carter pushed Priya away, Carter has no claim on her time or affection or romantic choices—and the fact that he’s in love with her doesn’t give him the right to control who she sees or be jealous about her attempts to move on.
“I’ll work on it,” Carter promises, and means it.
The call ends and Carter sits in his apartment replaying the confrontation—seeing all the ways he fucked up, hearing Priya’s pain and anger, understanding why his confession came across as manipulation rather than genuine love—and knows he has exactly one more chance to get this right before Priya closes the door permanently.
The letter.
He has to give her the letter.
Has to show her through written evidence instead of desperate confrontation that he’s serious, that his love is real, that therapy is genuinely helping him become someone worthy of a second chance.
It’s his last shot.
And Carter can’t afford to fuck it up the way he’s fucked up everything else.
He pulls out the letter he wrote weeks ago—reads through it again, makes a few small edits, ultimately decides it’s honest enough, vulnerable enough, evidence enough of genuine change—and puts it in an envelope with Priya’s name written across the front in his handwriting.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow he’ll give it to her.
Not tonight while she’s angry and he’s emotionally compromised.
Not in person where his presence becomes pressure.
Just the letter, left for her to find, showing proof of work and love and change that she can process on her own terms without Carter’s jealousy or desperation influencing her response.
It’s the right move.
The respectful move.
The move that demonstrates he’s actually learning from therapy instead of just attending sessions.
Carter goes to bed that night with the letter on his nightstand and Priya’s words echoing in his head—PROVE IT—and knows that tomorrow, one way or another, he’s going to try.
Going to show her through action rather than words.
Going to demonstrate change rather than just promise it.
Going to fight for her the right way instead of showing up jealous and demanding.
It might be too late.
She might say no.
But at least Carter will know he tried properly, proved he changed, gave Priya evidence instead of just empty declarations.
And if she still says no, at least he’ll have proof that he was brave enough to be vulnerable, to admit his love, to fight for what matters despite the risk of rejection.
The confession came out wrong.
The door closed.
But maybe—just maybe—the letter can open it again.
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