Updated Mar 22, 2026 • ~14 min read
Chapter 22: The Patience Game
POV: Carter Vaughn
Carter’s strategy is simple in theory, brutally difficult in execution—show Priya through consistent action rather than desperate words that he’s changed, that his transformation is real, that he’s become someone worthy of her trust—and sitting in Dr. Owens’s office the Monday after training camp ends, Carter articulates the plan with more clarity than he’s felt about anything in months.
“I’m not going to push,” Carter says, and means it despite every instinct screaming to pursue Priya aggressively, to confess love daily, to manufacture proximity and force her to see his growth. “No grand gestures. No flowers or food or showing up at her apartment. Just—consistency. Being the kind of man she deserves. Demonstrating change through how I live, not what I say.”
“That’s mature,” Dr. Owens observes with approval. “And difficult. The old Carter would have been chasing her relentlessly by now.”
“The old Carter fucked up repeatedly by doing exactly that,” Carter says, the acknowledgment coming without defensiveness because it’s just truth, just accurate assessment of his previous failures. “Grand gestures failed. Desperate confessions failed. Showing up and demanding she believe me failed. So I’m trying something different.”
“What does ‘something different’ look like practically?” Dr. Owens asks, wanting specifics rather than generalities.
“Respectful distance. Professional interaction when necessary. Being kind without expecting anything in return.” Carter’s thought this through carefully, planned his approach with the kind of strategic thinking he usually reserves for game situations. “Helping my teammates. Leading well. Playing good hockey. Just—being the best version of myself consistently, whether Priya’s watching or not.”
“And if she never gives you another chance?” The question is gentle but necessary, the reminder that Carter’s growth can’t be contingent on winning Priya back.
“Then I’ll still be better,” Carter says, and believes it more than he would have believed possible four months ago. “Still be someone who’s broken those patterns. Still be capable of healthy love even if it’s not with her.”
It’s the right answer—the one that proves Carter’s doing this work for himself rather than as manipulation—but it doesn’t stop him from hoping that Priya will notice, will see his consistency, will eventually be willing to give him one more chance to prove he’s different.
The regular season starts that week—opener against Tampa on Wednesday night, the kind of high-stakes game that sets the tone for everything that follows—and Carter plays with the centered focus that’s characterized his summer transformation, leads the team with steady presence rather than anxious intensity, scores twice in a 4-2 victory that feels earned rather than desperate.
Priya’s on the bench during the game—her job requires presence at home games, requires her to monitor for injuries and provide immediate treatment if needed—and Carter’s aware of her watching in ways that would have made him perform or show off before therapy taught him to distinguish between healthy confidence and validation-seeking behavior.
He doesn’t play for her attention—doesn’t showboat after goals, doesn’t seek her out for eye contact during breaks, doesn’t do anything except his job with excellence—and the lack of performance is itself demonstration of change, proof that his worth isn’t contingent on her approval, evidence that he’s genuinely different rather than just better at pretending.
The team celebrates the win appropriately—good start to the season, solid performance, chemistry building in positive directions—but Carter doesn’t join the post-game bar plans, doesn’t stay out late drinking with teammates, just goes home and decompresses alone because part of his growth has been learning that he doesn’t need external validation or distraction from internal discomfort.
“Good game tonight,” Jamie says in the locker room while they’re changing, clearly noticing Carter’s different energy. “You were locked in.”
“Thanks.” Carter pulls on his shirt, keeps his response simple rather than deflecting or minimizing the compliment the way he used to.
“Priya was watching,” Jamie observes carefully, testing whether this topic is going to trigger Carter’s previous jealous possessiveness.
“I know.” Carter’s voice stays neutral, calm. “She watches every game. It’s her job.”
Jamie looks at him with something like surprise—clearly expected defensiveness or longing or some indication that Priya’s presence affects Carter more than he’s admitting—and Carter recognizes the test for what it is, appreciates that his friend is checking whether the transformation is real.
“You’re really different,” Jamie says after a moment. “Whatever you did this summer—it worked.”
“Still working,” Carter corrects, because growth isn’t finished just because he’s made progress. “But yeah. Different.”
The week continues with the rhythm of regular season—practice, game prep, travel schedule, the familiar pattern that Carter knows intimately after years in the NHL—and through it all Carter maintains his strategy of consistent, respectful presence, of demonstrating change through action rather than declaration, of being the kind of man Priya deserves whether or not she’s paying attention.
He helps rookies adjust to NHL pace—stays late after practice to work with Tyler on defensive positioning, offers guidance without condescension, shares knowledge generously in ways that strengthen team cohesion—and his leadership feels different than it did before, less about control and more about genuine support.
He notices Priya watching sometimes—catches her observing his interactions with teammates during practice, sees her tracking his behavior during team meetings, registers the confusion on her face when his actions consistently contradict her expectations based on who he used to be—and resists the urge to acknowledge her attention, to turn observation into interaction, to push for anything except letting her draw her own conclusions about his growth.
“You’re being weird,” Marcus comments after Thursday practice when Carter spends thirty minutes helping him work through hip mobility issues that are affecting his skating stride. “Not bad weird. Just—helpful weird. You don’t usually do this.”
“Trying to be better,” Carter says simply, the explanation offered without defensiveness. “Better captain. Better teammate. Better person.”
Marcus accepts this with a nod—doesn’t push for deeper explanation, just appreciates the help—and Carter recognizes that this is what leadership actually looks like when it’s not tangled up with fear and control, when it comes from genuine desire to support rather than need to be needed.
The games continue—Friday night win against Detroit, Sunday afternoon loss to Montreal that stings but doesn’t devastate because Carter’s learned to separate his worth from game outcomes—and through it all Carter plays brilliantly, not from desperation or performance but from being genuinely centered, genuinely present, genuinely the best version of himself.
Priya’s confusion becomes more visible as the weeks progress—Carter sees it in how she watches him during team sessions, in the way she seems to be trying to figure out his angle, in her visible surprise when his respectful distance and consistent kindness don’t reveal themselves as strategy with ulterior motive—and he knows she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to revert to desperate pursuit or demanding grand gestures.
He doesn’t revert—just maintains the patience game, shows up consistently, demonstrates through daily action that his transformation is genuine rather than performed—and the consistency itself becomes the most powerful evidence of change because the old Carter couldn’t have sustained this approach for two weeks let alone two months.
It’s mid-October—six weeks into the season, the Blades sitting comfortably in playoff position, team chemistry solidifying in positive ways—when Priya finally breaks the professional distance Carter’s been carefully maintaining, when her confusion apparently overrides her protective walls enough to demand answers.
Carter’s staying late after practice working on shot accuracy—routine maintenance that he does regularly because excellence requires consistent effort—when Priya appears at the edge of the ice, clearly having waited until the facility emptied before approaching, clearly not wanting this conversation to be public.
“What are you doing?” Priya asks without preamble, her voice carrying equal parts confusion and frustration, clearly referring to more than just Carter’s shooting practice.
Carter takes one more shot—buries it top shelf with the kind of precision that comes from years of repetition—before skating over to where Priya stands, maintaining respectful distance even as every cell in his body wants to close the space between them.
“Becoming the man who deserves you,” Carter says simply, the answer honest and direct, the truth he’s been living for months finally articulated out loud.
Priya’s expression shifts through several emotions—surprise, skepticism, something that might be hope quickly suppressed—and Carter can see her trying to figure out if this is manipulation or genuine confession, if his words match his actions or if he’s just gotten better at lying.
“I don’t need—” Priya starts, but Carter’s already stepping back, already skating away before she can finish, before this moment can become pressure or demand or anything except honest answer to her question.
He doesn’t wait for her response—doesn’t push for acknowledgment or validation or any indication of whether his strategy is working—just leaves her with the truth and the space to process it without his presence turning confession into coercion.
“Carter!” Priya calls after him, clearly not expecting him to just leave, clearly thrown off-balance by his refusal to pursue the conversation beyond answering what she asked.
But Carter keeps skating—toward the tunnel, toward the locker room, toward respecting her boundaries even when everything in him wants to stay and explain and convince her that his transformation is real—because the old Carter would have pushed, would have used this opening to launch into desperate declarations, and proving he’s different means acting different consistently.
He showers and changes alone in the empty locker room—most of the team cleared out hours ago, just Carter left doing the extra work that excellence requires—and sits with the aftermath of that conversation, with having finally articulated his strategy out loud, with walking away instead of pushing for more.
“Becoming the man who deserves you.”
The words feel true in ways that declarations of love never did—more honest than “I’m in love with you,” more meaningful than “I’ve changed,” more demonstrable than any grand gesture—because they acknowledge the work is ongoing, that deserving Priya requires continuous effort, that transformation is process rather than destination.
His phone buzzes: Dr. Owens, their scheduled check-in text.
How are you doing with the patience strategy?
Carter types back: Hard. But right. Told her tonight what I’m doing. Then walked away.
The response comes quickly: That’s growth. Real growth. Proud of you.
The validation helps—not because Carter needs external approval to know he’s doing the right thing, but because sometimes hearing that the hard choice is the correct one makes sustaining it slightly easier—and he drives home feeling centered despite the difficulty, feeling like he’s actually earning the second chance he’s hoping for rather than just demanding Priya give it to him.
The weeks continue—October becomes early November, autumn cold settling over Boston, the season progressing with the kind of steady success that comes from good teamwork and solid preparation—and Carter maintains his strategy with the patience Dr. Owens warned him would be necessary, with the consistency that demonstrates genuine change rather than temporary performance.
He keeps helping teammates—stays late with rookies, offers guidance to veterans, leads through example rather than demand—and his leadership strengthens team chemistry in ways that translate to better play, to wins that feel earned through collective effort rather than individual heroics.
He keeps playing brilliantly—not from desperation or need for validation but from genuine love of the game, from being present and centered and capable of excellence without tying his worth to outcomes—and his performance becomes evidence that therapy didn’t just fix his relationship capacity, it freed him to be better at everything.
He keeps respecting Priya’s boundaries—doesn’t manufacture reasons to need PT beyond legitimate injury concerns, doesn’t push for personal conversation beyond brief professional exchanges, doesn’t do anything except maintain respectful presence while she processes his transformation at her own pace—and the respect itself is perhaps the strongest evidence of change because the old Carter was incapable of giving space without panic.
And through it all, Priya watches—Carter’s aware of her attention in ways he doesn’t acknowledge, aware that she’s observing his interactions with teammates and his behavior during games and his consistent demonstration of the growth he claimed—and knows that she’s slowly, carefully gathering evidence about whether his transformation is real or performed, whether he’s trustworthy or just better at manipulation.
“She’s watching you,” Jamie mentions casually during a road trip to New York, the two of them sitting in the hotel lobby while most of the team is out exploring the city. “Priya. She’s watching everything you do.”
“I know,” Carter says, the acknowledgment offered without anxiety or need to control her perception. “She should watch. Should gather evidence. Should make sure I’m actually different before trusting me.”
“You sound like a therapist,” Jamie observes with amusement.
“I’ve been seeing one twice a week for six months,” Carter points out. “Some of it was bound to stick.”
They sit in comfortable silence for a while—the kind of easy companionship that doesn’t require constant conversation, that allows for presence without performance—and Carter appreciates that his friendships have deepened alongside his romantic growth, that becoming better in one area of life creates positive ripples everywhere else.
“Do you think she’ll give you another chance?” Jamie asks eventually, the question gentle rather than challenging.
“I don’t know,” Carter admits honestly. “Hope so. But I can’t control that. Can only control being the kind of man who deserves one if she decides to risk it.”
It’s the truth—the acceptance that’s come from months of therapy, the recognition that love requires letting go of control, that healthy relationships can’t be forced or manipulated into existence—and Jamie nods like this answer satisfies him more than confident declarations would have.
The season continues—game after game, practice after practice, the rhythm of professional hockey that Carter knows intimately—and through it all he maintains the patience game, demonstrates consistency, proves through daily action that his transformation is genuine rather than strategic.
And Priya keeps watching—confusion gradually shifting to something that might be cautious belief, protective walls slowly developing cracks as Carter’s sustained consistency contradicts her expectations about who he is—and Carter knows that the strategy is working, that earning trust through patient demonstration is more effective than demanding it through desperate confession.
“Becoming the man who deserves you.”
The words echo through Carter’s mind during games, during practices, during quiet moments alone when patience feels impossible and everything in him wants to rush the process—and they anchor him to his strategy, remind him that deserving Priya requires sustained effort, that proving genuine change takes time he has to give her without complaint.
It’s hard—harder than any physical challenge Carter’s faced, harder than earning his captaincy, harder than anything except the therapy work that made this approach possible—but it’s also right in ways that feel fundamentally different from his previous desperate attempts to win her back.
This isn’t performance.
This isn’t manipulation.
This is Carter actually becoming someone different—someone patient, someone respectful, someone capable of loving Priya properly—and trusting that if his transformation is real, she’ll eventually see it.
The patience game continues.
The season progresses.
And Carter keeps showing up—keeps being kind, keeps leading well, keeps playing brilliantly, keeps demonstrating through consistent action that he’s become the man who deserves her—and waits with more patience than he knew he possessed for Priya to decide if his growth is enough to risk loving him again.
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