One Night Stand With My Ex's Favorite Hockey Player

VERA

I used to think love meant endurance.

That if you stayed long enough, forgave enough, believed enough—it would all be worth it in the end.

For nine years, I tried to be the perfect woman for Brett Calloway.

I learned his moods, understood his silence, studied the way his jaw would tighten before a fight. I learned how to calm him with a touch. I watched his games from the stands, even when I was sick or tired. Not just because I loved hockey. I knew he'd get mad if I didn't and I didn't want him to.

At a point I memorized the sound of his skates cutting ice just so I could cheer at the right time.

I dyed my raven black hair to brown because he thought it was too intense. Plus I knew he had a thing for brunettes.

I did everything I could.

I told myself love was patience. That if I waited long enough, he’d finally see me. Deem me worthy of his affection.

And for a while, he did.

We built a life together in New Jersey, in a high-rise apartment with a view of the Newark skyline. It wasn’t perfect—but it was ours.

Even when he lost his temper. Even when he texted women he swore were “just fans.” Even when I knew he was pulling away, I stayed.

Because leaving Brett felt like learning how to breathe without lungs.

And then there was the ring.

A simple gold band with a diamond that caught the light just so—clean, elegant, timeless. I found it one night in his drawer while folding laundry. I remember tracing it with my thumb, my heart in my throat. I thought: It’s finally happening.

He was finally going to ask me to be his forever.

But forever didn’t come. The engagement never happened.

Instead, I got a car crash and a six-month coma.

When I woke up, everything I’d built my life around was gone.

.

.

.

Cassie’s voice wavers as she stands near the window of her father’s house in Hartford. “Vera, you need to take it slow. You’re still recovering.”

“I’m fine,” I tell her, though my voice sounds like it belongs to someone else.

The truth is, I remember everything about the night of the accident. The screech of tires, the sharp smell of smoke, Danielle screaming my name.

She was driving. We were heading to Hartford from Newark so I could visit Cassie. Then she'd suppose to later take her flight to Las Vegas the next day.

We never made it.

The accident happened just close to Hartford.

When I woke up,I was told Danielle got into a coma too. But she woke up a month before I did. She’s back home now in Vegas, still saying she doesn’t remember anything. Everyone believes her.

And maybe that’s for the best.

Because I remember more than just the crash. I remember the argument that led to it. The argument that holds a