40 Is the New 30 – Part 8 (Patreon)

Everyone in this story is 18+

Sunday evening hits the brownstone like a quiet storm. Snow has turned to sleet outside, tapping against the tall windows in irregular bursts. Nate’s back from San Francisco—scrubs swapped for faded jeans and a Blackhawks hoodie that’s seen better days. He’s in the kitchen when I let myself in with the key he gave me two months ago, chopping vegetables with that precise, surgeon-steady rhythm. The smell of garlic and simmering broth fills the space, warm and familiar.

He looks up when the door clicks shut, that half-smirk pulling at his mouth. “Hey. Flight okay?”

“Yeah. Landed early.” I hang my coat, toe off my shoes, and cross the room. My stomach is a knot. The conversation I rehearsed on the plane feels flimsy now, standing in his actual kitchen with the faint scent of his cologne still clinging to the air.

Nate sets the knife down, wipes his hands on a towel, and leans against the counter. His eyes search my face—tired but sharp, the way they get after a long shift or a long flight. “You’ve got that look. The one that says you’re about to deliver bad news like it’s a diagnosis.”

I huff a short laugh that doesn’t land. “That obvious?”

“Twenty years, Chris. Even with the gap, I still read you pretty well.”

We move to the living room. He pours two glasses of the cabernet we opened last time I was here. We sit on opposite ends of the couch—the same couch where Rowan and I watched that hockey show what feels like a lifetime ago. The space between us feels measured, careful.

I take a sip, let the wine burn down my throat, then set the glass on the coffee table. “I think we should stop seeing each other. Romantically.”

Nate doesn’t flinch. He just nods once, slow, like he’s turning the words over in his head the same way he’d study an X-ray. “Alright.”

The simplicity of it knocks the air out of me for a second. I expected questions, maybe anger, maybe that sharp defenseman edge he still carries. Not this calm acceptance.

“You’re not surprised,” I say.

“Not really.” He swirls the wine in his glass, watching the legs run down the sides. “I’ve felt you pulling back a little. Distant. Like part of you was somewhere else even when you were right here.” His eyes lift to mine. “And honestly? I’m married to the job. You know that. The ER doesn’t do nine-to-five, and the nights I’m home I’m usually half-asleep on the couch before nine. You deserve someone who can actually show up.”

Relief and guilt twist together in my chest. “I appreciate you more than I can say, Nate. The way you let me back in after twenty years… it meant everything. You’re still the same guy who could wreck me with one look across the locker room.”

He smiles—small, genuine, a little sad at the edges. “And you’re still the guy who makes me laugh harder than anyone. But neither of us is really ready to settle down right now. Rowan is still my number one priority, crazy hours at the hospital, and you… you’re finally figuring out who you are post-divorce. It’s okay. We gave it a real shot.”

We sit in silence for a beat, the sleet picking up against the glass. It feels surprisingly clean. No screaming, no accusations. Just two men who found each other again and realized the timing still wasn’t quite right.

“I want to stay friends,” I say. “If that’s not too weird.”

Nate laughs softly. “After everything? Weird would be pretending we can’t grab a beer or watch a Hawks game without it being awkward. We’re adults. We’ll figure it out.” He reaches over, squeezes my shoulder once—firm, reassuring. “You’re a good man, Chris. Don’t disappear on me completely.”

“I won’t.”

The conversation winds down easy after that. We finish the wine, talk about the Frozen Four win, about Rowan’s scholarship details, about how Nate’s conference went. Surface stuff. Safe. When I stand to leave, he walks me to the door, pulls me into a quick, solid hug.

“Take care of yourself,” he says against my shoulder.

“You too.”

I step out into the sleet, coat collar turned up, and head for my car. The guilt over Rowan sits heavy in my gut the whole drive home. I almost told Nate—almost spilled everything about the locker room kiss, the hotel suite, the way his son looked at me like I was something he could claim. But the words stuck. Saying it out loud would shatter whatever fragile father-son balance they have. Rowan’s nineteen, heading to college, figuring himself out. Nate’s already carrying enough. Dragging their relationship through my mess isn’t fair to either of them.

I can’t fix what I broke with Nate by confessing to him. That door is closed now, clean as we could make it.

But Rowan…

I grip the wheel tighter as the wipers slap back and forth. I have to talk to Rowan too. Soon. Before whatever this thing between us becomes something neither of us can walk away from without more damage.

The brownstone disappears in the rearview.

One conversation down. One more still waiting.

And I have no idea how the second one is going to land.

◆◆◆

The diner off I-94 is the kind of place that hasn’t changed since forever—vinyl booths cracked at the edges, neon “Open 24 Hours” sign buzzing faintly, the smell of coffee and fryer grease thick in the air. I picked it because it’s neutral, halfway between the brownstone and my place, somewhere neither of us has history. I’m already in a corner booth when Rowan walks in, shaking sleet off his coat, hair damp and messy under a backward Michigan cap. He spots me and breaks into that easy, bright grin that always hits me harder than it should.

He slides into the seat across from me like we’re just grabbing post-practice food.

“Hey,” he says, grabbing a menu even though we both know he’ll order the same burger and extra fries he always does. “You look like you’re about to tell me the something dreadful.”

I manage a small smile, but my stomach is tight. I’ve been rehearsing this all day—how to be mature, how to draw the line without crushing him, how to explain that whatever happened between us had an expiration date stamped on it from the start. There’s no future here. I’m forty. He’s nineteen and in college. I broke things off with his dad yesterday. The least I can do is be the adult in the room.

Rowan flags the waitress, orders for both of us without asking, then leans back, arms spread across the back of the booth. He’s in good spirits—eyes bright, shoulders loose, the kind of post-win glow that hasn’t faded yet.

“Chris,” he says before I can even start, “I’m gonna tell Dad.”

I blink. “What?”

“Yeah. This weekend. I’m telling him I’m bi.” He shrugs like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Been thinking about it a lot. It’s time.”

“Oh. Really?” The words come out softer than I expect. Relief flickers through me, quick and unexpected. “That’s… I’m proud of you, Row. I know he’s gonna take it really well.”

Rowan nods, stealing a sugar packet from the holder and tapping it against the table. “I know too. He’s gay himself. I just… I don’t want to keep carrying it around.” He pauses, then adds with a small smile, “Plus, I think I’ve met someone.”

My brain short-circuits for a second. “What?”

He laughs—low, a little sheepish, but genuinely happy. “Yeah. Guy who just transferred in. Forward. We’ve been talking nonstop since the Frozen Four. Hit it off crazy fast. He gets the hockey life, doesn’t blink at any of it. Feels… different. Good different.”

I sit back, the knot in my chest loosening so fast it almost makes me dizzy. This wasn’t romantic for him either. Not in the way I’d built it up in my head. The guilt that’s been riding me since the hotel suite eases its grip, just a little.

Rowan studies my face, then tilts his head. “You okay? You look… relieved. I was kinda worried you might be sad about it.”

A short laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “I thought the same about you.”

The food arrives—burgers piled high, fries crispy and salty. We dig in for a minute in comfortable silence, the tension I’d carried in here shifting into something lighter.

I wipe my hands on a napkin and decide to rip the Band-Aid off. “I broke up with your dad yesterday.”

Rowan pauses mid-bite, burger halfway to his mouth. His expression flickers—surprise, then a quick flash of sadness that settles into quiet acceptance. “Shit. Really?”

“Yeah. It was… mutual, mostly. Neither of us is in a place to settle down right now. He’s married to the ER, and I’ve been distant. We both saw it.” I meet his eyes. “I felt like I should’ve kept firmer boundaries with you. With everything. I never meant to exploit the situation or hurt anyone.”

Rowan sets the burger down, leaning forward on his elbows. “Bro, if anyone exploited anyone, it was me. I practically threw myself at you. Multiple times.”

“But still,” I say, voice steady. “It’s my responsibility. I’m the older one. I should’ve stopped it sooner.”

“Fuck that.” He shakes his head, grinning a little despite the seriousness. “Honestly, it’s on me too. Dad… I love him, I really do. But he’s always working, you know? I guess I just wanted to be a brat about it. Plus you’re like stupid hot, and so are Grayson and Jake.” He shrugs, stealing one of my fries. “But yeah, when I talk to Dad this weekend, I’m gonna tell him I want him around more. Actually around.”

“You should do that,” I reply, meaning it. “And I know he’s gonna prioritize you. He’ll find a way. He loves you more than anything.” I pause, then add carefully, “And if you want to tell him about you and me… that’s one hundred percent your call. I didn’t say anything to him. Didn’t want to ruin your relationship. But if you do tell him, I’ll respect it completely.”

Rowan nods slowly, chewing on that. “I appreciate that. And fuck… yeah, I might. I don’t know yet.” His voice drops, guilt creeping in. “I feel like shit for it. He does everything for me, has given me all I have…”

“Hey,” I cut in gently, reaching across the table to squeeze his forearm once before pulling back. “Don’t say that. Your father loves you more than anything. He will forgive you anything. He might not be thrilled—that’s understandable—but you’re his son. He will always choose you. You know that.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

We finish the meal slower after that, conversation drifting to safer ground, the new guy’s name (Seth, apparently, with hands like a magician on the ice), how the team is already buzzing about next season. When the check comes, Rowan reaches for it first, but I beat him to it.

As we step outside into the cold drizzle, he zips his coat and turns to me. “I wish you the best, Chris. Let’s stay in contact. I’ll give you a heads-up if I tell Dad. Might not see you for a while if I do, but I know he’s gonna forgive us both eventually.”

“He’ll forgive you,” I say. “Hopefully me as well, in time, if you tell him.”

Rowan smirks, that dangerous glint flashing for a second. “But I gotta say… yours and Grayson’s chemistry? Like holy fuck. That’s next level. I’ve never felt anything like that. Or maybe now, with Seth who knows?” He winks.

I chuckle, shaking my head. “It’s complicated. Grayson’s with Jake now.”

“Yeah, sure. I get that.” Rowan bumps my shoulder lightly. “Just saying.”

We stand there a moment longer under the diner awning, sleet tapping the metal overhead. Then he pulls me into a quick, solid hug—strong arms, familiar warmth—before stepping back.

“Take care, Row.”

“You too.”

He jogs to his car, waves once through the window, and pulls out. I watch his taillights disappear into the wet night, the weight on my chest lighter than when I walked in.

◆◆◆

The drive home from the diner feels lighter than the sleet should allow. My shoulders have dropped an inch, the knot behind my chest finally loosening. I wait until I’m back in my apartment, shoes kicked off, lights low, before I hit Grayson’s contact. The phone rings twice.

“Chris,” Grayson answers, voice warm and teasing like always. “Twice in one week? You trying to make Jake jealous?”

I laugh despite everything. “Hey, Gray. Got a minute?”

“Always for you. Jake’s in the shower, so I’m all yours. What’s up? You sound… different.”

I sink onto the couch and let it all out. The breakup with Nate, the quiet acceptance, the clean but heavy feeling afterward. The diner with Rowan, the surprise confession about coming out to his dad this weekend, the new guy he’s seeing, the mutual relief that washed over both of us when we realized the mess between us wasn’t some grand doomed romance. The guilt I still carry about boundaries, about Nate, about how close I came to blowing up their family without meaning to.

Grayson listens without interrupting, the way he always has since that hotel room in London. When I finish he exhales slow.

“Damn. That’s a lot, even for you.”

“Yeah.”

“But it sounds like it went about as well as it could’ve. Nate took it like a pro. Rowan’s growing up and sounds happy about this new transfer kid. And you didn’t drop the nuclear option on either of them. That’s mature as hell.”

I rub my eyes. “Feels like I dodged a bullet I probably deserved to take.”

“Nah. You’re human. We all fuck up the lines sometimes.” His voice softens. “You okay though? Really?”

“Getting there. Lighter than I expected. Just… tired.”

“Good. Because you deserve to feel lighter. You’ve been carrying twenty years of what-ifs plus the last few months of chaos. Cut yourself some slack.”

His words land warm, lifting the last bit of weight off my chest. Grayson has always had that effect—making the complicated feel manageable, the messy feel survivable.

“Thanks, Gray. Needed that.”

“Anytime. So what’s next for you? Gonna hole up and binge hockey dramas alone?”

I smile at the ceiling. “Actually, I’m heading to London tomorrow. Office wants to explore setting up a European branch. Private equity stuff—meetings, site visits, the usual. Might be gone a couple weeks.”

There’s a beat of silence. “You’re not gonna move there, right?”

“No,” I say with a soft laugh. “Just setting up shop. Scouting, shaking hands, seeing if it makes sense long-term. I’ll be back.”

“Good.” Grayson’s relief is obvious. “I can’t lose you like that. London is great, remeber?”

The memory hits easy—rain-slick streets, hotel coffee, the way he’d spilled about being bi over lukewarm room service while I listened like it was the most important conversation of my life. The strawberries, the late-night talks, the easy intimacy that never quite crossed into anything complicated until it did.

“Yeah,” I say. “Hard to forget. You were a mess back then. Cute mess, but still.”

He laughs. “You were the one who flew me over and fed me strawberries off your tongue. Don’t rewrite history.”

Grayson’s voice suddenly cuts in from the background, distant but clear. “Could you ever move to another country though?”

“Probably,” I answer honestly. “I mean, I travel constantly for work. But yeah… I would miss you guys. How about you? Ever think about playing overseas after college?”

Grayson jumps in first, excitement threading his words. “I mean, after college it would be sick to go to Stockholm and play hockey there. Their team is huge and hockey’s a massive thing in Sweden.”

“Stockholm, really?” I ask, surprised.

“Yeah. Although I can’t speak Swedish. And Jake really wants to get drafted by the NHL.”

I chuckle. “I didn’t know you were this adventurous, Gray. But yeah, Swedish is probably hard. Haha, too bad the EIHL is shit, but at least you’d know the language if you went to the UK.”

Grayson snorts. “Haha, true. I really loved London, but hockey is barely a thing there. Although Swedes are probably good at English too.”

There’s rustling on their end—Jake clearly walking into the dorm room now.

“There’s Jakey, by the way,” Grayson says. “Gotta go. Talk to you later. Safe travels. Jake says hey!”

“Bye Chris!” Jake calls out, voice bright.

“Bye boys,” I reply, warmth spreading through my chest. “I love you both. I’ll call you from London.”

“Love you too,” they say almost in unison, laughter bubbling underneath.

The call ends and I sit there a moment longer, phone still in my hand, the apartment quiet around me. London tomorrow. New possibilities. Old memories. A cleaner slate than I had a week ago.

For the first time in months, the future doesn’t feel like something I’m running from.

It feels like something I might actually be ready to walk toward.