You lifted the Cup in your first season and never once made it about yourself.
You skate like the ice belongs to you, and I love watching you claim it.
My throat burns. I turn over card after card, each one a reminder not of who my dad thinks I should be, but of what I’ve already done. What I am.
I stop, staring at the stack in my hands. The cards are trembling between my fingers. “Lu… how did you—”
She shrugs, casual and almost sheepish. “I like hockey.” Her lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile. “And you’re easy to root for.”
Like it’s nothing. Like she didn’t just peel me open with fifty-two tiny truths.
I think about the hours she must have spent, the games she must have gone back to watch. Stuff I’d buried, games where I thought nobody saw me except my dad on the other end ofthe phone, ready to tear me apart. But she saw them, too. She remembered.
The Cup goal. The penalty kill. The night I played hurt and didn’t tell a soul. She’s recorded all of it.
My vision blurs. My dad calls after every game, drills every mistake into me, and every stat I didn’t hit. I’ve spent years bracing for that voice, years letting it carve me hollow. But in my hands is proof that someone else has been watching too, only she saved the good. The brave. The parts worth remembering.
She’s rewritten the voice in my ear, the one that usually tears me down after every game.
My throat works, but it’s useless. I can’t even lift my head to meet her eyes.
“Jesus Christ, Lulu.”
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t get embarrassed. Just steps closer, soft and gentle, and closes my fingers around the deck in my shaking hands. Her touch lingers over my knuckles, grounding me.
“Put them in your gear bag,” she says softly. “And when I’m not with you, pick one of these up first. Read it instead.”
My chest twists so hard I can barely draw breath. She says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world, as though she hasn’t just given me a lifeline I didn’t even know I was drowning for.
The cards bite into my palm, her words heavier than anything, and I don’t even try to fight it.
“I love you.”
It rips out of me, so rough and certain. There’s no thought, no plan, just the truth that’s been choking me for weeks, maybe months, maybe forever.
Her breath catches, and her fingers still against my skin.
I drag my gaze up slowly, terrified to see what’s in her face, but she’s already looking at me like she feels the same. Her eyesshine, trembling with the same weight that’s splitting me apart, and then her smile trembles.
“I love you too.”
The air leaves my lungs in one broken rush. Relief, joy, something bigger than both, slam into me so hard I stumble, and the only thing keeping me upright is her.
I frame her face with both hands, desperately kissing her cheeks, her forehead, her nose, everywhere I can reach, while she laughs through tears. The sound splits me wide open.
“Thank God,” I rasp between kisses, my mouth finding hers, then the curve of her smile, then back again. “Because fuck, Lu”—kiss—“I love you so”—kiss—“so”—kiss—“so fucking much.”
She’s laughing, clinging to my shirt and kissing me back, and it’s chaos and messy and perfect. She’s fucking perfect.
Her laughter is still spilling against my mouth when she pulls back, breathless, cheeks flushed. She brushes her thumbs across my jaw, gaze unwavering even as her lips curve.
“Good,” she murmurs, voice husky. Her fingers toy with the knot at her waist. “Because I’ve got one more surprise.”
The satin sash slips free.
The robe parts, sliding off her shoulders to pool at her feet. Black lace clings to every curve, sheer panels teasing glimpses of skin, delicate straps cutting across her hips.
My brain blanks, and my cock strains against my jeans so fast it’s dizzying.
