“What was what?” He rubs at the spot after removing my finger. Interlacing our hands.
“Zach and I arefriends.”
“He’s also the guy you had a crush on for what…the better part of the past year?”
“Okay, and?” I take a sip of my chai latte. It’s perfect. I arch a brow at him, awaiting a response. “Who got the girl?” I egg on an answer.
He huffs like a little girl. And I think he even stomps a foot?
“I expected more of a cocky response. Maybe some bragging.”
“I’m internally applauding myself.” Cooper wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me to him and kisses my temple. “But there was no competition. You were always mine.”
Unfortunately, he’s right. But I don’t tell him that.
Instead, I keep poking the bear.
“If I remember correctly, I believe you were the one pining after me, like a dog on a leash. Wouldn’t that make you always mine?”
“Woof,” he keeps barking in my ear, walking me to my next class.
Everyone camein for the game this evening.
Mom had an oncoming migraine, so she and Dad went back to the hotel an hour or so ago. Cooper is with his parents, Molly, and Jordan—the women’s conference tournament is next week in Columbus.
We all grabbed a late lunch together after Cooper’s morning skate and my classes. I don’t know why I thought it would be awkward, us holding hands in front of them, or the gentle touches and kisses to my temple.
Meave was the interrogator, asking about his intentions with me. I had half expected Dad to be the one with burning questions, but I think seeing us together was a relief. Sure, he’s known Cooper his entire life, but I know his top priority is seeing us healthy and happy.
Cooper makes me happy. So happy.
I don’t know how I was ever repulsed by him.Repulsed. In love. What’s the difference?
Meave and I were lying on my bed gossiping when Elliot got back from teaching, and we started getting ready for the game.
A new playlist—all remixes, definitely dance-worthy songs—she created fills the apartment from the speaker in the living room.
She’s standing in front of my mirror putting on mascara, using the brush as a microphone between upstrokes. I’m sitting on the counter with Meave carefully painting my face. From the corner of my eye, I take a quick look at her work, finding the start of a number taking up the majority of my cheek.
“Wait.” I stop her with a hand around her wrist. “That should be a two, not a three. Cooper is twenty.”
“No, he’s not,” she says, dumbfounded, puzzled confusion pinching her brow.
Elliot stops, too, turning to face me. “He’s thirty-six.”
“I know what my boyfriend’s hockey number is. He’s always been twenty.”
They both shake their head.
“Are you positive about that?”
I push off the counter and head across the hall to my bedroom. Laid out on my bed is a pair of light denim, patchwork overalls that Meave made for me.
“See—” My words tumble back down my throat. Rubbing a thumb over the glittery varsity numbers on the pocket, I see thirty-six, not twenty. “No.”
I drop them and storm into my closet, the door smashing into the wall. His practice jersey that he gave me to wear is hang drying.
I flip the hanger around.
