I catch him by the front of his sodden hoodie, hauling him upright. The momentum slams him into my chest, hard. His good hand clutches at my jersey, bunching the fabric in a death grip.
He’s heavy against me, solid and warm and smelling like rain and desperate, stupid bravery.
“You idiot,” I choke out. The words are jagged, scraping my throat. “You were going to quit? You were actually going to quit?”
Louis looks up at me. His wet hair is plastered to his forehead, but his eyes are burning.
“I’m fixing it,” he gasps, his breath ghosting against my chin. “I tried to be noble, Sinc, but I suck at it. I can’t do it. I can’t let you leave.”
“I wasn’t leaving,” I say, and my voice breaks. “I already told Carson no.”
“I know,” Louis says. He lets go of my jersey to cup my face with his good hand, his thumb stroking over my cheekbone. His touch burns through the cold sweat on my skin. “But I didn’t want you to have to fight for your spot. I wanted to give it to you.”
That’s when the logic I’ve been using for everything crumbles. Suddenly, all the info, all the data, none of it matters. The only thing that matters is the heat of his hand on my face and the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m the most important thing in his universe. More than any trophy. More than the game itself.
“I don’t need you to give me anything,” I whisper. “I just need you.”
He lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half sob. “You got me, Tanner. You got me.”
I don’t wait. I can’t. I drop my blocker and catcher, sliding one arm around his waist to hold him steady against me, tangle myother hand into the wet hair at the nape of his neck, and crush my mouth against his.
It’s not a slow, gentle exploration. It’s messy and desperate and filled with urgency. It’s the feeling of drowning and finally breaking the surface.
Louis makes a wrecked noise in his throat and melts against me. He tastes like rain and coffee and relief. The cold air of the rink presses against us, but everywhere we touch is inferno-hot. I kiss him until I forget about the trade rumors, forget about Minnesota, forget about feeling alone and my fear of being a burden.
I’m not a guest with Louis. You don’t kiss a guest like this. You don’t sacrifice your identity for a guest.
I pull him closer, lifting him slightly so his sneakers are barely touching the ice, anchoring him to me. For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I have to earn my place. I’m just here. And I’m wanted.
When we finally break apart, we’re both gasping. Louis rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed.
“There’s a third option,” he whispers against my mouth.
I blink, my brain slowly coming back online. “What?”
“Carson,” he murmurs, opening his eyes. They’re dark and soft. “He wouldn’t accept my retirement. He has a plan. A tandem.”
I pull back just enough to see his face. “A tandem?”
“More than that,” Louis says, a hint of his usual crooked grin returning. “He wants me to transition into a player-coach role. I play thirty, thirty-five games, but you take the heavy load. You’re the starter, Sinc. But I stay. I mentor you. I coach McWhittier. I help build the system.”
He searches my gaze, anxious now.
“I stay in the net,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “But I share it. With you.”
I stare at him. It’s perfect. It handles every variable. It gives the team stability. It gives Louis a future that doesn’t end in a hard stop, and it gives me the starting job.
But most importantly, it keeps both of us right here. Together. On the bench. In the locker room. In life.
A genuine smile breaks across my face, wide and unpracticed and real.
“You’re going to boss me around,” I say.
“Relentlessly,” Louis promises. “I’m going to make your life a living hell during drills.”
I huff a laugh, shaking my head. The knot of anxiety that has lived in my chest since I was fourteen years old unfurls, leaving nothing but space. Space to breathe. Space to want.
“I’ll take it,” I say. “I’ll take the job. And the coach.”
