“Can I… get a hug right now? I think I… I think I need one.”
That request wrecks me. It’s total surrender.
I open my arms without even thinking.
“Of course, fuck. C’mere.”
She launches herself at me. It’s solid and desperate and real.
She buries her face in the curve of my neck, and I wrap her up, arms tight around her, my jacket around both of us like a second skin.
I feel her body soften against mine, every muscle finally letting go, every defense falling away.
I rest my cheek on her hair and close my eyes, breathing in cold air and vanilla andher.
I don’t say anything else. There’s nothing to add.
I just hold her, in the dark settling over the porch, while a terrifying thought settles in my chest:
I love having this woman in my arms.
43
Spicy Books, Avon Lipstick, and the Ghost of Cohen Present
Sloane
Distance is supposed to help you forget. That’s basic physics, right?
The farther you get from the source of stress, the weaker its gravitational pull should be.
Too bad Cohen Becker doesn’t give a damn about the laws of physics.
It’s been a few days since Thanksgiving. December has exploded over Elm Hollow like a glitter bomb, and Cohen… well, Cohen is gone.
He left town to play his “comeback” match—the one that would decide whether he still deserves that jersey or if he’s doomed to become a full-time reality-show punchline.
And damn him, he was incredible.
I watched it on TV.
Me, my mom, and a family-sized bowl of salted caramel popcorn.
Self-inflicted torture.
I watched the team struggle for sixty minutes.
Then I watched him come on, steal an impossible ball, send a perfect assist… and score the winning goal in the final seconds.
I watched the stadium explode.
I watched reporters—the same ones calling him “washed-up badboy” five minutes earlier—swarm him like he was the second coming in cleats.
And I watched my dad.
Julian Heart—the man who never smiles on the bench—put a hand on Cohen’s shoulder and actually smile. A real one. Proud.
My mom, curled up beside me on the couch, sighed dreamily and said,
