I let the oars rest, the boat drifting.
"I don't know if I remember how to live without pressure."
"Try."
I study her face, backlit by morning sun. Warmth fills my chest. This brilliant, beautiful, brave woman is asking me to imagine a version of myself I haven't been since I was nineteen years old.
"I'd probably still play hockey," I say slowly. "But for the love of it, not because my entire identity is wrapped up in being Declan Hawthorne, NHL star. I'd spend more time with Riley and Rowan."
"What else?"
"I'd learn to cook something other than protein shakes and sad chicken." The admission makes her laugh. "Maybe take piano lessons again. Travel somewhere that isn't a road game. Finland, maybe. My dad always wanted to go."
"That sounds nice."
"What about you?" I lean forward, capturing her gaze. "What would Dr. Ivy Chandler's life look like without all the pressure?"
She's quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing patterns on the boat's edge.
"I'd publish research that matters, not just what looks good on Marcus's team or makes my parents proud. I'd probably cut my hair short. I've always wanted to, but my mom says long hair is more feminine and professional." She touches her ponytail self-consciously.
We drift for another hour, talking. She tells me about the first time she looked through a microscope and fell in love with the invisible world. I tell her about scoring my first NHL goal and immediately looking for my parents in the stands before remembering they were gone. She shares her secret dream of writing a book one day. I admit I still sleep with my dad's watch under my pillow on hard nights.
By the time we return to shore, something has shifted between us. The air feels thicker, charged with possibility and things I’m too afraid to name. I tie off the boat and help Ivy onto the dock. Her hand lingers in mine.
"Hungry?" I ask.
"Starving."
I grab the supplies from the car, and we walk along the shore until we find a flat area beneath a massive oak tree, overlooking the water. I spread out the blanket I packed, arranging the food between us.
Ivy's eyes widen as I unpack everything. The apples and cheese from the farm stand, the fresh bread and honey, the turnovers. But also the containers I prepared last night: her favorite pasta salad with sun-dried tomatoes and feta, the specific brand of crackers she mentioned loving once, chocolate-covered strawberries because she has a sweet tooth she thinks no one notices.
"Declan..." She looks up at me, eyes shining. "You remembered all of this?"
"You mentioned them." I open a container, suddenly self-conscious. "I pay attention."
"No one..." She stops, swallows hard. "No one has ever paid this much attention to what I like."
The admission guts me. How many people in her life have been so focused on Marcus, on their own expectations, that they've never bothered to truly see Ivy?
"Their loss," I say quietly. "My gain."
We eat slowly, savoring the food and each other's company. She tells me about her favorite professor in grad school who pushed her to think bigger. I share stories about Jake mentoring me as a rookie. We debate whether pineapple belongs on pizza. She says yes, and I threaten to leave her stranded by the lake. She describes the research study she'd design if funding were unlimited. I confess I sometimes dream about opening a hockey camp for kids who can't afford equipment.
The sun climbs higher, warming the air. Ivy shrugs out of her sweater, revealing a fitted tank top beneath. I try not to stare at the curve of her collarbone, the delicate line of her throat, the way her skin glows in the natural light.
"Can I ask you something?" she says eventually, lying back on the blanket with her hands pillowed behind her head.
"Anything."
"Do you ever regret taking on Riley and Rowan when you were so young?"
The question should sting, but from Ivy, it feels genuine.
"Never." I lie back beside her, our shoulders touching. "They saved me as much as I saved them. After my parents died, I was drowning. The twins gave me a reason to keep going, to be better."
"That's a lot of responsibility for a nineteen-year-old."
