“I mean even when I’m not at practice or a game, I’m usually watching old footage or analyzing plays or thinking about what I need to work on. Hockey takes up every available space in my head. It always has.”
“And now?”
His blue eyes lock with mine, intense and sincere. “And now, for the past two days, the only thing I’ve been able to think about is you.”
He said it. He said exactly what I was hoping to hear, and now my heart is stuttering to life, beating faster by the second because I’m not sure what to do with this confession.
“Is that a bad thing?” Because I have to be sure. We’re both too old to beat around the bush, and I have to think of what’s best for April, not just what sounds good to me.
“No.” He shakes his head immediately. “It’s just different. New. And it’s made a few things become very clear to me.”
“Like what?”
He takes a deep breath, and everything about him, from his tone to his body language, tells me this—whatever this is—is important to him.
“When I was a kid, hockey became everything to me because it was proof that I wasn’t the sick kid anymore. Proof that I could do something even when the doctors and my own body tried to tell me I couldn’t.” He pauses and I can see his jaw muscle clenching. “And then when my parents died, it became about paying them back for everything they sacrificed. The years of doctors’ appointments and the mountain of medical bills and all those hours of overtime they worked just to make ends meet. They gave up so much for me.”
There’s so much pain in his voice that I start to tear up just thinking about everything he’s been through, and what his parents’ sacrifice means to him. I don’t know what, if anything, I can say to make things better, so I keep my mouth shut and reach over to place my hand on his arm.
He covers my hand with his own, then looks straight ahead and continues with all that pent-up emotion still coming through in his voice.
“They worked themselves to the bone for me, and then they were gone. So I decided I had to work just as hard. Harder, even. I had to make their sacrifices mean something.”
I still don’t know what the right thing to say is, but I have to say something. I can’t stay quiet while he’s pouring his heart out to me.
“Their sacrifices weren’t for nothing. There’s no way they wouldn’t be proud of the man you’ve become. The fact that you’re one of the top professionals in your sport is just icing on the cake.”
He looks at me and I can see the gratitude in his eyes even though I know he’s not accustomed to expressing it. I doubt heeven meant to say as much as he has already, but I appreciate it more than he can possibly know.
“That’s why I’ve been so obsessed with hockey. Why I push myself so hard all the time. I can’t let myself slow down or take a break or just exist without constantly trying to prove something.” He goes quiet again, but I don’t interrupt. I can almost see the wheels turning in his head. “But this weekend, with you, something shifted. I stopped obsessing. And the thing is, it didn’t feel like giving up. It felt like... I don’t know. Like I could breathe.”
I swallow past the lump of emotion building in my throat, flipping my hand over beneath his so that I can entwine our fingers. I have to blink hard to keep from crying for him, for the sick little boy who was determined to make something of himself, for his parents and all the sacrifices they made along the way. And for the giving, caring, proud, hard-working man he’s become.
“Do you know what else I realized?” Grant continues, leaning forward a little.
“What else?”
“I realized why I felt so protective of you from the moment you moved in. Why I wanted to help you, to take care of you.” He pauses, and a little line appears between his eyebrows. “It’s because I see it. I see how much you’ve given of yourself to raise April. How hard you work and how much you sacrifice. You remind me of them—of my parents. You have that same selfless love inside you. And I guess…” He swallows hard, and his voice gets quieter. “I guess I wanted to make sure someone was taking care of you the way no one was there to take care of them.”
“Thank you,” I say, because nothing else seems adequate. “For telling me that. For seeing me like that.”
“I do see you. I’ve seen you since the beginning.”
His words hit me deep, right in the center of my chest. This man—this guarded, grumpy, beautiful man—has just opened himself up to me in a way I doubt he’s done with anyone else. He’s let me see past the walls he’s built so carefully around himself, and I want nothing more than to honor that vulnerability.
To be worthy of it.
I slide off my barstool and close the distance between us, reaching up to frame his face with my hands the same way he just did with mine. Then I kiss him.
It’s different this time. This isn’t the frantic, desperate, hungry kind of kiss we’ve been sharing all weekend. This is slower, deeper, and more intentional.
This is me trying to tell him everything I can’t quite put into words yet, like how much his confession means to me. And how much he means to me. How I want to be closer to him, not just physically, but in every way that matters.
He makes a low growl in the back of his throat and kisses me back, then moves his hands to my waist and pulls me tight against him, but I need more.
I need to feel his skin against mine, to wrap myself around him and get even closer than we already are.
He must sense that need, or maybe he feels it too, because he doesn’t waste any time shoving our half-empty plates aside with one sweep of his arm as he stands and lifts me up off my feet in one smooth motion.
