They all scream their desire for victory-earned carbs and follow the parents out to the bus.
As the locker room door shuts behind them, the sound of laughter fading into the distance, Darius and I are alone. Finally.
“I’m sorry.” The words come out heavier than I expect. “I’ve been avoiding you. The sports, they trigger something in me. I know that’s lame.” I lick my lips and look up at Darius, his big eyes so hopeful. “But, tonight, I don’t know. I think for the first time, watching you with theboys, I’m starting to figure it out. Or at least I want to.”
Darius steps closer, his face soft. He reaches out, his hand brushing against my jaw. “Harry, we’re both still figuring things out. But that’s okay. We don’t have to have it all figured out right now. But I know how I feel about you, and if you’ll let me, I’d like to keep showing up. Keep showing you what an amazing man you are.” His fingers hold my chin in place. “I want to take a chance. On us.”
I nod, my heart racing like a rocket poised for liftoff. “I want to take a chance on you too,” I say, quiet but sure. “On us.”
And then, slowly, he leans in. And this time, I don’t pull away. He kisses me, soft and warm, and for a moment, I finally feel like maybe—just maybe—we’ve got a shot at this. At something real.
And with Darius on my side, in this moment, I’m not scared anymore. Love is worth the risk. He’s worth it. He captures my lips again, and I pull him close, the thrill of possibility radiating between us.
Life is about the shots you take—and I’m not passing this one up.
EPILOGUE: ONE YEAR LATER
DARIUS
I walk into the apartment, and the aroma of Harry’s cinnamon tea lingers in the air. The same scent fills the apartment every evening, wrapping itself around our home like a quiet embrace. The sound of the door clicking shut brings me back to the present, and I lean against it for a second, taking in the familiar warmth of the space.
A lot has happened in the last year, since we won the finals. We didn’t even make it to the semis this year, but we had a fantastic season. New boys. New dynamic. Everyone had fun, and that’s what truly matters.
Last summer, after dating for a few months, I asked Harry to move in with me. He laughed so hard, I thought he might choke on his tea. “No way,” he’d said, shaking his head. “Your place looks like a sad dorm room, Darius. And besides, my bookshelves are non-negotiable.” He loves those built-in bookshelves as much as I love hockey.
But then Harry came around. Kind of. He didn’twant to leave his place but didn’t want to lose me. So, he did what Harry does—he compromised. He asked me to move in with him, and it was ridiculous, because I had already been given a dresser drawer and a shelf in his medicine cabinet, but I couldn’t help the grin that illuminated my face. I mean, it was the bookshelves. Apparently, bookshelves can cause the guy you're wild about to ask you to move in. And now, here I am. With Harry. Together. In his apartment. Our apartment.
Even though Harry’s place is smaller than mine, it feels like ours. There’s an easy rhythm to everything—comfortable, lived-in. My old place never really felt like home. Aside from a few trophies, it was just a space. This, though . . . this feels grown-up. And I like that. I like living somewhere that feels more like real life. Fuck—I’m an adult, with a place that feels like home, and a boyfriend who’s sweet, smart, and sexy as hell.
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, and head toward the living room where Harry’s sitting, his reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose, a book open in his lap. He doesn’t look up when I sit down, but I can tell he’s aware of me. His lips twitch as if he’s holding back a smile.
“Practice went well,” I say, stretching out my legs and leaning back. “Starting with a new group of boys is always a bit of a mess, but I think the kids are getting it.”
Harry nods, the faintest of smirks pulling at the corners of his mouth. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of my gym shorts and his curls are damp. “They’ll be fifth graders soon enough. I’m sure they’re coming along well with such an attentive coach. Didyou teach them how to pass, too, or is that next week’s lesson?”
“Hey,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him, “are you using hockey terminology now?”
He laughs softly, setting his book aside, and then glances up at me, his expression softening. “When you’re sleeping with the coach, a few things sink in.”
“I love you, Peterson.” The words fall out of my mouth like a slapshot—fast, unexpected, and with a force I didn’t know I had.
Harry leans over, and I notice that familiar glimmer in his eye, the one that makes me wonder how I ever got so lucky to call him mine.
“I love you too, Coach.” He nods to the neatly piled papers on the coffee table. “Especially after spending my evening combing over essays onA Wrinkle in Time.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like . . . a blast.”
“Actually, it wasn’t terrible,” he says, his lips twitching in that way he does when he’s trying not to smile too much. “Some of them had great ideas. Others—well, they still think time travel involves more high-fives than physics, but, you know. It’s all part of the process.” His lips close in on mine. “And I rewarded myself with a long, hot bath.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Essays and hot baths. Living the dream.”
“Absolutely,” he says with mock seriousness. “It’s a tough life, but someone has to live it.”
I watch him for a moment, the way he’s so comfortable in this place, in this life we’ve built. I’ve been lucky tofind that here. With him.
“I’m glad to be home,” My voice is quieter, more sincere. I don’t know if it’s the exhaustion from practice or just the weight of everything falling into place, but it feels important to say. “With you.”
Harry gives me a small, knowing smile. “Yeah. Me too.” Then he leans back, his eyes twinkling. “That bath got me all worked up. Thinking about you on the ice.”
