Because Harrison Meers is sitting beside me, his thigh brushing mine every time he shifts, and my heart hasn’t remembered how to behave since the moment he walked in wearing that beanie and that stupidly unfair smile. Below us, Connor flies across the ice with his line, jaw set in pure determination. He’s in full ten-year-old I’m-a-legend mode this afternoon.
“Here he goes,” Harrison murmurs, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees.
Connor winds up. Shoots. Scores.
We both jump to our feet, cheering.
“That’a boy Connor! Let’s GO!” Harrison whistles while I jump up and down, clapping in excitement. Connor skates by the boards directly in front of us, pointing with his stick and shouting loud enough for the next three rinks to hear, “THAT’S FOR THE GUY WHO KISSED MY MOM!”
The parents around us whip their heads toward me and now all I want to do is crawl into my jacket. But Harrison? He just grins, because of course he does. It’s the kind of grin that hits slowly too, like he can’t stop it.
Like he doesn’t want to stop it.
“Oh my God,” I groan, covering my face. “He told everyone. He told literally everyone.”
Harrison bumps my shoulder gently. “He’s proud of himself. And…maybe a little proud of us.”
“Us,” I echo, stomach flipping too fast for comfort. “Is that what we are?”
His smile falters. Not in a bad way. More like in athis mattersway. “We’re something,” he says softly. “Something I’m not trying to pretend away. Something I’m not begging to label right away either.”
My chest squeezes. He says it so easily, like he’s sure. I wish I could borrow even an ounce of that confidence.
Connor’s line takes the bench, and the buzz of the crowd dips into a steady hum. The moment stretches warm and quiet between us, but underneath it, the anxiety curled in my ribs starts to rise.
Because in two days, Harrison leaves.
Ten days on the east coast.
Ten days of time zones and late practices and morning skates and the quiet space where someone could change their mind about us being…something.
I force a smile and sip from my coffee, hoping the cup hides how tightly my jaw is clenched. Harrison shifts closer, close enough that his shoulder presses into mine again. “You okay?” he asks, low enough that only I can hear.
“I’m fine,” I lie, eyes glued to the ice.
He tilts his head. “You’re worrying.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Harp. We may not have been together these last ten years, but I haven’t forgotten everything. I know you.” He finally turns his head to look at me. “And I feel your anxiety.”
“Well, yeah, I’m anxious about Connor’s defense. Obviously.” I wave at the ice. “Look at him leaving the slot wide open?—”
Harrison chuckles softly. “He’s not even on the ice, Harp.”
Ugh.
Fuck.
This is one of those times when I wish he wasn’t so perceptive. Why does he have to pay attention to every little thing? Why does he have to be so clued into me?
“Hey.”
“Hmm?”
“Talk to me.” He tilts my chin with his finger until my eyes meet his. “Please.”
I swallow hard and aim for the truth. “You’re leaving soon, H,” I admit, voice barely above the scrape of skates below. “And I know it’s stupid because it’s your job and it’s normal but…we just…you know…”
