Two tickets.
I pick them up and study them. Season tickets to Covey U hockey games with a Post-it note stuck to them.
“In case you ever change your mind about hockey players. No pressure. -S”
I stare at the tickets for a long moment, then carefully tuck them back into the book.
No pressure, he says. As if giving me his annotated favorite book and tickets to watch him play isn't the most pressure I've ever felt in my life.
I close the book carefully and lie back, setting it on my chest.
What the hell am I supposed to do with this?
My heart is doing something weird. Not racing exactly, but not normal either.
He gave me this before he ever knew about Princess Blanca. Before tonight. Which means he’d already decided I was worth sharing this with him—his favorite book, his private thoughts—based on what? One fountain fiasco. He didn’t know anything real about me, and somehow, he still thought I deserved a piece of him.
I close my eyes, feeling a warmth I’ve never experienced before. No one has ever made me feel like I left an impression after a single meeting.
This is bad.
Not the book. The book is... the book is actually kind of perfect, which is the problem.
Because I can't keep pretending anymore. Can't keep telling myself he's just some cocky hockey player I'm stuck working with. Can't keep acting like tonight didn't happen—like he didn't watch me perform and call me talented and hug me like I mattered.
Like he didn't give me something that clearly means something to him.
“Lyss!” I call out, my voice sharper than intended.
I hear her footsteps on the stairs, then my door cracks open. She's still in her pajamas, notebook in hand, looking concerned.
“Everything okay? Did you—” She stops when she sees my face. “Oh shit. What happened?”
“I'm in trouble.”
She steps fully into the room, closing the door behind her. “Hoagie dick trouble?”
“Stop calling him that.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh. Oh. Okay, what did he do?”
I hold up the book wordlessly.
She comes closer, sitting on the edge of my bed. “He gave you a book. That's... nice?”
“It's his book. With notes. His notes. Everywhere.” I flip to the back and pull out the tickets. “And these.”
Lyss takes the tickets, reads the Post-it, and her jaw drops. “Laura. These are season tickets. Do you know how much these cost?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
She hands them back carefully, like they might bite. “He's not messing around.”
“I know.”
She reaches for the book, and I let her take it, watching as she flips through a few pages. Her expression shifts from curious to understanding.
“Laura,” she says softly, closing it and handing it back. “This is...”
