We both laughed.
"Yeah," he said. "Two years is enough."
The new bed felt unfamiliar in the dark. Sheets stiff from the first wash. Mattress firmer than mine had been. The room smelled faintly of paint and the detergent Kieran used, clean and unscented. It was the smell I'd learned to associate with his skin after a shower and his shirts left over the back of a chair.
A package sat on the nightstand. Pickle's handwriting was impossible to miss, large and crooked. Inside: two pipe-cleaner figures twisted into rough shapes. One was taller, slightly bent atthe waist, leaning forward. The other stood straight with its arms out, braced for impact or reaching for something. They'd been welded together at the shoulder, touching, holding each other upright.
A Post-it stuck to the box:Takes up space. Both of you.
I set them on the nightstand beside Pratt's water-testing kit. Precision instruments and bent wire, side by side. The whole season in two objects.
Kieran lay back on the pillow and watched me. "Come here," he said.
I climbed onto the bed and pressed my lips against the center of his chest. He let his hand settle on the back of my head.
Then, his fingers walked down my spine, moving slowly. When his hand traced the line of my waistband, my pulse began to race. I lifted my head and looked at him. His pupils were dilated and lips parted. I kissed the underside of his jaw.
"We have time," I said against his skin.
"I know, but I don't want to wait."
His hips moved under me and his fingers dug into my lower back.
I braced one hand against the mattress beside his head and kissed him.
Outside, the city hummed. Cars. A train in the distance.
The world remained out there. In here was the sound of Kieran's breathing, the grip of his hands, and the heat between us. I stayed where my skates were.
Epilogue - Heath
ONE YEAR LATER
April didn't ask permission.
It came in sharp wind off the lake and wet pavement outside Ironhawks Arena. In the way the practice facility smelled like thawed river water and sharpened steel.
A year ago, I was bracing for cuts.
Now: Back to the playoffs. Game Six. First round.
Up three games to two. The fans showed up armored in superstition, same jerseys and same refusal to say the wordclinchout loud.
The building was nineteen thousand people who understood in their marrow that hockey was a game designed to punish anyone who assumed the outcome before the horn. You could hear it in the way the lower bowl stomped in unison during warmups. They weren't cheering yet, only declaring themselves present.
I stretched at the blue line and looked down the ice.
Kieran was already there.
He had a routine. Tapped each post with his stick blade, left, crossbar, right, always that order, always three.
He glanced at me once.
I held his gaze half a second longer than strategy required and felt it land the way it always did now. Ballast.
Coach Markel stood at the bench, arms folded over his chest. His posture hadn't changed all series.
"Hold your ice." That was his new mantra for the past season.
