He pulled back two inches. "Happy New Year."
"Happy New Year."
We stayed until past midnight Chicago time. Then we walked back to Heath's apartment through streets that smelled like smoke and the sulfur ghosts of fireworks set off in alleys.
I was unlacing my shoes in the hallway when my phone buzzed.
I knew before I looked. My father texted at strategic intervals: after wins, before meetings, and on dates the calendar marked as significant.
Dad:Happy New Year. Let's finalize things in January. Proud of you.
Happy New Yearfor warmth.Let's finalizefor direction.Proud of youfor closure. A message engineered to feel like affection while functioning as a summons.
Let's finalize things.
The extension. A signature on a contract that would make me an Ironhawk through my mid-twenties and close the application windows at Scripps, Miami, and URI with the quiet, permanent click of a deadline passing.
Heath was in the kitchen, filling the kettle for the tea we drank before bed now. We had a routine.
"Tea's almost ready," Heath called.
I shoved the phone in my pocket.
"Coming," I said.
I walked into the kitchen and took the mug he offered. Our fingers overlapped on the ceramic. His were still cold from the walk.
I knew what staying cost. I'd calculated it in grad school deadlines and a personal statement I'd revised eleven times, describing a future I'd been constructing since I was nineteen.
Now I knew what leaving cost, too. Both options were unbearable.
In the bedroom, we undressed without ceremony. Heath sprawled, and I curled toward the wall. We met somewhere in the middle, his back against my chest, and my arm across his ribs.
His breathing slowed, and he was soon asleep.
I was still awake.
I couldn't hold the present and the future in the same hand. They were different shapes. One required me to be here. The other required me to be gone.
Heath shifted in his sleep. Pulled my arm tighter.
Chapter eleven
Heath
I'd spent five days in my apartment with Kieran. Cooking. Bad TV. His hand was on my chest while he slept.
My skates needed sharpening. I knew before I touched them.
Five days off the ice had dulled the edges, not enough to notice if you weren't checking, enough to feel wrong if you were. I brought them to equipment before anyone else arrived. Danny took them without comment. Fourteen minutes later, he set them on the counter with the blades wrapped in terry cloth. "Same cut as last time."
The locker room filled in its usual order. Rook was ahead of everyone, half-dressed. Varga appeared with stories from Minnesota that involved his sister's golden retriever and a frozen lake.
I pulled my jersey over my head. Number 48.
Coach Markel stood behind the bench with a clipboard and a dry-erase marker. He didn't call anyone over. He wrote on the whiteboard and waited for us to notice.
I spotted it on my third lap.
