We walk slowly, the sounds of the shops and bars filling the air. These last two days have been perfect. Better than I could have ever hoped for. Most of me thought he’d want nothing to do with me. After all, until yesterday, we hadn’t even spoken to one another for a year, and now…
Now it feels like no time has passed at all, and somehow we’ve picked up right where we left off before I ruined everything.
He told me he missed me.
He wants another chance.
But he’s not the only one who needs a second chance.
“When, uh… when do you have to leave?” I ask as we walk side by side. There is a sliver of space between us and I’m dying to touch him. But I won’t. Not until I say what I need to, anyway.
Jordan is not the talking type, and neither am I. But this—us—it won’t work unless I tell him how I really feel. It won’t work unless I can meet him where he is.
I just hope he feels the same. I hope he’s willing to meet me halfway.
If the past year, the past forty-eight hours, have taught me anything, it’s that he’s worth the wait.
So I’ll wait if I have to.
However long it takes, I’ll wait because I love him. I never stopped, and I don’t think I could ever stop.
“Tomorrow. Early afternoon if I want to escape the New York traffic,” he says.
I notice he’s shifted closer. Close enough our shoulders touch, even though his hands are also stuffed in his pockets. “You?”
I move a little closer and close the gap.
“I have a game in Michigan on Tuesday, so I leave Sunday.”
He nods nonchalantly, and I can’t take it. I remove my hand and grab him by the arm and turn him towards me. He looks down at me with narrowed eyes.
“I have five games left,” I say and he stops on the sidewalk. People bustle past us, but this little town is much quieter than the main city, so no one runs us over.
“That’s what my parents were pissed about,” I say.
He looks at me curiously. “That’s not new news. There are five games left in the season—”
“No,” I say, sliding my hand down his arm. I find his hand has left his pocket and so I slide my fingers between his and squeeze.
“Ihave five games left,” I say solidly.
It takes him a minute to process what I’m saying, and when he does, his eyes widen in shock.
“You’re quitting?” I don’t miss the surprise in his voice.
I nod. “Yes. My contract is up.”
“But you love hockey,” he says, his voice full of awe. “It’s your life.”
My chest tightens. The twinkling lights of the shops and warm glow from the windows light him up, and I lick my lips, sucking in a breath.
“I mean, I’m thirty-two. I’m not going to do it forever, and…” I let out a heavy breath as the words fall out of their own volition. “There are things I lovemorethan hockey,” I say softly. “Well, technically it’s more of asomeonethan asomething, but—”
“Alex…” His voice is breathless as he stares down at me, and I say the words because they are the easiest thing in the world to say—and the truest. I never thought I’d get the chance to say them again.
“I love you, Jordan. More than hockey. More than pink donuts with extra sprinkles.”
Hope fills my chest as he stares at me. I don’t think I can handle it if he tells me I’ve imagined all this back and forth between us. That this isn’t more than just a quick hookup in an office. It has to mean more.
