It turns out she’s an artist, and her project is a large canvas in her studio on the second floor. Paint is everywhere.
“My real estate agent strongly suggested I stage the house,” she admits.
“We don’t mind at all. Your work is incredible,” I say, and I mean it.
There are three small bedrooms up on the third floor, and a tiny rooftop patio. I fall in love immediately, and it’s so hard to stay excited about the other houses I was going to show him tomorrow, because they don’t compare at all to the beating heart of this home.
When we thank her for the tour, she gives us her real estate agent’s card from a stack by the door. “In case you want to come back and see it again?”
“We probably won’t have time,” Logan says apologetically. “But just in case.”
“I understand. Good luck with your house hunt.”
He pulls out his wallet as we head back to our bikes, tucking the card away.
I pull out my phone and look the house up. The asking price takes my breath away. And even with my limited knowledge of the market, I’m pretty sure she’s asking too much.
“What are you thinking?”
“If she drops her price, it’ll probably sell before I get a match confirmation.” I shake off a little pang of regret. “But I really do like this area.”
He catches my hand and weaves our fingers together, bringing my knuckles up to his mouth for a kiss. “So do I.”
CHAPTER 45
LOGAN
The rest of our too-brief visit is fucking incredible. Intimate, fun, sweet. We fall into a rhythm that feels comfortable and familiar, but every day is also an endless parade of discovery and revelations about just how great my wife is.
We’re both exhausted from months of being go go go, so we tumble into bed early every night, but that just means we get to wake up early and have a leisurely wake up, too. And it’s a relief to not have to justify my desire to spend my week off mostly resting and recuperating. If anything, Frankie seems to need the rest more than I do.
We talk about our hopes and dreams for the future—yes, we both want kids, but later, after residency and retirement from hockey; no, I don’t care about being far from Minnesota. That’s what they make airplanes for.
When the question about babies comes up a second time, after a delightful afternoon nap, I kiss her forehead and offer as clear a reassurance as I can that it’s not a dealbreaker for me. “If it was just the two of us forever, I would love that, too. I just want you, Frankie. Everything else is details."
She burrows into my chest and takes a shaky breath.
We talk about careers. She asks what I'm going to do after hockey, and I admit I’ve never nailed down a firm plan. It’s always in the future, later. Irrelevant to my current purpose. But now my current purpose has a new layer. A forever, Frankie-oriented layer.
“Maybe I’ll just be your house husband.”
She snorts. "You'd be bored in a week."
"Probably." I think about it. "Coaching, maybe. Or player development. Something where I can stay connected to the game but also have a normal schedule. Be home for dinner. Not miss bedtimes.”
The way she looks at me when I say that—like I've just promised her the moon—makes my heart stutter.
I fall in love with palm trees and grain bowls and biking along the beach. With the crowds of people, the chaotic swirl of life.
And I get to see my wife fall in love with me, which is the greatest gift I can imagine.
We haven’t said the words yet. I think them about a hundred times a day, but I want to create the space for her to say them first. I think, when she does, it’ll be a surprise to her, but it won’t be to me.
I’ve never felt this seen, this adored, in my entire life. Her gaze follows me everywhere, and she lights up like a Christmas tree when I reach for her, which is all the fucking time.
On our last night before I have to fly back to Buffalo, we're lying in bed in a Santa Monica rental when Frankie says, “You have a game in Minneapolis next month, right?”
“Mmm, yeah.” She’s playing with my hair and my eyes are closed. It’s heaven. Don't want to break the spell.
