“I don’t know how to do this perfectly,” he adds. “But I know I don’t want to walk away from you.”
The silence between us isn’t heavy anymore. It’s honest.
I squeeze his hand. “Then we go slow.”
A small smile curves his mouth. “I can do slow.”
I arch a brow. “Can you?”
He chuckles. “I can learn.”
I finally laugh, the tension easing from my shoulders as I lean back into the couch.
“Okay,” I say. “Then here’s the first thing you should know about me.”
He turns toward me fully, all attention.
“I don’t do games,” I tell him. “But I do effort.”
He nods, serious now. “Deal.”
And for the first time since this all started, the future doesn’t feel like something waiting to explode.
It feels like something we might actually build.
SIXTEEN
Wild
California feels different.
The air is thinner somehow. Lighter. Or maybe that’s just me.
We’re here for a game against the Cougars, the hotel overlooking palm trees and traffic instead of the skyline I’m used to. The guys are scattered through the lobby. Some grabbing food, some heading out, but I stayed back tonight.
I’m standing at the window of my room, looking out at a city that isn’t mine, and all I can think about is her.
The last few weeks replay in my head like highlights.
Only these aren’t the kind that show up on sports channels.
They’re better.
Sneaking out separately after team meetings so no one notices we leave at the same time. Her walking three steps ahead ofme in the parking garage, pretending she doesn’t know me until we’re safely inside my truck. The quiet laughs we share about how ridiculous it all feels.
Late nights at my place with the lights low, cooking together because she refuses to let me always order takeout. She’s still terrible at chopping vegetables. I’m still dramatic about it.
Romantic dinners that started as pizza and turned into actual effort. Candles once. Wine twice. The third time she brought over a playlist and danced barefoot in my kitchen like she forgot how careful she’s supposed to be.
Long talks on my couch that lasted until two in the morning. About her parents. About my mom. About the things that shaped us before we ever met.
And then there were the quiet moments.
Her curled against my chest after everything else faded. The way she traces the ink on my arm absentmindedly while we talk. The way she says my full name like it belongs to her and not the crowd.
I’ve never done this before.
Not like this.
