“I like this,” I say, still watching the match. “Maybe we could find an outdoor court once it gets warm. Make it a regular thing.”
The words are out before I realize what I’ve said.
Once it gets warm.
I’ll be gone by then.
I wince, then watch as he realizes it, too. The way his smile falters slightly before he fixes it back into place. His arm tightens around me. “Yeah. Maybe.”
He stands, grabbing his paddle. “Ready to lose again?”
I can’t help applying those words to us, not the game.
A pit forms in my stomach, but I smile anyway. “Let’s do it.”
126 days, I remind myself.
126 times twenty-four hours to prove thatwedon’t have to end just because I’m leaving.
We play one more game, and I win, barely.
Outside, Miles opens the passenger door of his truck for me, and I climb in, my legs already protesting. Once he’s behind the wheel, he reaches across the console for my hand. “Rematch next week?” I ask.
His smile falters. “I’ll be in Edmonton—4 Nations.”
“Right.” I pinch the fabric of my leggings with my free hand.
He said he’d be gone for ten days… we’ll have 116 left by the time he’s back. Plenty. I can picture so many more just like this one.
“After, then,” I say.
But it’ll always be like this, won’t it? His schedule or mine. Something always keeping us apart. Still, we’ll figure it out.
Only one side of his mouth quirks into a smile. “Yeah. After.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
One week.
That’s all I got with Summer before having to leave for 4 Nations.
Seven days since the pickleball date. Since she started sleeping in my bed every night, instead of her own room.
Seven days of waking up with her in my arms. Coffee in the kitchen while she tells me about whatever song she’s recording. Grace judging us from various surfaces when we make out—and fuck—because we can’t keep our hands off each other.
Seven days of pretending we’re not on borrowed time.
And now I’m packing for the 4 Nations Face-Off, and I don’t want to go. Not a thought I ever thought I’d have. I’ve always jumped at every opportunity that gave me more ice time. But now… I don’t know. It’s different.
“You’re staring at that shirt like it killed your cat,” Summer says around a yawn.
I look up. She’s perched on my bed in nothing but my T-shirt, her knees pulled to her chest and ankles crossed, watching me pack. Her hair’s messy, and her eyes are still half-closed with sleep.
“Just thinking.” I fold the shirt and add it to my suitcase.
She scoots closer. “About what?”
How I don’t want to leave you.
