“Oh, right. Your practice starts in a few minutes.” Sure. As if I could ever forget that. As if I haven’t been checking the clock all afternoon, knowing exactly when the hockey team would be arriving.
“I brought you something.” He extends something wrapped in aluminum foil, which I didn’t notice he was holding until now—his hand had been slightly behind his back. The moment he brings it forward, a familiar sweet, earthy smell fills the air, triggering memories I thought I’d buried.
“Banana bread?” I peel back the aluminum foil just a sliver, and there it is—golden brown, perfectly domed, with visible banana pieces throughout. The scent is even stronger now, warm and homey.
“Your favorite. I hope.” There’s something vulnerable in the way he says it, like he’s not sure if my preferences have changed in all these years.
“Yes. It’s still my favorite. Thank you.” The admission feels like revealing something secret about myself, that some things about me haven’t changed at all.
My stomach, deprived after I worked straight through lunch—just a protein bar at my desk while finishing patient notes—growls with eagerness. The sound is audible in the quiet room, and heat creeps up my neck. Breaking off a corner of the bread, still slightly warm, I have a taste.
The flavor explodes on my tongue—sweet banana, a hint of vanilla, maybe cinnamon? The texture is perfect, moist but not dense, with a tender crumb that melts in my mouth.
“Wow,” I say around the bite, not caring that I’m talking with my mouth full. “This is amazing. Where is it from?”
His ocean-blue eyes light up, brightening from their usualstormy depths to something clearer, like shallow water over sand. “I made it.”
“You... You made it?” The words stick in my throat. No way. The Oliver I lived with couldn’t even make grilled cheese without setting off the smoke alarm.
He shrugs sheepishly, one corner of his mouth quirking up, but the pride is there in his face—in the straightness of his shoulders, the brightness in his eyes. “It’s not the first batch. It’s the fifth one, actually. The first two were hard as rocks, could’ve been used as hockey pucks. The third one fell apart the moment I tried to take it out of the pan.”
“And the fourth?” I ask with a laugh that bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest.
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through the space between us. “I dropped it on the floor. Face down. Made a spectacular mess.”
The image of Oliver standing in his kitchen, staring at an upside-down loaf of banana bread on the floor, makes my heart squeeze with unexpected tenderness.
“Oliver, this is really nice.” I bite into my smile, trying to contain the warmth spreading through my chest like honey. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” His eyes shine with something I can’t quite name—hope, maybe? “Unfortunately, I think Pine Island is now out of bananas. I may have bought every bunch at the grocery store.”
“It’ll survive.” I glance around the physical therapy room, looking for something, anything, to keep my hands busy so I don’t do something stupid like reach for him. But there’s nothing else to tidy up. The treatment tables are wiped down, the equipment is put away, the floor is swept. I’m done here for the day.
Which is more than a little disappointing. Even with a to-do list as long as my arm waiting for me at the practice—insurancepaperwork, supply orders, next week’s schedule—I would prefer to stay here, in this moment, with him looking at me like I’m something precious.
“Would you like to go to the break room and have some coffee?” I ask, my heart fluttering like a bird trapped in my ribcage. Despite his inquiry into my relationship status the other day, despite this unexpected gift that clearly took multiple attempts and probably hours of his time, there’s always the chance that he’ll say no. That this is just him being nice, nothing more.
“I wish I could.” The regret that floods his face is immediate and genuine, his shoulders dropping slightly. “Some of the team is coming a little early to go over some drills. Power play formations.”
At least I know he truly does want to spend time with me. The way he’s looking at me, like leaving is the last thing he wants to do, tells me everything.
“Oh. Another day then.” I try to keep the disappointment out of my voice, wrapping the banana bread back up carefully, already planning to have another piece—or three—when I get home.
“Will you be at the game in a few days?”
“Your game?” I ask, teasingly, bumping my shoulder against his arm.
“Yes.” He taps a yoga ball with the toe of his shoe, making it drift away across the floor in a slow roll. The gesture is so boyish, so unlike the controlled, intense Oliver I used to know, and I realize he’s as nervous as I am. “My game.”
“I’ll be there.” The words taste sweeter than the banana bread, an open door to a land I thought I’d locked and thrown away the key to years ago.
Yes, I’ll be at the game. Standing in the same arena, watching him behind the bench, cheering for his team. Then, after that, who knows what will happen? I still want to talk more to himabout the past—there are things that need to be said, wounds that need to be acknowledged—but I don’t want to discredit any potential in our future.
“I’ll see you there then.” He’s grinning as he heads toward the door, that full, genuine smile that transforms his whole face, and I’m doing the same my whole walk to my car.
The January air hits my heated cheeks like a wake-up call, but even the cold can’t diminish the warmth spreading through me. I sit in my car for a moment, holding the still-warm banana bread in my lap, before starting the engine.
Back at the clinic, I say a brisk hello to everyone—Avery at the front desk, Michael heading out from his last patient—then shut the door to my office and buckle down with some paperwork. The stack has been waiting for me all week, patient files and insurance claims reproducing like rabbits, with one thing after another popping up to take priority over it. If I don’t do it now, it’ll be another week before I can even see the surface of my desk.
