“Where are you going?”I ask, and it takes effort to keep my voice from tipping into panic.I grip the edge of my counter like it’s a railing and I’m standing on a ledge.
There’s a pause long enough for my imagination to start writing worst-case scenarios.
Then he says it.
“I’m already here,” he states.“Portland.I now play for the Orcas.”
My heart does this sick little stumble, like it forgets its rhythm for a beat just to remind me it can.
Portland.
Oregon.
Juniper Ridge is no longer a flight away in my mind.It’s right there—close enough to smell pine and rink air, close enough to hear my mother’s whistle in the back of my skull, close enough to remember what it felt like to be fifteen and invincible and stupidly in love.
“Which means,” Monty continues, voice tight like he’s holding something back with his teeth, “I’ll be at the airport to pick you up tomorrow.”
I blink like my brain just skipped a frame.“What?”
“I don’t have practice until Thursday,” he says, matter-of-fact, like he’s reading off a grocery list and not turning my life inside out.“They want me to settle in, meet people, do the media shit, and ...”His breath breaks, there’s a stutter.“Fuck.”
“You should use this time to—” I start, because reflex kicks in.Because I want to lecture him into safety.Because I need him to have a plan that isn’t me.
“No.I’ll be there,” he cuts in.
My pulse jumps hard.“No.”
“I didn’t ask,” he says.
It doesn’t sound cruel, or angry.Just ...Monty.
The man who decides, and then the world rearranges itself around his decision like it never had a choice.
“Monty,” I whisper, and my voice betrays me—soft, raw, too full of truth, “you can’t.”
“I can,” he says.“I’m in Portland.I’m free tomorrow.”
Free.
Like that word doesn’t come with consequences.Like freedom isn’t something the league plays tug-of-war with, like his body and his time and his life aren’t owned by contracts and expectations.
As if being close to me doesn’t cost him anything.
I bring my fingers to my mouth, pressing them against my lips as if I can keep them from saying something reckless.As if I can keep myself from turning into the girl who used to wait for him to look at her like she mattered.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, and the plea slips through anyway.
“Yes.I do.”His voice lowers.The shift hits me low in my body, right where desire lives.
Then, softer—dangerous-soft, like he’s letting me see the real thing beneath all that control—he adds, “You know I take care of what’s mine.”
My whole body stills.
Mine.
Cally says it like he’s claiming territory, like it’s instinct and pride and possession all tangled up.
Monty says it like devotion.Like law.Like a vow he’s been keeping even when we weren’t speaking.
