“Just a mediocre one?”
“I’d say slightly below average. You leave your shit everywhere and you’re loud in the mornings.” The twinkle in his dark eyes belied his words.
“I make your coffee.”
“Fair point. That bumps you up to average.”
I grinned and focused on the game again. My character respawned, and I navigated through the wasteland with renewed focus, very aware of Marco’s hand still resting on my ankle, his thumb absently rubbing small circles against the bone there.
He probably didn’t even realize he was doing it.
His hand on my skin, the gentle, unconscious touch—somehow it seemed natural. Not awkward or weird or crossing some invisible line. Just… comfortable. And somehow that felt right to me. Like maybe some friendships existed outside the usual rules.
Two months. Maybe three.
I should have been anxious about overstaying my welcome, about getting too comfortable in someone else’s space.
But reclining on Marco’s couch, my feet in his lap, the garlic and herb aroma of the dinner he’d cooked still lingering in the air, his hand warm against my ankle…
I wasn’t worried at all.
For the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt settled.
Andthatstarted to worry me.
“You’re overthinking again,” Marco said without looking up from his tablet.
“How can you even tell? You’re not watching me.”
“I can feel it. You get tense.”
I forced myself to relax, to focus on the game, to stop analyzing every small moment and just exist in this one.
I could handle a couple of months.
And if the thought of leaving at the end of it made my gut twist… well, I had plenty of time to deal with that later.
For now, I had a game to win, and a best friend’s couch to monopolize.
CHAPTER FIVE
Marco
The two-on-one developed fast. Too fast.
Ottawa’s center had blown past Kinnunen at the blue line, and suddenly it was just me and their first line bearing down on Belov. Their center on the left, their winger on the right, both of them flying down the ice with the kind of speed that made your defensive instincts scream.
I read the pass before it happened. Saw their center drifting wide, saw the winger’s stick angle shift. Cross-ice pass incoming, the winger would have the one-timer, and from that angle Belov wouldn’t have time to slide across.
I had maybe a second to decide.
I dropped into a slide, angling my body to cut off the passing lane. The ice was fast tonight, and I picked up speed as I went down, stick extended, trying to get my body between the puck and the winger.
Their center released the pass. Their winger readied for the slap shot.
And I got there just in time.
The puck never made it to the winger’s stick. It hit my foot instead.
