It’s like she just knew.
I remember the night I got cut from my first travel team. I was sixteen and convinced my career was over before it started. April showed up at my house with fries and milkshakes and sat with me while I raged about how unfair it was.
She assured me I’d make another team. When I asked her how she knew, she reminded me that I’m Clark Culpepper and I don’t quit.
No pep talk. No false promises. Just certainty.
When I made the AHL team with the Saskatchewan Squatches, she drove eight hours to watch my first game. Sat in the stands wearing a ridiculous Sasquatch costume.
When I got called up to the Boston Breakers for those two shutout games, she was the first person I called. She cried with happiness for me.
And when the Knights acquired my rights and I had to move to Nebraska, she’d received a job offer in Omaha earlier that month and that was what sealed the deal.
When I asked her if she was sure, she’d replied with a question of her own.Where else would I be?
She was there every step. Well, we were in different cities for a while, but never far. We never lost touch.
But making it to the NHL was just the first hurdle. It’s one thing to arrive at your destination and achieve your dream. It’s another thing to remain there. To keep performing, keep improving, keep proving you deserve your spot.
And April is what keeps me together. What keeps me going.
She’s the one who organized my entire apartment so I could actually find things. Who created my digital calendar so I don’t miss team events. Who reminds me to eat vegetables and get enough sleep and actually read my mail instead of letting it pile up on the counter—minus the vehicle registration debacle.
But it’s more than that.
She’s the one who stays up late texting me stats and strategy ideas when I can’t sleep before a big game. Who watches game tape with me and points out things I miss. Whotells me when I’m being too hard on myself and when I need to work harder.
She believed in me when I was a nobody from the Pacific Northwest with more ambition than skill. She believes in me now when I’m an NHL goalie with a fat contract and endorsement deals.
The only difference is now I’m supposed to pretend that belief is romantic instead of platonic.
Except it doesn’t feel like pretending—at least, I don’t want it to be fake. But if I tell her how I feel and it’s unrequited, I risk losing everything.
As we round the corner back toward the Old Mill building, I say, “For the record, your parents are wrong.”
Her shoulders drop.
“You’re not wasting your potential. You’re not in a phase. You have a real job—multiple real jobs, actually. You’re a certified trainer, a consultant for a major pet brand, and you’re building a business that’s going to be incredible.”
Her eyes are shiny. “Thanks.”
“I’m glad you’re not a lawyer. The world has enough lawyers. It only has one April Hansen.”
She wipes a tear while also smiling. “Stop. You’re going to make me ruin my mascara.”
We stop and the dogs arrange themselves in a patient semicircle around us.
I hook my forefinger under her chin. She peers up at me, gaze searching.
“You’re not wearing mascara.”
Her chin trembles as she smiles and swipes at her eyes. She whispers, “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”
“Anytime.” I’m about to addThat’s what friends are for, it’s a rote comment, one we’ve both said countless times. While it’s true, I want to take it a step further. I want to kiss her.
But Scout spots a bird and that gets Lulu excited, breaking the moment.
I wonder how many fractures my heart can take before it shatters completely and April sees the whole truth about how I feel.
