“I would think they would want you more because they know someone else wants you.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. But I do know my dad knows this game better than anyone. These guys all play golf together.”
I check the time and hate to cut the conversation, but I have class. “I’ll see you tonight?”
“I work until nine, but I’ll be home after.”
I kiss her before we both get to our feet and head inside.
The house feels different in the post-season. It just feels—quiet. There’s no gear everywhere. Medical tape, Icy Hot, and the usual signs of guys that have had their asses handed to them on a daily basis are absent.
I’m really feeling melancholy. I’m mourning Icy Hot.
I shake it off, grab my backpack, and head out the door. It’s time to grind in class now.
Chapter Nine
SUTTON
Senior year doesn't end the way I thought it would.
I thought I'd feel ready. I thought there'd be some moment in the last weeks where I'd look around and think,Okay, I've gotten everything I came here for; I know how to leave this.Instead, I move through the last weeks feeling like I'm saying goodbye to life.
The days compress the way they do at the end of things. There’s so much to do. Study. Pack. Make plans. Suddenly, there are three weeks left, then two, and now we’re in the last week of my college education.
The excitement I feel overpowers the sadness that threatens to take over.
I’m in my room, scrolling through Amazon for new bedding for my new apartment in Boston.
Declan bursts through the door, scaring the shit out of me and nearly causing me to throw my laptop.
“Babe! What the hell? Are you okay?”
He’s grinning, so that’s a good sign. Now I can be angry at him for nearly giving me a heart attack.
“Dad called.”
“And? Did they agree to it?”
His face falls. “No. He told me not to get my hopes up.”
“And yet, you’re smiling.”
“Because my dad does that. It’s still him trying to prove he was right. He wants me to stress out and think it won’t happen. I’m choosing optimism.”
I tend to be more of a pessimist, but I’ll play along. Maybe optimism works. Maybe we can put it out into the universe, he’ll get the Boston call, and everything will be okay.
“I’ll be hopeful with you. I’ve seen what your dad will do to get what he wants for you.”
“I hope he doesn’t ruffle too many feathers. I want to slide into the team and keep my head down. Those guys think I’m coming for their glory, and they’re going to make my life hell. I just want to play a little hockey. Make a little cash and go home.”
I pull him down to me, my hands already pulling his shirt over his head. "Okay, we’re being optimistic. I think this calls for a pre-win celebration."
His grin turns wicked. "What did you have in mind?"
"I have a few ideas."
My hands explore the planes of his chest, the hard muscle I know so well. He's beautiful. He's always been beautiful, but right now—flushed with success and happiness—he's devastating.
