Game 6. One win away from the Stanley Cup. And he was here.
With me.
“You should be at the arena,” I said, because it was the only thing that made sense. The only thing that didn’t feel like it was about to break something wide open.
“I know,” he shot back, pacing once, then stopping like he couldn’t decide whether to stay or bolt. “I know where I’m supposed to be, Sage.”
“Then why are you here?”
He looked at me like the answer should’ve been obvious.
“Because you’re leaving.”
There it was.
The thing we’d been dancing around since the tunnel. Since the hotel room. Since that email cracked something open that I didn’t know how to close again.
“I’m not leaving,” I said, but even as the words came out, I knew how they sounded. Thin. Technical.
He let out a harsh laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “New York, Sage. That’s not just… a quick trip down the block.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” he snapped, stepping closer. “Because it feels like you made this decision without me. Like I didn’t even factor into it.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” His voice dropped, rougher now, less anger and more something else. Something that scraped. “We just— we just figured this out. Us. And now you’re…” He gestured helplessly, like the rest of it didn’t even need words.
Throwing it away.
I felt it land between us even though he didn’t say it.
“I’m not throwing anything away,” I said, my own frustration flaring now. “I got a scholarship, Aiden. This is what I’ve been working for.”
“And I get that!” he shot back. “I do. But what about us?”
“What about us?”
He stared at me like that was the whole point. Like I’d just proven something he didn’t want to be right about.
“That’s what I’m asking you,” he said. “Because from where I’m standing, it feels like I don’t fit into that picture anymore.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then what is it, Sage?” His voice cracked, just slightly, but it was enough to strip the edge off the anger and leave something raw underneath. “Because I’m standing here trying to figure out how I’m supposed to play the biggest game of my life when it feels like I’m about to lose you.”
The words hit harder than anything else he’d ever said to me. Any of the other admissions and confessions.
And God, that did something to me.
“You’re not losing me,” I said, but it came out softer now, less defensive, more… real.
He shook his head, like he didn’t believe me. Like he couldn’t. “It feels like it.”
I let out a breath, dragging my hands through my hair the same way he had. Because I didn’t know how to say this without it coming out wrong. Without it sounding like I was choosing one thing over the other.
“I don’t know how to do this perfectly,” I admitted. “I don’t know how to make it all fit neatly together so it doesn’t hurt or get complicated. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want it.”
