I tilt my head up to look at him. He's already looking at me.
“I love you,” I tell him.
It comes out quieter than I expected. And more certain.
He doesn't smile right away. He just looks at me for a moment, like he's making sure he heard it correctly, like he wants to keep it exactly as it is before he does anything to change the shape of it.
Then he says, “I love you too.”
Simple. No preamble. No joke waiting behind it.
Just that.
I rest my head back against his chest and close my eyes. His arm tightens slightly around me, careful still of his shoulder, and I feel the warmth of his palm against my back settle into something that feels a lot like permanence.
I smile against his shoulder.
Outside, Nashville is still going. Music from somewhere down the street finds its way up through the window, faint and warm and unhurried.
Neither of us moves.
Epilogue
Lisa
The arena feels different tonight.
It looks the same as it always does when I walk through the glass doors and into the familiar hallway that smells of popcorn, cold air, and rubber skate guards dragging across concrete floors somewhere in the distance. Still, something about the energy inside the building is sharper than usual, brighter somehow, like everyone here knows they are about to watch something important happen, even if they don’t all know exactly why it matters as much as it does.
Or maybe that’s just me. Because tonight Blake is playing again.
And for the first time since the night he disappeared behind a curtain in a hospital hallway while a doctor told me words like fracture and muscle damage and uncertainty, I am about to watch him step back onto the ice where he belongs.
“I forgot how hockey arenas smell,” Anna says beside me as we step into the seating section together.
“They don’t smell,” I laugh.
“They absolutely do,” she insists.“There’s nachos, and beer, and cold air, and testosterone.”
“That’s not a scent.”
“I’m pretty sure I am smelling it now.”
I smile despite myself as we find our seats.
Having Anna here tonight makes everything feel steadier in a way I didn’t realize I needed until she showed up yesterday afternoon with a suitcase and a hug that lasted longer than expected.
“I still can’t believe I get to see him play live,” she says as she looks around the arena.
“You picked a good game,” I reply.
“I picked the game where your boyfriend returns from a dramatic injury and emotional recovery and wins heroically,” she corrects.
“That’s not guaranteed.”
“It’s narratively required,” she says confidently.
Gwen, Tess, and Leo arrive.
