The warmth in his voice still catches me off guard sometimes. Owen used to sound like every word cost him something.
“Quit worrying about what my dad will think. He’s going to love you. Just like I do.” I bump my hip with his to make him smile.
He barely cracks a grin. “You say that, but I don’t have the best track record with dads. My mom already adores you, soyou’vegot nothing to worry about, but I’m not so sure.”
“Are you expecting my dad to show up with a shotgun and threaten you?”
Owen’s face pales. “Would he?”
The fact that he sounds genuinely concerned instead of joking makes me laugh. The mental image of my father threatening Owen, or anyone else, is absurd. “He knows I love you. That’s enough for him.”
That, at last, is enough to make Owen’s smile light up his face. He smiles so much more these days than he did when I first met him. Not constantly. Owen will probably always be a little quieter and more thoughtful than most people. But now the happiness reaches the surface instead of staying buried underneath everything else.
And he talks more, too. Who he is hasn’t changed on a fundamental level. He’s still the thoughtful, observant man I fell in love with last season, but he’s more confident. He’s better at expressing himself. It took a few tries before he found a system that worked for him, but he has bi-monthly meetings with an anger management coach, and he’s been attending monthly meetups with a group of guys who grew up in troubled homes. He doesn’t talk about the meetups much, but he hasn’t missed one yet. And he’s cultivated male friendships outside the team. Watching him choose healing over shame has changed the way I think about strength entirely.
This trip to Massachusetts is only a short one. It’s also the first time our families are meeting.
“We’ve got another hour until the reservation,” Owen says. “Want to head down to the beach?”
“Always. Are you kidding?” The cold wind immediately attacks my hair with malicious intent, but I don’t even care.
We make our way down toward the water. The evening breeze off the ocean brings the temperature down fast, but I can never get enough of seeing the sunlight on the water. I’ve become too acclimated to the arid Vegas heat. My internal temperatures are all discombobulated.
“Do you think you’ll ever want to move back to the coast?” Owen asks.
The question makes me smile. “Thinking about getting traded already? I thought things were going well. Besides, the Venom finally got their penalty kill sorted out after the trade deadline. I’d hate to abandon all my hard work learning systems just when I started understanding what the hell a weak-side collapse actually is.”
Owen stares at me for a second before laughing. “You know hockey terms now. That’s still hot.”
“I had to learn. You people speak exclusively in cryptic sports metaphors and emotional repression.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“Also, the youth outreach program’s doing really well.” I smile automatically. “The League officially approved the expansion proposal yesterday. Which means your tiny hockey gremlins are now a permanent offseason initiative.”
Owen’s entire expression softens. “Ourtiny hockey gremlins.”
Warmth spreads through my chest at the correction. “Our tiny hockey gremlins.”
“Right. And I’m not talking about moving back this year. I mean,someday.Longterm.” The word settles warmly into my chest instead of scaring me the way it once would have. He takesmy hand in his big, calloused palm. “You ended up in Vegas for work, but you’re a New Englander at heart.”
“What makes you so sure?”
Owen winks and taps one finger against his bottom lip. “We’ve been here for, like, three hours, and your accent’s already coming through.”
“I guess it is.” Around Owen, I’ve stopped noticing how much of myself I unconsciously edit for other people. I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with cool salt air. The boards of the walkway creak under my sneakers. Owen’s right: I miss the sea. I miss the squat, saltbox houses of the East Coast, the belligerence of my fellow Massachusettians, the narrow streets that date back centuries, even the unhinged way the folks out here drive. “Yeah, I think I’ll want to come back someday. Especially when Dad gets older. He’s only got me, you know? I’ll want to be closer as he ages, and I can’t see him moving out to Vegas.”
“Same with my mom.” Owen descends the steps to the beach and guides me down the rickety, salt-swept boards. “She wouldhateVegas.”
Down here, we can barely hear the traffic from the roadway. It’s only the water and the screech of dump-ducks circling over the handful of ships on their way back to the harbor.
“What’s got you thinking about the future?” I ask.
“A few things. I mean, my past is here. I wasn’t specifically trying to outrun it when I joined the NHL, but was eager to get away.”
“Not anymore?” The breeze catches a few stray locks of hair and presses them against my cheek.
Owen turns to me and brushes my hair back. Then he takes my other hand in his, closing the circuit. “No. No more running, remember?”
