She laughs—not dismissive but delighted. “That’s…”
“What you wanted to hear?” I supply.
Her lips part, hesitation creeping in like doubt. “I mean, of course I want to. I just…I think Claire was planning to live with me for at least the first semester.”
I lean back, sipping wine with the smugness of someone who’s already solved the puzzle. “Already handled.”
Her eyebrow arches. “What do you mean already handled?”
“I spoke to Claire the other day. And since she already redesigned my place, I figured she might as well live here too.”
Petra’s eyes widen with the shock.
“I have that big spare bedroom I never use,” I continue. “It’s basically a massive storage unit with a door. I can move everything to the actual storage unit in the basement. Claire can stay in that room until she finds her own place or discovers dorm life isn’t the social nightmare everyone says it is.”
She stares at me, mouth slightly open, processing it all.
“You…you thought this through, didn’t you?”
I shrug. “I like solutions.”
“You’re really serious?” Her voice goes soft, hopeful in that way that makes me want to solve all her problems forever.
“Very.”
She exhales, leaning back as reality settles in. This is real. I want her here not just for sleepovers and weekend cooking experiments but for Tuesday mornings and Thursday nights and all the mundane moments that make up an actual life.
Her fingers find mine across the table, lacing together.
“Then I guess I’m moving in.”
I squeeze her hand. “Good. I wasn’t taking no for an answer anyway.”
She laughs, and her grip tightens like she’s anchoring herself to this decision.
Life feels perfect right now: we’re sitting in my kitchen that Claire made Instagram-famous, eating pasta we made together, planning a future that involves her clothes in my closet and her sister in my spare room. It’s domestic in a way that should terrify me—the former bachelor hockey player who couldn’t even decorate his own apartment.
But instead, it feels like landing a clean grand jeté—that moment when everything aligns, when your body does exactly what you asked it to, and the landing is but a whisper.
We sit there, hands linked across the table, pasta cooling, wine warming, and I realize this is what recovery actually looks like. Not just a healing body, but this—building a life beyond ice rinks and ballet studios, having a relationship that survives injuries and comebacks and all the drama that comes with professional athletics.
Outside, a siren wails in the distance. Trouble lurking elsewhere in New York, but not here.
At least, not tonight.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Petra’s been a permanent fixture at my apartment for long enough that her officially moving in feels less like a major life event and more like fate finally coming through. Her morning routine has become the soundtrack to my day—the rustle of her getting dressed while I remain in bed catching a few more minutes of sleep, the way she opens cabinets like she’s trying not to wake me even though we both know I’m awake, the soft sound of her feet on my floor that somehow sounds different from any other person’s footsteps. All welcome changes. All things that would be annoying if they were a product of someone else, but because they come from her, I find myself smiling.
This morning, I’m putting myself through agony on a foam roller while she gets ready. The thing about living with someone is you learn their rhythms without meaning to. She takes exactly two small sips of coffee before she’s ready to speak. She checks her phone with the same expression every morning—part hope, part dread, like she’s expecting either a promotion or a catastrophe. Her Birkenstocks have taken up residence next to my bed, perfectly tucked away and ready for her to slip into every morning. We’ve achieved that level of domesticity where our stuff has started to merge into one ecosystem of shared space.
She kisses me goodbye, already mentally at Lincoln Center. I watch her go as I finish plating my omelet. I’m digging into my cupboard looking for everything bagel seasoning when my phone starts having a nervous breakdown: Texts. DMs. Mentions. The kind of notification avalanche that usually means someone’s either dead or traded.
Rocky’s text catches my eye first: “I should have known you had this in you!” Then Dewey’s message appears: “You’re famous for ballet now ” Then more. From teammates, from former teammates, from people I haven’t talked to since my junior hockey days. My phone vibrates incessantly.
I open Instagram. And there they are: clips of Petra and me at our private sessions at the ballet studio.
Someone has edited together footage from our training sessions. I watch them all: me attempting pirouettes; Petra adjusting my arms; the moments where I actually nail something, and her face lights up with surprise and pride.
