Page 102 of Offside

“And I can hear you being smug from Vancouver, pleased with yourself.”

His laugh was low and brief and real. I pulled the blanket up and thought about nine days and how eight of them were already gone and how the last one felt like it was going to be long.

“I miss you,” I said. It chirped out of me without forethought, but it was true, and being honest about my feelings with him was important to me.

He was quiet for a beat. “Say that again.”

“I miss you. The arena is too quiet and Jordan Holt is impatient and someone keeps sending me things that make it very difficult to concentrate.”

“Terrible,” he said. “Sounds awful.”

“It’s been a lot.”

“The jersey or the bracelet?”

“The book.” I paused. “How do you have a signed first edition of book two? It only came out four months ago.”

“I have my ways.”

“You come home soon and I can’t wait to kiss you,” I admitted.

He sighed. “One more day, baby.”

“I know.”

Another pause. I heard him shift, the sound of him settling back against the headboard, and when he spoke again his voice had dropped into the register that did things to my concentration.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said.

“You’ve been sending me things. I noticed.”

“Not like that.” A beat. “I mean—yes, like that. But not only like that.” He paused. “Turn your lamp on.”

I went very still. “Ryan.”

“The lamp, Maren.”

“Is this the architecture conversation?”

“Turn the lamp on.”

I turned the lamp on. Looked at myself in the dark window. My reflection pale, my hair up, my expression doing something I was glad he couldn’t see yet. Then I picked up my phone and switched to FaceTime, and there he was. Rumpled and postgame and looking at me with his usual full steady attention that still caught me off guard every time like I was the only thing in a room he’d bothered to see.

“There you are,” he said.

“Here I am.” I pulled my knees up. “You look tired.”

“I’m not tired.” His voice was warm and low and certain. “Take your hair down for me.”

I reached up and pulled the band out slowly, watching his face on the screen as my hair fell around my shoulders. His jaw tightened slightly. His attention reached me across two thousand miles like a physical thing.

He was quiet for a moment, just looking at me.

“Älskling,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“What does that mean.”

“Look it up later.” His eyes stayed on me. “What are you wearing.”