Page 124 of Offside

Maren: I will be. I’m pretty sure Griffin’s going to be fine but he’s going to be stubborn about it.

Ryan: I know. I saw his face when he came off the ice. He didn’t want to talk in the locker room.

There was a pause in our messaging and then Ryan said what I knew to be true.

Ryan: The conversation is going to have to wait.

Maren: I know.

Ryan: I’m sorry.

I sat with that for a moment. The fact that he was apologizing for a circumstance neither of us had any control over, just because he knew the delay cost me something.

Maren: It’ll keep.

Ryan: Still coming over?

It was nearly eleven. I had a seven-thirty treatment and two patients after and I was tired in the bone-deep way that had nothing to do with sleep.

Maren: Of course.

I fell asleep on his couch.

I hadn’t meant to. I’d sat down while he was in the kitchen and the cushions were deep and the lamp was low and the television was on some hockey recap show at a volume that was more texture than sound, and somewhere between just resting my eyes and I’ll get up in a minute, I was gone.

I woke when he lifted me.

Not fully. Just enough. His arms slid under me and the couch disappeared and I made a soft sound somewhere in the back of my throat, a vague objection, and he said low and close, “I’ve got you, baby.” The warmth of his chest was against my cheek and his heartbeat was steady under my ear and I thought, through the warm fog of sleep, that I should probably insist on walking. My legs were right there. I was a functional adult.

I turned my face further into his shoulder instead.

The hallway. A door. The familiar smell of his room. Cedar and clean laundry and something underneath that was him, and then the bed rising up to meet me, the give of the mattress, the cool of the pillow against my cheek.

“Stay,” I said, or tried to. It came out blurred at the edges.

He chuckled. “I’m not going anywhere, solsken.” His hands were at the hem of my shirt, then cool air, brief, and then the soft worn cotton of his T-shirt coming over my head, his palms guiding my arms through the sleeves like I was something worth being careful with. The scent of him took over as the shirt settled on my body.

“Ryan.” I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say. Maybe confirming he was there.

“I know.” He pulled the blanket up. Pressed his mouth to my temple, warm and unhurried. “Go back to sleep, baby.”

I was already falling back under.

He slid into bed behind me. The warmth of him, the solid familiar weight of his arm coming around my waist and pulling me back against his chest. I’d spent a long time sleeping alone and telling myself I preferred it. I hadn’t known what I was missing until I’d had it, and now I couldn’t unknow it.

I couldn’t imagine going back. My own bed, all that space, none of him in it. The thought moved through me like a small, certain grief, and I pressed closer, and his arm tightened around me without being asked, and I thought, from somewhere at the edge of sleep, I don’t want to go back.

I was out before I could do anything about it.

In the morning there was coffee already made and a note on the counter in his handwriting. Blocky, deliberate, every letter placed with the same economy he brought to everything else.

Solsken,

Early skate. Don’t rush. Lock up with the key. It’s yours.

—R

I looked over.