ANNA
“This is ridiculous.” I blow my bangs away from my forehead, narrowing my eyes on the stupid net that taunts me.
Tightening my grip on the stick, I breathe in deeply, the cold air swirling in my lungs.
Exhaling, I swing the stick then bring it quickly forward, slapping the puck.
It hits the side, bouncing off and sliding away from the net. “I give up.”
I almost slip on the ice, but Sylas skates behind me, circling his hands around my front and steadying me.
Tonight’s date started at Strangers and ended with us at the arena, after I told him I could easily shoot the puck in the net.
He smirked, voice smug when he said, “Okay, let’s go.
” I should’ve known from that moment it wasn’t going to be easy.
Still, I kept up the cool, nonchalant confidence I knew I didn’t have.
The ice and I are not great friends. Since Sylas and I started dating a year ago, I’ve been on here more than I ever have in my life. One would think since my boyfriend is a strong skater, I would become one too.
No. I’m shit. It’s like earth’s gravitational pull is sucking me down, refusing to let me get a good footing.
We’ve been at the empty arena for almost thirty minutes now. The only time I managed to score was when I was inches from the net and slowly swung the stick. Now Sylas has me back farther away and swinging faster, harder.
“You got it, meu bem,” he breathes against my neck, his stubble grazing it, the deep rasp of his words tickling my skin. I melt into him, my body softening against his firm one. “Come on, you got it.” He lifts his hands, placing them on top of mine on the stick. “Try again. I know you can do it.”
Before he backs away, he kisses my cheek then skates over to where the puck sits on the sleek ice, setting it down in front of me.
I’m over this, but he stares at me with such patience and adoration. “You can give up if you want. Be a loser.”
I catch the arrogant smirk on his stupid, beautiful face and flip him off. In return, he huffs a laugh and chants, “Loser, loser, loser…”
“You’re so annoying.” Shifting my hips the way he instructed, I pull in a breath and hold it as I swing back and slap the puck hard in the direction of the net. It makes a beautiful swishing noise as it glides in then slides back out. “Suck on that!” I raise my arms in celebration.
Sylas skates to me, lifting me up and holding me tight as he spins us around. “I knew you could do it.”
I laugh, wrapping my arms and legs around him, dropping the stick. “Calling me a loser doesn’t scream ‘I believe in you.’”
I know he didn’t mean it. I know he was trying to get in my head the way the fans do when he’s playing. I’ve witnessed how especially brutal they are now that he’s in the NHL.
“It’s called negative reinforcement. I was just trying to give you a boost.” He grins, skating over to the bench and pulling me to straddle him once he sits.
We look at each other for a long moment. I breathe, and he sighs. We’ve been ignoring something since I came to Colorado to visit him.
“I know you were freaked out,” he starts, tucking my hair behind my ear, fingers brushing over the earrings he gifted me for my birthday. “And I was too, but I want you to know that no matter what, I would’ve supported you.”
A month ago, at the start of November, my period was extremely late and that has never happened. We’ve always used condoms and I’m on birth control. While I know things can happen, I freaked out. And I know he was also worried about it—we’re twenty-two and both have a lot going on.
I went to the doctor, got tested, and she said stress and exhaustion will sometimes cause late periods. I also had changed my birth control because the other wasn’t working out for me. So she said to give it a few days, and she was right, it came.
When it did, we didn’t really talk about it. The season started for him, and I had school and many other things to deal with.
“I know we haven’t really talked about kids, and I guess it’s good that it happened because we should,” Sylas continues, expression earnest, voice soft.
He cups my cheek, rubbing his thumb faintly on my skin.
“I know in passing I joked that I’d have them years from now.
But if I’m being honest, I’ve never really thought about it or cared to have them.
Not until this, until you. I’ve been thinking about it a lot more, and if you want them, I want them too.
If you don’t, then I don’t. Anna…” His thumb stops moving, and his voice is the most serious I’ve ever heard.
“My life, my future is with you. What you want, I want. So if it’s with or without kids, I don’t care, as long as it’s you. ”
His words kiss my soul the way the sun kisses your skin on a hot sunny day. I smile, feeling overwhelmed with emotion. I throw my arms around him, hiding my face in the crook of his neck.
“I’m sorry.” My eyes burn a little, and my throat tightens, making it hard to get the other words out.
“Hey, look at me.” He draws back, tipping his chin down to look at me. “Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t bring it up sooner. I just didn’t know what to say. But I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and no matter what, everything would’ve been okay.”
“Yeah?” My bottom lip quivers.
He wipes the lone tear under my eye. “Yeah. Because we would’ve done it together.”
Sylas has his life together and I don’t. It scared me, dreading the possibility that I was pregnant. It wouldn’t have just changed my life, but his and our relationship drastically. While he’s always said he wants me in his future, sometimes I feel like he’s out of my league.
He’s part of this social circle I don’t belong to.
Despite what he’s said, how he includes me, I’m far from able to fit in.
His parents, his family members, and his friends are wealthy beyond words.
It’s still incomprehensible that I’m surrounded by people who have millions in their bank account. Sylas included.
Sometimes I can’t believe he chooses me, that he wants me. I know I’m not what his parents would’ve chosen for him, what the people he’s close with expect when he brings me around. It’s always a shock, like they can’t fathom why he’d be with a girl like me, a girl who has nothing to offer him.
“I wouldn’t mind having kids. Maybe in the future, when I’ve finished culinary school and worked for a few years. I’d be okay with two…maybe three.” I exhale a shaky breath, imagining a future with Sylas and our kids.
He flashes me a lopsided grin, dimples indenting his cheeks. “And that means no condoms. I’m so here for it.”
I chuckle. “But what about you? This is your life too.”
“You are my life.” He rests his forehead against mine. “I want kids. I want mini yous. Many of them. And I want to marry you.”
That renders me speechless.
“You are my happiness. I want you and only you. Please stop being shocked about that fact. You should’ve seen it coming. I plan to marry you. It’s going to happen.”
Now more tears spill. “Okay, I need you to stop being so sweet and amazing.”
His chuckle is husky. “I just want you to know that no matter what happens, I’m always going to be here. No matter what life throws at us, we’re going to do it together. I promise. Okay?”
I nod. “Okay, Sy.”
I always thought I knew what I would do if I ever saw Sylas again.
I imagined going off on him, using every curse word in both Spanish and English, and throwing in a slap or two.
I pictured feeling confident and on top because I’d be able to confront him and not feel anything for him.
I’d be proud that I walked away and didn’t look back, knowing he was finally left in the past.
I envisioned finally moving on so many times.
But in all those times, I didn’t picture this.
Sylas, sitting on the floor of my bakery, slumped against the display case with a trash can perched between his thighs.
His eyes demoralized, the bags underneath them swollen and dark.
He stares straight ahead at nothing in particular.
There’s an empty, faraway look as he sits there, motionless, still clinging on to the bin.
“Hey.” I crouch in front of him, and my fingers jerk at my side, contemplating whether I want to reach out to touch him.
I almost don’t, but against my better judgment, I rest my palm on his knee, gently squeezing.
That seems to finally draw him out of his trance.
“Why don’t you drink some water?” I lean forward, picking up the bottle and uncapping it for him.
Even with the bin of vomit, I catch a whiff of tobacco and wonder if he’s been smoking again, then scold myself for letting it concern me. “Here, please drink.”
He nods stiffly before taking large gulps. I squeeze his knee again.
“No, small ones. You drink too much, too fast, you might throw up again.”
He does as I instruct and then sets the bottle down, his somber gaze meeting mine. “How did you know that?”
“I threw up a lot my first trimester.” Flashbacks of me running to the bathroom first thing in the morning spring to mind. “I quickly learned what helped and what didn’t.”
“What helped?” he asks, seeming genuinely intrigued.
My heart lurches, remembering how many times I wished he were there, thinking if he had been, he’d hold my hair.
He had after one too many times of partying hard.
I’d always say never again, and he’d say it didn’t matter because he’d always be there to hold my hair.
But he wasn’t there when it mattered the most.
“Not much. I’d just wait it out. Though I did make sure to stay away from bacon. The smell disgusted me.”
“I’m sorry,” he croaks, eyes drifting shut briefly before they lift despondently back to mine. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to—”
“Stop.” I press my lips tight, straining not to blink to ease the pressure growing. “Stop apologizing.”