Chapter Nine Jamie #2
This isn't actually my first time back on the ice.
Besides, he and I won't be doing anything vigorous enough to piss off my broken leg.
If I'm sore at all, it'll be from working to keep him upright.
Then it doesn't take long for me to realize he can skate just fine.
He's lacking finesse and speed, but he's fine.
It doesn't stop me from reaching out for him when I can.
After several minutes of skating the perimeter, I grab us a couple of sticks and a bucket of pucks.
His years of soccer make him no stranger to anything I have him try now, but I have a great time teaching him the finer points of the game I love.
We pass back and forth, and he gets better at maneuvering around me.
I'm as happy when he scores now as I was back when my own goals counted toward something real.
"Someday we'll do this on one of your frozen lakes," he tells me.
I really want that to be true.
A few weeks later, Christmas Eve passes with only a few texts.
I'm not bothered by it, because for the first time ever, Mateo and I will have the chance to celebrate together.
We have to wait until Christmas night, after Harper has gone to Danielle's and Mateo has fulfilled a much longer list of family obligations, but then he's at my door.
I'd be mad about the wrapped gift in his hand, but I have something for him, too.
I step aside with a grin that feels like it belongs to him these days.
My house is only lit by the strings of lights I have everywhere—on our giant Douglas fir and the garland draped over the patio doors and wrapped around the banister—but it's enough for me to see him well.
I appreciate his thick sweater and messy hair and the stubble pressed to my cheek the moment he sets the present on the coffee table.
We hug for a long time, mostly quiet about it when the sensation itself is overwhelming.
When I finally take a step back, I leave him on the sectional while I pour Bailey's and hot cocoa for both of us. Christmas music plays softly enough to keep us company without interrupting whatever conversations we'll have. Once we've taken a few sips, I nod toward the gifts.
"I kinda hate that we've never done this before."
Mateo touches two fingertips to my lips. "Stop looking back. We're doing it now."
"Mmmm, yeah, okay. Open yours first."
He drops his hand and reaches for the present I wrapped earlier, but he studies me, too.
I'm sure he knows I'm impatient and that I love being given things.
Wanting someone else to open anything before I can is wholly unlike me.
I also think he knows he's the exception to at least a few rules, so he slides his finger under the tape and tears as gently as anyone ever has.
When he gets to the box, he's careful with it, too.
I'm close to yelling that nothing I could give him is that precious.
I'd be lying, of course. This present means something, and he already understands that much.
"Oh. God. This is—Jamie," he chokes. There are questions he wants to ask when he lifts my jersey and brings it to his nose without thinking.
His eyes fall closed and I give him time.
It's clean, nothing about the scent giving him an answer, but it's obviously worn, and he cradles it for a while.
When he looks at me again, Christmas lights dance in tears that don't fall, and he shakes his head. "When? What games?"
"Don't worry. It's not what I was wearing in the last one. I'd rather not give you a reason to imagine that broken version of me."
"But I was—" Mateo stops and frowns, then shakes his head.
"You were what?"
"No, it's—I don't want you to hide any version of yourself from me," he says, shaking his head one more time before he takes a deep breath. "Tell me, though. Please. When did you wear this?"
"Throughout the playoffs, the first year we won the Cup."
"Are you serious?"
I am, and I deflect with a small huff of laughter. "It wasn't my Conn Smythe season."
"I would've been happy with something you wore for a ridiculous photoshoot. This is so far beyond anything anyone has ever given me. Thank you."
"You're welcome, and I'm glad you like it, but I'm gonna guess this is more than a board game or a holiday sausage," I say, pulling the other present into my lap.
"It is."
It is.
For someone who once gave me shit about trespassing, Mateo doesn't seem to have hesitated to climb halfway to my backyard without my knowledge.
I run my finger around the simple black frame, unwilling to smudge the glass.
I don't look up yet because I'm unable to speak.
The photo is matted, and I stare at that blank space for several seconds before I refocus on the details captured by the man waiting silently next to me.
He took the picture at night, but the moon might've been full, the bench lit up beautifully even as it's guarded by the brush surrounding it.
There's a blanket there too, folded neatly where either of us could sit if I took his hand and walked him outside right now.
It's where we started. It's where I told him I'd wait for him.
It's where both of us confessed we hadn't waited as well as I wish we could have.
But nothing has ended there, and maybe this is a promise that it won't.
"Thank you, Mateo," I say. "I love it."
His fingertips touch my cheek, painfully light there. "And I love you."
That holiday high lasts for a while. We don't spend New Year's together, but we escape to Santa Monica for an amazing birthday dinner.
The restaurant is the kind of place frequented by friends as often as lovers, and we keep our hands to ourselves until we're back in his apartment. Then Mateo holds me all night.
The soccer season wraps up, the team falling short of a championship.
They fought hard until the end and will be proud of themselves once the sting of the loss fades.
Harper isn't the only senior who will play in college next year, though she is the only one headed up to Seattle.
There are some tears at the banquet when those distances sink in.
She wins a couple of awards and takes pictures with everyone who stays still long enough.
Mateo congratulates her with a smile I know well.
I'm quiet that night because my loss will become my gain. Harper's impending graduation is the only day likely to leave me feeling even more conflicted than I am now.
If I'd stopped to predict the future, I would've expected those last months to drag on forever.
Instead, so many things are happening as the end of the school year approaches.
Harper's AP classes are preparing for exams, she's picked up extra hours at work, she flies up to Washington for spring break, and she weeps briefly over the end of another relationship.
I make a couple of local appearances for charity and get invited to L.A.
for several more broadcasts. I also take long-distance calls from people who want to talk about an opportunity they think may suit me well.
I'm surprised, but I don't disagree. When meetings are proposed, I travel to them without thinking.
In hindsight, I should've wanted everything to slow down.
Mateo and I remain so close, still sneaking away if our schedules allow, or curling up at home whenever it's possible.
We've kept our promises about the lines we can't cross, but it's easy to get lost in him when he touches me in ways nobody ever has.
There are nights I think I need to pull away, for his sake.
I stay where I am for mine.
"I'm chaperoning prom again this year," he tells me in early May.
I want to tell him he doesn't have to worry about me, but I'm not sure that's ever been less true. I force a smile instead. "Harper will be there, too."
Those next couple of weeks are a whirlwind, anticipation leaving all of us to hold our breaths. Things are about to change, and it feels like sparks are flying in so many directions. As much as everything about them is beautiful, I'm worried about how soon they'll start a fire.
As it turns out, the answer is the morning of prom. Someone I've known for a while offers me the only way to hurt Mateo more than I did one year ago, and I take it.
I tell myself I don't have time to dwell on my decision when I've promised to take Harper to brunch.
We relax there, and I hear more about the group of friends—a dozen adorably platonic pairings—who will share limos and a dinner reservation.
She reminds me of their plans to spend the night at Lizzie's house after they’ve danced for hours, her parents braver than I am.
We run a few errands after that, picking up last-minute accessories she swears she needs before she goes anywhere tonight.
When we return home, she blasts music and showers while I fuck around on my phone, looking for headlines I won't find until Monday.
I consider calling Kai, but he has the bar to deal with.
I think stopping by to see him tomorrow morning will be better for both of us.
"I'm gonna go. We're getting our hair done in, like, twenty minutes?
" Harper says, hurrying down the stairs.
She's holding a garment bag and a small suitcase because Danielle never taught her to pack light while I was on the road.
"You've been crawling out of your skin all day, so do you need to have a whole 'dad moment' about this, or can I promise to send you a million selfies to calm you down? "
I ignore the observation and answer the question. "A million selfies will do. Text me when you get back to Lizzie's after the dance. Text me again whenever you wake up tomorrow."