Chapter 28 Max
TWENTY-EIGHT
MAX
Two weeks. That’s all it’s been since the storm and the weekend I’ll never admit to anyone.
Two weeks since the first time I dragged him into the injury room and kissed him like I was drowning.
Since I started slipping into his dorm at night, most times just to cuddle and watch his ridiculous Christmas movies, to feel him breathing against me until he falls asleep.
Two weeks of practices filled with his teasing. Two weeks of trying—and failing—not to smile when he looks at me. Two weeks of pretending I’m paying attention in my classes.
And now Christmas break is staring me down like a loaded gun. Three weeks. Three whole weeks without him if he goes home. When he goes home, we both know he will.
The thought makes something dark coil low in my chest. I don’t want him to leave.
I want him right here—loud and ridiculous, humming carols off-key, spilling peppermint latte foam down his chin and grinning at me like he knows I’ll wipe it away.
I want him pressed against me in the dark, curled up warm in his bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
But wanting it doesn’t make it fair. Doesn’t make it right.
Because I’m the one who keeps us hidden. I’m the one who shuts the door, makes the rules, and insists no one can know. Even if it’s getting harder and harder to do. And still, here I am, selfish as hell, wishing he’d pick me over his family.
I rake a hand through my hair, staring at the half-empty med kit on the counter like it’s got answers.
All it’s got is tape and gauze, the same things I use to hold the guys together when they play hurt.
Nothing for this. Nothing for the ache that’s been gnawing at me since Eli mentioned his ticket home.
He deserves more than a secret. He deserves someone who can stand next to him in daylight without flinching.
But when I picture him gone—gone for weeks, out of my bed, out of my reach—it feels like tearing something vital straight out of me.
And god help me, I don’t know if I can let him go.
Footsteps tap down the hall. I don’t have to look up to know who it is.
“Trainer check-up time,” Eli singsongs, voice still hoarse from practice. When I finally glance up, he’s there—hair damp from the shower, shirt tugged on half-crooked, leaning against the exam table like he owns the place.
I try to play it straight, clipboard in hand. “Pretty sure I just cleared you yesterday.”
“Yeah, well, better safe than sorry.” He winks, like we’re both in on the same dirty joke. Which—hell—we are.
I set the clipboard down and turn to shut the door, but my chest’s already tight because I can tell he’s building to something. That little bounce of his knee, the way his gaze flicks toward me and then away.
“So,” he says lightly once the door is between us and the locker room, “Christmas break. Three weeks. My dad’s expecting me home, but…” His eyes cut to mine, steady now, holding me there. “…I want you to come.”
The words knock the breath out of me.
I grip the counter, searching for something to say, but he’s already moving, reaching into his bag as he pushes off the exam table when I don’t move. A folded slip of paper lands next to my hand.
A plane ticket. With my name on it.
Eli leans in, casual like he’s not detonating my whole world. “Already booked it. Round trip. Leaves Friday.”
My throat’s dry. My pulse hammers. “Eli…”
He just looks at me, eyes too damn open, voice softer now. “I don’t want three weeks without you, Max.”
The ticket sits between us, heavy as a confession. And all I can think is how selfish I’ve been, keeping him in the dark, keeping us hidden. How much more selfish it would be to take this—to take him—when I can’t even give him everything he deserves.
And still, every bone in my body is screaming to say yes.
I drag a hand over my face, torn in half, but when I look back at him, he’s still there. Waiting. Hoping.
And I break.
“Fine,” I rasp, the word catching in my throat. I grab the ticket, crumpling the edge in my fist. “I’ll go.”
Relief flashes across his face so fast it guts me. His grin is soft, bright, and he leans against the counter next to me as if I just handed him the whole damn world.
“You’re not gonna regret it,” he says, and his voice is so sure it makes my chest ache.
I swallow hard because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that I already regret every secret, every lie of omission, every time I’ve kissed him in the dark but couldn’t reach for him in the light.
But three weeks without him? That would’ve been worse.
So I’ll make the selfish choice. I’ll choose him. And god help me, I’ll pretend it’s enough.
The word still feels jagged in my throat. Yes.
I didn’t mean to say it. Not out loud. Not when it changes everything. But Eli’s standing there, grin splitting his face like I just handed him the goddamn moon, and I can’t take it back.
His shoulder brushes mine, warm and steady, and I can feel the energy humming off him—pure joy, as if he’s too full to hold it in. “No take-backs,” he says, his voice low with triumph.
I press my lips together, fighting the ache crawling up my chest. He has no idea what he’s asking me to step into. No idea what ghosts I’d be walking into that house with, even if it isn’t my own.
But when I glance sideways, catch the brightness in his blue eyes, I know I’m fucked. He’s already got me. And worse? I want him to.
“Guess not,” I mutter, trying to make my tone gruff, but it comes out soft instead.
He beams, practically bouncing where he stands, and my ribs tighten with something that feels too close to happiness. Too dangerous.
I stare down at the crumpled edge of the ticket still clenched in my hand. Like if I let it go, the whole fragile thing between us might vanish too.
It shouldn’t feel like this. It’s supposed to be temporary—just stolen nights, quiet touches no one can see. But every time I draw a line, he doesn’t just blur it; he burns right through it.
And I don’t stop him.
Hell, I can’t.
I clear my throat, force myself to move, to drop the gloves I forgot I’d been holding into the kit, to do anything that looks like control. “You better warn your mom,” I say finally, rough, aiming for humor but missing the mark. “She might regret inviting the Grinch into her house.”
His laugh breaks open the room, bright and unbothered. And it guts me—because he really believes I belong there.
Eli hops back up onto the exam table like he can’t sit still, swinging his legs, grinning like he’s already won the Stanley Cup. “Grinch or not, my mom’s gonna love you. She loves everyone. But she will especially love you.”
The certainty in his voice makes my throat tight. Like he doesn’t even question it. Like it’s already decided.
I shake my head, trying to keep my face neutral. “She hasn’t met me yet.”
“She doesn’t have to.” He shrugs, casual, like this is the easiest thing in the world. “Trust me, you walk through the door, and she’ll shove pie in your hands before you can say peppermint latte.”
I grunt, half amused, half strangled. “Pie fixes everything for you, doesn’t it?”
His grin turns wicked, blue eyes flashing. “Not everything. But it helps. You’ll see.”
The way he says you’ll see—as though it’s already settled, and I’m already there, in his world, in his family—it burrows deep into me. Dangerous.
I lean back against the counter, folding my arms across my chest as if that can hold me together. “I don’t exactly scream family-holiday chaos, Starling.”
“You don’t have to scream it,” he says, softer now, eyes steady on mine. “You just have to…show up. That’s all. I’ll do the rest.”
Show up. Christ, does he even know what he’s asking?
I look down at the ticket again, the sharp black letters of my name across it.
He breaks the silence first, tipping his head with a grin that’s pure mischief. “I can already picture you in one of those ugly Christmas sweaters.”
I snort. “Not happening.”
“Oh, it’s happening. You’ll cave.” He winks, leaning closer, as though he can already see it. “Bet I can get you in one before Christmas Eve.”
“Not a chance,” I mutter, but his laugh—bright and unrestrained—hooks something low in my gut.
I shouldn’t want this. Not sweaters, not pie, not a place at his table. Not three weeks of pretending I could belong anywhere near him in daylight.
But the truth is staring me in the face. I want it more than I’ve wanted anything in years.
And I don’t think I'm strong enough to stop myself.
Eli slides off the table, the springs squeaking softly under his weight. “Better finish your checkups, Calder,” he says with a grin that should be illegal. “Wouldn’t want to keep the guys waiting just because I distracted you.”
I don’t even try to hide the low sound that escapes me, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “You’re always a distraction.”
“Good.” He flashes me another grin, bright enough to punch a hole straight through my chest. “See you tonight?”
I nod before I can think better of it. “Yeah.” My voice comes out rough. “Tonight.”
He wiggles his eyebrows at me, all sunshine and teasing, as though we’re not standing on the edge of something neither of us has words for yet. “Guess I better go search for the perfect ugly sweater,” he says, and then he’s moving toward the door, an extra spring to his step.
For a second, I don’t move. I just watch him. The way his damp hair curls at his temple. The faint marks on his throat that are my doing. The casual confidence in the way he walks, like the whole world belongs to him.
He glances back once before he leaves, catches my eyes, and the smile he gives me is so open it makes my breath catch. Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me alone with the smell of him still lingering in the room.
I drop the ticket to the counter and drag a hand over my face. My pulse is still hammering. My palms are damp. I feel like I’ve just worked out hard after running a marathon—shaky, spent, but wired.
Christ. I’m in trouble.
I lean on the edge of the counter, staring at the ticket still lying there like it’s burning a hole through the laminate. Three weeks. His family. His world. He wants me there. He wants me.
And I’m…God, I’m falling. Harder than I ever meant to.
I thought I could keep this light. Hidden. Just a storm we’d get through. But every time he walks away, every time he throws that smile at me like I hung the moon, it pulls me under.
And as much as I want to protect him from what I am—what I’ve lived—there’s another part of me that wants to cross the room and follow him, drag him back, and tell him everything. Every scar. Every fear. Every reason this is a bad idea.
Instead, I stand here, staring at the door he just walked through, with his scent still clinging to my lungs and the echo of his grin lodged behind my ribs.
Tonight, like every night, I’ll end up in his room. Pretend it’s casual. Pretend it’s just movies, or just keeping him from being lonely. Pretend it’s not the only place I can breathe.
It’s pathetic how fast I’ve made him into a habit. How my whole day bends around the hour I finally get to see him again.
I should slow down. Should pull back. But all I can think about is the way he looked at me a second ago, like he already knows I’m his.