Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Iwoke up with Dani pressed against me. For a few long, silent moments, I lay there, letting the heat of her body warm me while my eyes followed the subtle rise and fall of her chest, listening to the steady rhythm of her breath.
Dani shifted beside me. Her eyes fluttered open, sleepy, heavy-lidded; she smiled faintly, half embarrassed and half mischievous. I reached out without thinking and brushed the hair away from her face, my fingers lingering at the edge of her jaw.
“Good morning,” she murmured, her voice husky from sleep.
“Morning,” I quietly returned.
She rolled onto her back and sighed. “I hate that I have to go.”
My fingertips found the defined ridge of her collarbone and the hollow of her throat. “Practice?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Mmhm,” she confirmed. “Coach loves his early morning drills.”
She tried to smile, but the troubled crease in the center of her forehead gave her away. They weren’t empty words—she really didn’t want to leave this tiny bubble we’d made overnight.
“Can I make you coffee to go?” I offered.
“You’re perfect.”
I leaned closer and pressed a quick kiss to the tip of her nose. “I know.”
I slipped out of bed and retrieved my t-shirt from the floor. I could feel the previous night in my muscles and joints when I bent over. It was a deep, satisfying ache that hadn’t been there before.
I padded the few steps to the kitchen and filled the coffee maker. I dug through the cupboards for a travel mug and poured the coffee, letting the aroma fill the small apartment. It was a little act, tiny and domestic, but it felt like caring for her in the only way I could right now.
When I returned to bed, she’d already dressed in her clothes from the previous night and was sitting at the edge of the mattress.
I handed her the coffee tumbler, but she immediately set it on the floor. Before I could question what she was doing, her warm fingers had curved around my wrist and she was gently tugging me down to straddle her lap.
She swept my hair over one shoulder so her lips could gain purchase to the other side of my neck. My eyes nearly rolled back when her lips made first contact near my pulse point.
“I wish I had time to take you like this,” she quietly growled. “Make you ride my fingers.”
Her hands settled on my bare thighs. If I’d been groggy before, my entire body was now electrified.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” I lightly warned.
“Fuuuuuuuck,” she groaned, drawing out the word.
I couldn’t help the subtle flex of my hips. “Are you sure you have to get to practice?” I teased.
The fingers resting on my upper thighs tightened. “Can’t be playing hooky just because there’s a beautiful woman on my lap,” she murmured. “I gotta set a good example for the rookies.”
I ground down on her, just a little more, hard enough to make my own breath hitch. “Seems-seems like a good excuse to miss practice,” I stuttered.
Her fingers slowly inched up the lower hem of my t-shirt. Her fingertips ghosted across my inner thighs, inches away from where I needed her the most.
Her wandering fingers eventually stilled, and I heard her heavy exhale.
“I don’t wanna burn up too fast.”
My body was wound tight, but I resignedly sighed as well.
She was right. We’d agreed to go slow—to take our time with this thing we were carefully reconstructing.
One night together didn’t mean the floodgates were automatically open again.
We could stoke this fire, but we couldn’t let it consume us.
I stood up first and helped her to her feet even though she didn’t really need the assist. It was just another reason to be touching her. Our fingers tangled as we walked the short distance from the bed to my front door. Neither of us reached for the door handle.
She leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to my cheek, soft and lingering. “Thank you for the coffee,” she murmured. “And thank you for last night.”
My eyes cast to the floor. “You’re welcome. For both.”
Her fingertips caught my chin and she tilted my head back up. Her lips pressed softly into mine, moving slowly, languid, like we had all the time in the world.
“When can I see you again?” she asked.
“How about right now?” came my reflexive reply.
“Okay,” she agreed, far too easily.
“No. You have to go,” I resisted.
“I know,” she agreed.
Her tone was reluctant, and she rested her forehead against mine for a moment that stretched impossibly long.
I could feel the lingering warmth of her breath against my skin, the tiny pressure of her fingers still on mine.
I wanted to freeze time, to stop the world from intruding on this perfect, fragile space.
Finally, I gave her a light, playful shove. “Go! You’re going to be late!”
Her laugh was low and soft. “Totally worth it.”
She pressed her forehead against mine one last time, and then pulled away. I held the front door for her, brushing a hand along the small of her back, a gesture that felt almost forbidden in its intimacy.
She tipped her coffee mug in my direction, a final gesture of thanks.
The door clicked softly behind her, and I leaned back against it, letting out a long, slow breath that had been stuck in my chest.
The tiny apartment felt enormous and empty without her there, the sheets still warm and smelling faintly like her, and I let myself flop backward onto the ancient spring mattress with a soft groan.
I buried my face in the pillow, letting the lingering scent of her fill my senses. The memory of the previous night invaded my thoughts—the soft, hesitant touches, the sighs and whispered names, the gentle exploration that had left both of us breathless and trembling.
I curled into my pillow and let out a long sigh, the kind that carried both contentment and longing. My mind kept returning to little fragments—the brush of her hair against my shoulder, the faint weight of her head on my chest, the way she had murmured my name in the dark.
After a few minutes, I sat up and ran a hand through my hair, catching the faint tangles.
I leaned over to the nightstand and picked up my phone, absentmindedly scrolling, but my mind wasn’t on anything else.
I was still wrapped around her presence, the warmth, the scent, the soft, aching intimacy of everything that had happened.
And then there was a knock at the door. My stomach jumped, and for a brief, ridiculous moment, hope lit me like a flare. Maybe it was her. Maybe she had forgotten something. Maybe she had decided to play hooky from practice, maybe she’d come back just to linger a little longer, maybe—.
I jumped out of bed, my heart thumping, and rushed toward the door. I twisted the doorknob and yanked the door open, my eyes wide, anticipation curling in my stomach.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “It’s you.”
Her knowing smirk widened. “Expecting someone else?”
I groaned. “Mom, can we not?”
“Not what, dear? Pretend that I didn’t see Dani leaving your apartment bright and early with a to-go coffee in hand?”
Heat flushed my cheeks. “She stayed over because of the snow.”
At least that was the flimsy excuse I’d come up with on the spot.
“Mmhm.” My mom pushed past me to enter my space. “And how many nights has it snowed since you’ve been back?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to summon patience. “She’s stayed over twice. But it’s not what you think.”
My mom settled onto one of the kitchen stools and looked like she had every intention of staying. “Oh, please,” she clucked. “You were practically glued to her back in college. She couldn’t so much as sneeze without you asking if she needed a tissue. And then she—”
“Mom, stop.” I interrupted before she could finish the thought.
Her face softened, but her eyes stayed sharp. “You don’t have to defend her to me, you know. I’ve already forgiven her for breaking your heart.”
“She didn’t,” I blurted before I could think better of it.
My mom blinked. “She didn’t what?”
“Break my heart.” I bit my lip, feeling the weight of her scrutiny. “It was … complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
I stared down at my hands, trying to find the right words.
“It was my idea,” I confessed. “To break up, I mean. Dani didn’t want to, but I told her it was for the best. We were in different places with her chasing a position on the Olympic team and me just starting my own career.
I thought long-distance would ruin us, so I ended it before it could get messy. ”
My mom was silent for a long, hard moment. “You let me think all this time that it was her fault?”
“It wasn’t about blame,” I sighed. “I didn’t think it mattered. She moved on, and so did I.”
“Did you?” she gently challenged.
“Yes,” I said too quickly.
My mom’s eyebrow arched, and I groaned.
“Mostly. I don’t know. I thought I had, but now we’re spending all this time together, and it’s complicated all over again.”
My mom leaned forward. “Let me ask you something. If it wasn’t her fault—if you didn’t break up because of some irreparable problem—what’s stopping you from trying again?”
“Fifteen years, for starters,” I said. “We’re different people now. And my job—”
“Your job is not a reason to keep your heart locked up.” She tilted her head, studying me. “You’re scared. And that’s okay. But you don’t have to punish yourself—or her—for a choice you made when you were barely old enough to know what you wanted.”
I slumped back onto my unmade bed. “But what if it’s not the same?”
My mom’s smile brightened. “What if it’s better?”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
I reached blindly for my phone on the nightstand and squinted against the brightness when the screen lit up.
No texts. No missed calls. Nothing from her.
That shouldn’t have meant anything. It didn’t mean anything. People had lives—morning skates, early lifts, schedules that didn’t revolve around me. Plus, it had only been one night.
One night that had been building for weeks.
I forced myself out of bed before I could spiral any further.
Coffee first. Then I’d deal with the rest of it—sideline work prep, the feature pieces I had open in half-finished drafts, the emails from Mark I’d been ignoring. Dani Callahan not texting me memes was the least of my worries.
I padded into the kitchen, my phone still in hand. My thumb was already moving on autopilot—emails, social media notifications, the usual morning scroll.
And then I saw it.
At first, it was just another headline: USA Hockey Announces Updated Player Eligibility Policy
I almost scrolled past it, but something about the phrasing made me stop. Maybe it was the word updated. Maybe it was the timing. Maybe it was the way my brain, already half-guilty and half-dreading anything hockey-related that wasn’t Dani, latched onto it before I could look away.
The article loaded slowly, the text snapping into place line by line. I skimmed the story first—a habit of efficiency, the way I always read when I was looking for the hook, the angle, the thing that actually mattered.
And then the words started to land.
USA Hockey has announced a revised policy regarding the participation of transgender athletes.
My stomach tightened, and I kept reading.
The new policy, which replaces the organization’s 2019 inclusion guidelines, restricts participation in gender-designated divisions based on sex assigned at birth.
My thumb froze mid-scroll.
No. That couldn’t be right.
I scrolled back up, slower this time, and read the words again.
Replaces the 2019 inclusion guidelines.
Restricts participation based on sex assigned at birth.
This wasn’t a small policy tweak. It was a full reversal.
“Jesus,” I said aloud.
I leaned back against the kitchen counter, the edge pressing into my spine. The coffee maker sat untouched beside me, the grounds still dry in the filter. I clutched my phone too tight and kept reading.
The policy applies to all USA Hockey-sanctioned play, including youth leagues, amateur divisions, and adult recreational leagues.
I let out a sharp breath that didn’t feel like enough oxygen.
All levels. All ages. Kids learning how to skate. Teenagers chasing scholarships. Adults who just wanted to show up after work, drink cheap beer, and spend an hour on the ice.
This wasn’t some local league making a bad call—this was USA Hockey. They were the rulebook everyone followed, from Mighty Mites who could barely stay upright on their skates all the way to the Olympics. There wasn’t anywhere this policy wouldn’t reach.
Charlotte.
I pushed off the counter and moved to the couch, dropping down hard enough that the cushions bounced. The article kept going, outlining new procedures, eligibility requirements, and the absence of any meaningful pathway for trans athletes to participate in accordance with their gender.
No nuance. No accommodation. Just a flat out institutional NO.
I thought about the notes sitting untouched on my laptop. The interview transcripts. Charlotte’s voice, bright and earnest and a little nervous, talking about her youth hockey team like it was the best part of her week.
I pressed my lips together.
I’d told myself I needed more time. That I wanted to get it right. That a story like this couldn’t be rushed. But that wasn’t the whole truth.
I’d been busy. Busy being distracted. Busy being wanted.
Late nights with Dani had blurred into early mornings. I’d attended practices I had no real reason to be at except that she was there. Dinners had stretched late into the evening when I should have been writing.
I tipped my head back against the couch and closed my eyes.
“I’ve been selfish,” I said quietly.
I opened my eyes again and looked at my phone, the article still glowing on the screen. My reflection stared back at me. A journalist who hadn’t written the story that suddenly mattered now even more than it had a week ago.
My laptop sat on the coffee table, exactly where I’d left it yesterday. Closed. Waiting.
Charlotte didn’t have the luxury of waiting, and neither did anyone else this policy touched.
And I had been—what? Flirting?
I reached for my laptop. The hinge creaked softly as I flipped it open and the screen lit up, casting a pale glow across the room.
My notes were there, exactly as I’d left them. Charlotte’s name was at the top of the document. Bullet points. Half-formed thoughts. Quotes from her parents that I’d highlighted and skipped past, telling myself that I’d come back to it later.
The cursor blinked at me, steady and expectant.
Alone with the glow of my laptop, I set my hands on the keyboard and started to type.
She only wants to play hockey with her friends.
And I kept going.