Chapter 22
NICKY
“Is this a terrible idea?” I ask, trying not to pant the words as I reduce the speed on my treadmill. I glance to my left, where Charlie is on a mat finishing a set of Russian twists. He sets down the ten-pound kettlebell and folds his legs, crisscrossing them underneath him.
“You’re taking your girlfriend out for Valentine’s Day.” He grabs his towel from next to him and wipes his face. He levels me with an unimpressed stare. “I know you guys skipped the dating thing, but this is exactly what you should be doing.”
“It doesn’t feel…lame?” The treadmill screen flashes. I've entered the cool-down phase of my workout—a twenty-minute speed walk—and I exhale hard. The walk wasn’t strenuous in an impossible way, but my body definitely feels the effect. Like stretching the day after a hard game.
Charlie stands, hauling the kettlebell to the rack along the back wall of my garage.
The treadmill beeps, and the band comes to a stop.
I step off and begin stretching, breathing deeply, and paying attention to my heart rate.
It feels strong. Steady. How it’s supposed to, only now, I don’t take it for granted.
“It’s not lame,” Charlie tells me. He stands in front of me, mirroring my poses, and follows my lead. We both grunt and groan when the pull of our muscles burns in just the right way. “It’s romantic. I’m told women like that.”
Charlie’s the youngest guy on the team, drafted right out of high school. In all the time we’ve been friends, he’s never dated anyone. I asked about it once, and he told me if it was something that could distract from the ice, it wasn’t worth his time. But sometimes, I think he might be lonely.
“Ever going to find out for yourself?”
“When I have the best Valentine’s date a guy could ask for, waiting in the house for me?” He hitches his thumb toward the door and smiles at me.
“I don’t think Nat needs all of you to babysit tonight,” I say, finishing a quad stretch. The entire Rubber Puckie crew—minus Leo—and Violet are coming over tonight while I take Bea out on our first official date. “It’s the All-Star break. Shouldn’t you be on vacation?”
“I think we’re going to end up with plenty of vacation this year,” Charlie says. “Postseason might not happen.”
“Yeah.”
I press my lips together firmly, biting back the apology I want to give. Since my injury, the team has only managed one win. It doesn’t mean the guys can’t find their rhythm again and make a post-break run, but it is definitely a bigger challenge to climb twice in one season.
I finish my stretch, grab the unopened sports drink, and try not to blame myself.
Remembering my therapy session reminds me it wouldn’t be right to shoulder that feeling.
In the world of hockey, it’s entirely possible The Midnight’s ranking would be falling even if I were still in the net.
Things can change that quickly. Players get on hot streaks, teams have easier schedules, or the chemistry just falls apart.
Charlie doesn’t say anything, and I appreciate my friend for letting me move past things in my own way.
We wrap things up and head for the connecting door to the house.
It’s quiet right now, with Natalia at school and Bea out for a while.
I guide us into the kitchen for a snack.
As I pull various things from the fridge and pantry, Charlie checks his phone, a concerned look falling over his face.
“Everything okay?”
“Just notifications on Insta,” he says, swiping at the screen. He sets his phone on the counter and heads for the cabinets. Pulling plates to set next to the food, he changes the subject. “Where’s Bea? Did she go back to the office?”
“Not yet. She says she wants to wait until I’m settled into the rehab program, so maybe another week.
” The truth is, every time I bring it up, Bea doesn’t show any eagerness to return to the facility.
All the reasons she states feel completely justifiable, and I don’t want to push her to return if she is able to stay.
I like having her close, if this is where she wants to be, too.
With practiced efficiency, I fill the plates with Greek yogurt, a hard-boiled egg, mixed berries, and a cup of trail mix. “Grab some glasses.”
Charlie follows my direction. I pour chocolate milk into them and put everything away while Charlie takes his offering around the island to a stool.
Once I’ve cleaned things up, I join him, and we devour the calories in companionable silence.
After weeks of my life being anything but normal, this is exactly how it’s always been between us. And it feels really good.
“I’m going to ask Bea to move in with me—officially—tonight,” I announce.
“Part of me thinks I should point out our earlier discussion about dating her,” Charlie considers, his glass half raised to his lips.
He takes the time to drain it before setting it on the counter to toy with.
“Then again, maybe not all relationships are meant to follow the rules. When you want to be with someone, there shouldn’t be a timeline for how that happens or what it looks like. ”
“Maybe we should call you Yoda.”
“Even if you could drink alcohol, I would never subject you to this.” Bea pushes the pilsner glass away from her plate. “Tastes like piss.”
The waterfront restaurant we’re at boasted “British-influenced food and drink,” and it has been one comedy of errors after another, experiencing it with an actual Brit.
My cheeks hurt from laughing at all the ways Bea initially tried to hide her distaste for the fish and chips, cottage pie, and Yorkshire pudding.
One seemingly worse than its predecessor.
As far as dates go, it’s been a colossal failure.
But I’d have this date every night for the rest of my life if it meant the resplendent woman across from me was on it.
“Is there anything about this place you think they got right?” I ask, smiling. Bea’s face flushes with embarrassment, and she ducks her head a little.
“The water.”
I bark another laugh. Bea’s throaty chuckle mingles with mine at the corner table we occupy.
With the nature of the holiday, I tipped the staff to seclude us as much as possible, and they delivered.
There’s a small partition that blocks most of the rest of the restaurant from view on one side, and the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the wharf are on the other.
Our laughter begins to fade, but the pretty pink flush on Bea’s cheeks stays, and I just stare.
“It’s probably karma for teaching Gus what cottage pie tastes like before teaching you.” Bea sighs. I remember the night before our away trip to Florida, when I wanted her to come over for pizza, but she had plans.
I reach across the table and wrap my hand around hers. It’s smaller, softer, and warmer than my own, and I love the joy it brings me to do this simple thing. I rub my thumb across the back of her knuckles.
“Move in and teach Nat and me this weekend?” I ask.
Bea’s eyes water, and she blinks the gathered tears away.
A beaming smile splits her face, and she nods.
“Good. I know it’s probably a little ridiculous to ask, considering you’ve practically lived with us for a month.
But this way, we can tell Nat that you’re there for more than just helping me. ”
“I think she’s already figured that out. She’s a pretty smart girl. But I’d love to tell her.” Bea smiles, and she’s probably right. We haven’t been meticulously hiding our affection toward each other, and Natalia has taken it in with smiles and giggles.
“Ready for one more place before we go home?” I ask.
“I like the sound of that,” Bea admits.
So do I.
“What are we doing here?” Bea spins around the wood shop, eyes skating over every pile of lumber and the partially completed projects before turning back to me.
The fresh scent of pine and cedar mixes with the floating specks of sawdust in the air, and I usher her closer to a table near the back of the space. On a worktop is an electrical saw and a thin sheet of plywood. Adhered to the plywood is a picture of Bea, Natalia, and me from Halloween.
Natalia and Bea are smiling brightly at each other over twin pink clouds of cotton candy.
There’s a riot of action around them, perfectly unfocused in the camera lens.
Whimsy and fun pour out of the image. I stand just over Bea’s left shoulder.
I remember being surprised she didn’t feel me there, watching with a fondness I carried inside me for the rest of the day.
“Who took this?” Bea asks, running her fingertips along the curves of our faces in the photograph. “I didn’t even know you were there. This photo is beautiful.”
“Because of the subjects,” I tell her. She looks over her shoulder at me, coy and sweet.
“Amelia took it. Sent it to me the next day.” I wrap a hand around her waist, filling the space between her ribcage and hips with ease.
Bea sinks into my hold, and I keep her a little tighter against me, desperate to soak up every ounce of affection.
Because I’ve learned how rare it is, and how quickly it can disappear.
“She thought I’d like it because of how I’m looking at Natalia.
” I drop my head to the curve of her shoulder.
Closer—as close as I can get. “Only, I wasn’t just looking at her. I’m looking at you.”
I swipe aside the mass of styled curls that tumble down her back and press a kiss to the slope of her neck. Soft but lingering. It’s how loving her feels. Her fingers thread through my hair, holding me there.
“I love you,” she says. I turn her in my arms, warmth pulsing through me that she’s finally returned those words.
It hasn’t bothered me that Bea wasn’t ready yet; I’ve felt it in my soul that she does.
Through her actions, through the way she makes me feel, I know that she does.
But hearing the words is a different experience.
Bea’s face is joy—pure, bright joy. And if the silly way happiness bubbles inside my chest is any indication, I probably look the same as her. I cradle her beautiful, smiling face in my hands and drop my forehead to hers.
“Say it again,” I beg, my eyes closing as her lips brush against mine, branding the words into me.
“I love you.” She seals the words with a kiss, her tongue seeking mine, gently stroking before retreating and speaking it again, “I love you.”
“Every day, solnyshka. Tell me every single day.”
She nods. We stand together like that for minutes or hours, I don’t know, but a throat clearing eventually pulls us apart. Breaking from each other, we turn to the door, and the craftsman is standing there in faded jeans and a worn flannel rolled to the elbows.
“Sorry to interrupt.” He gives a kind smile, hooking a thumb through his beltloop.
His salt-and-pepper hair is more salt, the white streaking through what was likely once chestnut brown.
Bert’s blue-green eyes twinkle with mirth as he makes his way toward us.
“I promised my husband I’d be home before ten. ”
“You gave up Valentine’s Day with your husband?” Bea shoots me an annoyed look before softening toward the shop owner. I open my mouth, guilt flashing through me, but Bert holds up a placating hand.
“Aaron passed three years ago,” he explains, rounding the worktable.
He bends down to some drawers to extract gloves and safety goggles.
He spreads them out around the picture. “But when we first bought the store, I promised him I’d always be home by ten.
I’d never let work become more important than the life it supported.
” He slips his fingers into a pair of supple leather work gloves.
“I like to keep my promises, even now. Come on, I’ll get you started. ”
Bea and I reach for gloves and glasses, while Bert plugs the saw into an outlet.
“What exactly are we going to do?” Bea asks. The glasses cover half her face, and the gloves are loose. Against the mulberry-colored sweater and deep indigo jeans she’s wearing, the safety precautions look out of place.
Bert busies himself with gathering materials, giving me a chance to answer her question. I curl a hand around her hip, and she gives me her attention.
“You’re going to cut this picture into a puzzle for us to take home,” I begin.
“Then we’re going to put it together—as a family—and frame it for the mantle.
Every time you look at it, I want you to remember you have the power to put your life together however you want.
A reflection of your design, and we’re going to keep it on display for everyone to see. ”