34. Homecoming
34
HOMECOMING
Miles
My muscles ache. My bones are tired. This is how I usually feel after a long road trip that starts in Montreal and ends in Denver in the afternoon.
The difference this time? My mind won’t settle. Normally, when I come home, my thoughts calm, ready to crash right along with my body. But tonight, when I punch in the code and hear the soft click of the lock, something inside me both settles and speeds up.
It’s a surprising feeling—contentment and excitement mixed into one intoxicating cocktail.
And anticipation. Will she be here? Did she leave already, like we’d planned? Even if she did, I know where I’d be. I’d get in my car and find her. I’d bang on her door until she let me up, curl up beside her, and beg her to tell me about the last several days.
That certainty powers me forward as I slowly, quietly push open the door to my house .
The room is cloaked in that in-between glow of twilight, where the edges of objects blur into the quiet. Only a few lights are on, their dim glow casting soft, golden pools onto the hardwood. Shadows stretch lazily across the walls, unthreatening, folding the room in calm.
I step inside, careful not to break the spell of the stillness or disturb whatever traces of her linger. The scent of vanilla and brown sugar is a warm, sweet tether to her. Her things are here: a couple of books on the table, her phone too, but also her duffel bag—and that feels all wrong.
I tense at the sight of it, but it also awakens something in me. Something urgent.
I toe off my shoes. Cindy’s the first to notice me. She pops her head out from under a soft, gray fleece on the couch and bounds toward me, her tiny body wiggling with joy. I scoop her up, nuzzling her warm little face, but when I glance back at the couch, I see why the others haven’t followed.
Leighton is there.
She’s asleep, curled up in the corner of the couch, her face serene in the dim light. A blanket tangles around her legs, and a photography book rests on her chest, her fingers still loosely curled around it. Bippity meets my gaze but lies pressed against her side, tail thumping lazily as she refuses to budge.
I know the feeling, girl.
For a moment, I just stand there, utterly charmed by how seamlessly Leighton fits into my life. She looks like she’s been a part of this house—of my life—for years.
My steps are quiet but my heart thunders as I close the distance. I kneel, brushing a stray hair from her cheek, and Bippity’s tail picks up its tempo. Still, Leighton doesn’t stir. Her steady breaths fill the room, a soft cadence against the hush of the home.
I start to step back, not wanting to wake her, but her eyes flutter open. They’re unfocused at first, heavy with sleep, but then they meet mine.
“Hey,” I say, my chest squeezing.
She sighs softly, her lips curling into a faint, dreamy smile. “Hi,” she whispers, her voice rough and warm with sleep.
My chest tightens. It’s the most perfect moment I’ve experienced in ages—more perfect than a goal, more than a hat trick—and I don’t want it to end.
“Don’t go,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
Her smile deepens, and she nestles back into the blanket. “I won’t,” she murmurs, her words wrapping around me like the night itself.
And just like that, everything feels right.
Yes, there are reasons to hold back, beyond the obvious. She could leave me, like Joanne did. She could decide she’d rather not cause any complications with her father. She could also figure she’d rather not try something brand new with a hockey player whose body has already been broken—someone who’s been injured and could be again. Someone who, by his own admission, was deeply unhappy when he wasn’t playing.
She could choose all that and not choose me.
But none of that stops me from wanting her. From wanting to open up to her. From wanting to know her more, better, again and again.
“How did it go?” I ask softly, tipping my chin toward the pack.
She yawns, stretching lazily, and murmurs, “They’re kind of into me. ”
Her gaze drops to the dogs snuggled against her, Bippity tucked into her side and Cindy now curled at her feet.
“I get it,” I say, meeting her eyes so she knows just how much I mean it.
She smiles as she pets Boo, who pokes his head out from under the cover. “You do?” she asks, like she already knows the answer.
“So much.” There’s a pause, then I ask, “Nice to have a quiet house, huh?”
“It was bliss. Not once did they argue about their feelings—except over who gets fed first and which dogs they hate on walks.”
I laugh, leaning closer and resting a hand on her hip. She responds immediately, a slight tremble under my fingers. It’s gorgeous, like her body’s telling the truth her words won’t quite yet. I let my hand curl around her, squeezing gently.
“I’m glad. I feel like your roomies are awful.”
“They are.” She pauses, breathes in deeply like she’s inhaling something sweet. “Your place is the opposite,” she says, her voice soft. “I love the quiet.”
There’s something poetic about her loving the silence. It’s tempting to comment on it—to point out why—but maybe it doesn’t need to be said. Maybe she just likes the quiet.
“Do you want me to stop talking?” I tease.
She shakes her head, her smile easy, and says, “Tell me about your trip.” She lifts her hand above the blanket, sliding it down to my palm on her hip.
Her fingers curl through mine, and all the air rushes from my lungs. Everything in me feels hot, needy. Our fingers link, and I don’t censor myself—I give her the truth of the trip. I tell her everything she asked. I don’t skip over the parts about her dad.
“Coach seemed pleased with how I handled the press conference in Montreal,” I say, my voice steady, “and with how I’ve been talking to the other players.”
“That’s good. It’s happening, isn’t it?”
I take a deep breath, letting the weight of this opportunity sink in. I’m proving myself as a co-captain. “I think so. It’s kind of wild. I’m glad…and ready to lead.” Except…I hesitate, then admit something hard. “Most of the time. Other times, I’m not so sure.”
Her expression softens. “Why would you think you’re not ready?”
Her question is gentle, like she knows how hard it is for me to say this out loud. Normally, I project confidence. That’s how I get through life. I’m the resilient one. The optimist. I work hard, focus, stay responsible, and move forward. But sometimes, I’m not that guy.
“I wonder if I’m taking on too much,” I say. “And if the guys will listen to me.” There’s more to it though. Something I can’t avoid. But tonight is for honesty. “And I wonder how the team would see me…” My gaze roams up and down her. “If they knew. About this.”
She exhales heavily, her grip on my hand tightening—a reassurance, like she’s saying we’re in this together. Or maybe I just want to believe that.
“But I know you’d make a great leader,” she says firmly. “You care enough to worry—that’s the difference. You have this calm confidence, this sense of purpose. You always seem to know exactly what to say. You’re going to be great, even when it’s hard. I really believe that.”
Her faith lifts me up. It’s everything I needed. “Vulnerability isn’t easy for me,” I say .
“I think you are with me though. Vulnerable.”
I take a deep breath. “I’m a lot of things with you that I’m not with other people.”
“Like what?”
Like falling for her —that’s what. I want to take care of her, watch her shine, cook for her, come home to her. But I can’t put all of that on her—not yet.
“Vulnerable,” I repeat. “Open. A little obsessed.”
That’s a lie. I’m a lot obsessed.
“Yeah?” she asks, sounding enchanted.
“Yes. I’ve been thinking about you. I think about you all the time, Leighton. I probably think about you too much.”
She lets go of my hand, reaching for my face, her thumb gliding along my jawline, her touch featherlight and maddening. I stay still, frozen in her touch, but the tension vibrates through my entire body as she looks at me. When her lips part slightly, everything in me tightens and unravels at the same time.
And then, I break.
I bend, leaning in, and crush my mouth to hers.