13. Thane
THIRTEEN
THANE
Coming out to the entire hockey world had been easier than planning a date.
The problem wasn't that I didn't know how to take someone on a date.
The problem was that I cared enough to spend twenty minutes standing in my kitchen that morning, wondering whether driving around looking at Christmas lights was a terrible idea.
I cared enough to ask myself whether it was too simple, too boring, or too ridiculous for a twenty-one-year-old college student who probably had far more exciting options than spending an evening with a hockey player pushing thirty.
The fact that Kieran had already said yes should have made me feel better. Instead, it somehow made everything feel more important. A laugh escaped me as I stopped at a red light. This was absurd. I'd played in playoff games with more composure than I currently possessed.
Seattle rolled past outside the windshield in full Christmas glory. For the first time in years, I found myself actually noticing. Usually, December was games, practices, travel, recovery. Repeat. The holidays happened around me while I focused on the schedule.
This year felt different. The thought followed me all the way across the city. By the time I turned onto Kieran's street, I was smiling again.
His neighborhood wasn't fancy. His apartment suited him. Comfortable. Unpretentious. Real.
I parked at the curb and checked the time. I was fifteen minutes early. For reasons I couldn't explain, that felt preferable to sitting in my condo pretending I wasn't counting down the minutes.
The windshield wipers swept away a thin layer of rain.
Across the street, a couple of kids were decorating a snowman, while a man and woman, perhaps their parents, watched them.
The sight made me smile.
Then my attention shifted toward Kieran’s apartment, and my smile slowly disappeared.
Kieran had stepped outside. For a second, all I could do was look at him.
He wore a dark coat. Jeans. Hair that looked as though he'd spent several minutes trying to convince it to cooperate before eventually giving up.
The sight of him sent a familiar rush of warmth through me.
I hadn't imagined it.
The anticipation.
The excitement.
The ridiculous urge to see him again.
All of it returned the moment our eyes met through the windshield.
Kieran smiled.
And just like that, the rest of the kids, the grown-ups, everything disappeared. My eyes and my mind were focused on Kieran.
A few seconds later, the passenger door opened, and a rush of cold air slipped into the vehicle. He climbed inside, bringing the scent of winter with him, and shut the door behind him.
"Hey."
"Hey, yourself."
His smile widened as he settled into the seat and reached automatically for the cup waiting in the holder beside him. "You brought hot chocolate."
"I remembered what happened the last time you had to choose a beverage."
Kieran laughed immediately. "One whiskey sour and suddenly I'm banned from making decisions?" His laughter filled the vehicle, warm and easy.
I pulled away from the curb and merged into traffic. Neither of us rushed to fill the silence. There was something comfortable about it, as though we'd already established that silence didn't have to be awkward.
But eventually we did talk. About his classes. My game. The fact that Seattle drivers somehow became worse during the holidays. The conversation wandered wherever it wanted to go, and somehow that felt better than anything I'd planned.
"Where are we going?" Kieran finally asked.
"You'll see."
That earned me a suspicious look. "I hate when people say that."
"Good thing you're trapped in a moving vehicle."
His eyes narrowed. "You're lucky you're attractive."
I grinned and focused on the road. "You're judging me right now, aren't you?"
"A little."
"I spent twenty minutes researching the best Christmas lights in Seattle."
His eyebrows climbed. "You researched this?"
"I take my holiday-themed dates very seriously."
The smile that spread across his face made every minute of that research feel worthwhile.
The city gradually gave way to quieter neighborhoods. Houses grew larger. Decorations became more elaborate. Strings of lights wrapped around trees and fences. Inflatable snowmen guarded front lawns. One house appeared determined to single-handedly solve the region's electricity needs.
Beside me, Kieran shook his head. "That family definitely has a competition with somebody."
"The neighbors."
"The entire city, more like."
A laugh escaped me.
The neighborhood continued unfolding around us, each street brighter than the last. Families strolled along sidewalks bundled in scarves and winter coats. Children pointed excitedly toward decorations while parents followed behind carrying cups of coffee.
I slowed as we approached a corner house wrapped in so many lights it looked visible from space.
"Okay," Kieran said. "That one's my favorite."
"We've been here five minutes."
"I know what I like."
"You haven't even seen the giant inflatable reindeer yet."
His head whipped toward me. "The what?"
"Patience." I stole a glance toward the passenger seat. The lights reflected in Kieran's eyes. He looked genuinely happy.
"I used to love this stuff when I was little," he said after a while. The admission came quietly.
"My mom and I would walk around our neighborhood looking at lights."
I glanced at him. He was still looking out the window.
"Did she go all out with decorations?"
A small smile touched his mouth. "Not really. We couldn't afford much." He paused briefly. "But she always hung lights by the apartment window. Every year."
Eventually, he continued. "After she got sick, we stopped doing most of the Christmas stuff."
The words settled softly between us. There was no self-pity in his voice.
I reached across the center console impulsively. My hand found his. A quiet acknowledgment that I had heard him.
Kieran's gaze shifted toward mine. Neither of us pulled away immediately. The contact lasted only a moment before I returned my hand to the steering wheel.
Even so, awareness lingered.
We drove for several miles. I spent most of that time pretending to pay attention to the road while remaining acutely aware of the man sitting beside me.
I glanced at the dashboard clock and immediately wished I hadn't. The evening had slipped away far faster than I wanted, and judging by the look Kieran gave the display, he felt the same way. Neither of us mentioned heading home, but the awareness settled quietly between us.
We had already spent hours together, yet it still felt as though there were things left unsaid. Every story seemed to lead naturally into another one. Every time the conversation paused, neither of us appeared eager to be the person who ended it.
The houses around us gradually changed as we drove.
The extravagant displays gave way to quieter streets where simple white lights framed porches and wreaths hung on front doors.
It reminded me more of the Christmases I remembered from childhood than the over-the-top displays we'd been admiring earlier.
"My parents were Christmas people," I said as we stopped at a red light. "My mother started decorating before Thanksgiving every year. My dad pretended to complain about it while helping her hang lights."
Kieran smiled as he looked out the window. "That sounds nice."
"It was." The answer came easily, but it carried more weight than I intended.
"My parents thought they were never going to have kids," I continued after a moment. "Then I showed up when they were both pushing forty. Mom used to tell everyone I was her miracle baby."
The smile on Kieran's face softened. "You were probably spoiled."
"I was absolutely spoiled."
That earned a laugh. "I knew it."
"My mother would deny it to her grave."
"Which means it's definitely true."
I laughed and shook my head. "Probably."
The conversation drifted after that, moving comfortably between stories and memories.
Kieran told me about the small apartment he had shared with his mother when he was younger.
He talked about paper chains, cheap decorations, and a plastic tree that leaned slightly to one side every year no matter how carefully they assembled it.
"It wasn't much," he admitted. "But when you're a kid, you don't really know the difference."
"No," I agreed quietly. "You really don't."
For several moments, neither of us spoke. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It felt reflective, as though both of us were sitting with memories that deserved a little space.
Eventually, I pulled away from the curb after another stop to admire a particularly elaborate display.
"You hungry?"
Kieran turned toward me. "We had burgers three hours ago."
"That's not what I asked."
His eyes narrowed immediately. That expression was becoming one of my favorite things. "What are you planning?"
I tried for innocence. "What makes you think I'm planning something?"
"Because every time you ask a question like that, you're planning something."
"I have cookie dough."
For a second, he simply stared at me. "You bake?"
"Absolutely not."
His laughter filled the vehicle. "That might be the most honest thing you've said all evening."
A short time later, we were riding the elevator to my condo, carrying entirely unreasonable confidence in our ability to produce edible Christmas cookies.
The confidence lasted until the first tray came out of the oven. Kieran looked at the blackened hockey puck sitting on the baking sheet and then looked at me.
I looked at the cookie. Then I looked at him. Finally, I said, "I think it still has potential."
Kieran doubled over laughing. The sound echoed through the kitchen and made me grin despite the disaster in front of us.
"I would like the record to show that you set the timer."
"The timer was clearly defective."
"The timer is part of the oven."
"Then the oven was defective."
"Interesting defense."
"I stand by it."
By the time we attempted a second batch, flour had somehow ended up on my shirt, the counter, and one side of Kieran's face. I had no idea how that happened. Kieran claimed innocence so quickly that I immediately knew he was guilty.
"You did that on purpose."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You have flour on your hand." He glanced down.
Unfortunately for him, he did indeed have flour on his hand. That only made me laugh harder.
The second batch turned out slightly better than the first. Not good enough to impress anyone, but good enough to eat while sitting on stools at the kitchen island with Christmas music playing softly in the background.
The conversation continued as naturally as it had in the car. Neither of us seemed interested in checking the time anymore.
One cookie disappeared. Then another. At some point, we stopped pretending the cookies were the reason we were still sitting at the island.
"You know, my mother would be horrified by these cookies."
I laughed. "Because they're burned?"
"Because they're ugly." His smile softened. "She wasn't much of a baker either, but every Christmas she insisted on making cookies."
"What kind?"
"Sugar cookies." His gaze drifted toward the windows. "The kind you're supposed to decorate. We were terrible at it."
For a moment, I could almost picture it. A tiny apartment. A little boy sitting at a table. A mother trying her best. Neither of them caring whether the cookies looked right. Just happy to be together.
"She sounds amazing."
Kieran's smile lingered. "She was."
The words carried affection. Grief too. Not fresh grief. The kind that had become part of him. The kind that never really left.
Eventually, Kieran looked over. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
"I feel like I told you my entire life story. Now it’s your turn.”
I leaned back slightly. "My parents are probably wondering whether I've remembered to eat."
That made him smile. "You're twenty-nine."
"They remain unconvinced that I can take care of myself."
Kieran smiled. Then his expression turned more thoughtful. "Can I ask you something?"
"You can ask."
His fingers traced the edge of a cookie. "I spent two days accidentally becoming an expert on Thane Hale."
I groaned. "My condolences."
"I'm serious."
"I know. That's what worries me."
That earned a laugh that faded. "There wasn't anybody."
"What?"
"In everything I read. Every article. Every interview. Every photo. There wasn't anybody."
"Oh."
For a moment, neither of us spoke. "You mean a relationship."
He nodded. "Yeah."
I looked down at my coffee. "There were women."
His expression didn't change. I appreciated that.
"And men?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
"Was there ever anyone serious?"
I thought about it before answering. "There were people I liked." That much was true. "But nobody I could imagine building a life with."
Kieran watched me steadily. "Because you were hiding?"
"Partly."
I scrubbed a hand over my face.
"It's hard to build something real with someone when you're only letting them see part of you."
"And the other part?"
I thought about it. "I never wanted forever with them."
The words felt blunt. Honest, but blunt.
"I liked some of them. I cared about some of them." I shrugged. "But when I pictured my future, they weren't in it." For some reason, that answer felt bigger than all the others. "What about you?"
A faint smile touched his mouth. "I'm twenty-one."
"That's not an answer."
"No, but it's a pretty good excuse."
I laughed.
Then his smile slipped slightly. "I dated, but I always knew how it would end."
"You never expected anybody to stick around."
His gaze lifted to mine. "Something like that."
Impulsively, I reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair away from his forehead. My hand lingered briefly near his temple. All I could think about was how much I liked him.
Kieran drew a slow breath and leaned toward me slightly. The movement was small enough that I might have missed it if I'd been looking anywhere else.
A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth as I pushed to my feet. A second later, Kieran stood too.
The space between us seemed to disappear of its own accord.
My hand settled against the side of his face. His fingers curled around my forearm before sliding up to my shoulder, holding on.
After everything that had happened over the last few days, the anticipation felt almost as intimate as the kiss we were about to have.
When our mouths finally met, it felt less like starting something new and more like finding our way back to something we'd almost lost.