26. April
APRIL
By the time I navigate arena security and find the medical room, Clark is sitting on an examination table with an ice pack pressed to his temple. His equipment is half-off and he looks pale but alert.
His eyes widen when he sees me. “What are you—? You should be watching the game—”
“Are you okay?” I’m across the room before I can stop myself, but pull back just before my hands touch his face to check for injuries or kiss him, I don’t know which. “What happened? Is it a concussion? Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“I’m fine. Just got my bell rung a little. Happens sometimes.”
“Clark—”
“April, I’m okay. I promise.” He catches my hands, holding them against his chest. His heart is racing beneath my palms. “Really.”
The team doctor appears. “A mild bump to the ‘ole noggin. He’s done for the night, but no hospital visit is needed. Just rest and monitoring.”
“We’re up by three points. They’ve got this,” Clark says.
The doctor leaves to check on something and it’s just us in the small medical room. Me standing between Clark’s legs, my hands still pressed to his chest. Him looking up at me with green eyes that faintly twinkle.
“You came,” he says softly.
“Of course I came. You scared me half to death.”
“Sorry.” His thumbs trace circles on the backs of my hands. “Didn’t mean to worry you.”
“Too late for that.”
We’re close enough that I can count his freckles, see the exact moment his pupils dilate. Close enough to kiss him if I just leaned forward a few inches.
But I don’t. Because we’re “taking a step back.” Because we’re “just friends.”
Because I’m terrified.
“April—” he starts, but the door bursts open.
Coach Badaszek appears, takes one look at us, and raises an eyebrow. “Culpepper, you all right?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Good. Because we just won. Playoffs are secured.” He looks at me. “Stay with him tonight and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid,” Tommy Badaszek barks.
“I—yes. Of course.”
He nods once and disappears.
Clark laughs softly. “Coach always knows.”
“Knows what?”
“Everything.” His expression turns serious. “April, we need to talk.”
“We do. But not here. Not now.” I step back, creating the distance we both claimed we need. “Let’s get you to the hotel. You should get some rest.”
“April—”
“Please, Clark. Not here.” I can’t handle an arena full of people seeing me cry. Then again, I somehow survived them seeing us on the kiss cam.
He nods, understanding or at least accepting my request. “Okay. At the hotel.”
But when we get there, everything falls apart for different reasons.
“I’m so sorry,” the desk clerk says, typing frantically. “There was a system error. We only have one room available, and it’s, well, it’s not what you booked.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“It’s a king suite instead of the two adjacent rooms with queen beds that you reserved. She winces—we have certain rooms that allow dogs, but there is only one left. I can try other hotels in the area, but with the game tonight, everything is pretty booked—”
“It’s fine,” Clark says tiredly. “We’ll take it.”
“Clark—” I start.
“April, I just got hit in the head with a puck. I need to lie down. We can figure it out.”
The clerk hands us key cards, clearly relieved to avoid a pair of unhappy guests.
We ride the elevator in silence, the dogs tired from the long day, except Purdy, who remains glued to Clark’s side like a little nurse.
When we open the door to the room, we both crowd the doorway shoulder to shoulder. Do we slowly peel apart or address the problem?
Because, in the center of the room, nicely made and complete with mints on the pillows, is one very large, very singular bed.
“It’s fine,” I hear myself say.
“Is it?”
“We survived bunk beds at your parents’ house.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“Those were bunk beds. This is ...” He gestures helplessly at the king-sized bed that suddenly looks enormous and terrifying. “This is one bed.”
“I don’t bite.”
“But I snuggle.” At least, that’s what I think he says. The doctor probably gave him medicine for his head.
The dogs immediately claim their territory—Moose sprawling across the foot of the bed, Scout curling up on the left side, Buster on the right, Purdy and Lulu creating a furry ball in the middle.
Clark and I stare at the bed, then at each other.
“I can take the floor,” he offers.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You have a concussion.”
“I don’t. It was a bump.”
“You need actual rest.” I square my shoulders, channeling confidence I don’t feel.
“We need space.”
I huff. “We’re adults. We can share a bed.”
“Can we?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with everything we’re not saying.
“We have to for tonight, at least.”
“Right. For tonight.”
We get ready for bed in awkward silence, except for the game report broadcasts on the sports TV channel and take turns in the bathroom.
We skillfully avoid eye contact and all forms of touch.
When we finally climb into bed—careful to stay on opposite sides, with five dogs between us like furry chaperones—the tension is thick enough to cut with a hockey skate blade.
“Goodnight,” Clark says into the darkness.
“Goodnight.”
I lie there, hyperaware of every sound. His breathing. The dogs’ snoring. The rustle of sheets when he shifts position.
Sleep is impossible. How can I sleep when the man I love is inches away and completely unreachable?
My mind won’t stop replaying everything. The dinner with my parents. The overheard conversation. The text breakup or whatever that was. His injury tonight. The way he looked at me in the medical room.
I need to stand up to my parents. Set real boundaries. Stop letting their voices drown out my own.
But what if it’s too late? What if Clark has already decided I’m not worth the complications?
Beside me, I hear his breathing, but it’s not deep, not restful. He can’t sleep either.
Neither of us acknowledges it. We just lie there in the darkness, pretending we’re not both wide awake, both terrified, both too stubborn to bridge the gap.
At some point during the night, though, I must doze off. I’m not sure when or how it happens, but when I wake up at dawn, I find our fingers laced together on top of the covers, my hand and his meeting somewhere in the middle of all those dogs.
Like, even in sleep, we’re reaching for each other.
I slip out of bed carefully, trying not to wake him. The dogs stir but don’t follow—they’re too comfortable in their nest of pillows and blankets.
In the bathroom, I splash water on my face and stare at my reflection. I look exhausted. Scared. Lost.
My phone rings.
It’s my mother.
Of course.
I almost don’t answer. But if I don’t, she’ll just keep calling.
“Hello?” I say in a hush.
“April, we need to talk about the other day.”
My stomach twists.
“That young man is clearly not right for you. Did you see how uncomfortable dinner was? He barely spoke.”
“Because you and Dad were interrogating him.”
“We were getting to know him.” Her voice sharpens. “Frankly, April, I don’t think you’ve thought this through. The hockey career, the instability, the lifestyle—”
Something in me snaps.
Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s heartbreak. Maybe it’s finally having enough.
“Stop,” I say. “Just stop.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not doing this anymore, Mom. I’m not listening to you tear apart my choices. I’m not defending myself for being happy.”
“Happy? You call this happy? Running a dog bakery in the middle of nowhere, dating some athlete who’ll probably be gone in a few years—”
“I love him.” The words burst out, raw and true. “I love Clark. I love my life in Cobbiton. I love what The Barkery is going to be. And if you can’t support that—if you can’t even try to understand—then that’s your choice. But I’m done trying to be who you want me to be.”
She doesn’t say a word.
“I’m twenty-eight years old,” I continue, building steam.
“I have a career I’m passionate about. I’m opening my own business.
I’m building something meaningful. And yes, I’m terrified it might fail.
Yes, I’m scared that Clark and I might not work out.
But that’s my risk to take. My life to live. Not yours.”
“April—”
“I’m not coming home for your birthday this year.
Not until you treat me better. I’m not giving up The Barkery.
And I’m not apologizing for choosing happiness over your approval.
” Tears stream down my face, but my voice stays strong.
“I love you both. But I need you to either support me or step back. Those are the only options.”
I receive another long silence.
Then, surprisingly, my mother’s voice comes back softer. “We ... we didn’t realize.”
“That you were hurting me? That your constant criticism was making me doubt everything I’ve worked for?”
“We thought we were helping. Protecting you from making mistakes.”
“I’m going to make mistakes, Mom. That’s part of life. But they’re my mistakes to make and learn from.”
Her sigh is different from her usual disappointed sigh. This one sounds almost sad. “Okay. I understand. I hear you.”
It’s not acceptance. It’s barely acknowledgment. But it’s more than I’ve ever gotten before.
“That’s all I’m asking for.”
“We’ll call you next week. When we’ve had time to process.”
“Thanks.”
“And April?” Her voice cracks slightly. “I do want you to be happy. Even if I’ve had a terrible way of showing it.”
“I know, Mom.”
The call ends, and I lean against the bathroom counter, shaking. I did it. I finally stood up to them. Set boundaries. Said everything I needed to say.
I feel lighter. Terrified. Free.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Clark is awake, sitting up in bed with his back against the headboard. The dogs are still sprawled around him, and his hair is adorably messy from sleep.
But his eyes are hard when they meet mine. Serious.
He heard.
“Let’s walk the dogs,” he says quietly.
My nerve endings are on fire. The buffalo seek shelter. My entire body buzzes and I haven’t yet had an ounce of caffeine.