20. CHAPTER TWENTY #2
“You’re funny, G.”
The wolves don’t win.
Saturday’s three-one loss changes Hawthorne in less than ten seconds.
The horn goes, and nobody talks.
The girls don’t panic or start dissecting what happened. Nobody reaches for the remote. We just sit there watching the handshake-less end of a game that now requires another one.
Sunday.
One game.
The Big Ten tournament does not necessarily end their entire season if they lose, but it feels like it could.
Maybe that is what postseason hockey is: technically there are conditions and rankings and selection committees, but emotionally every game becomes the last one until somebody proves otherwise.
Lucy comes home with me that night. We sit at our kitchen table eating noodles because neither of us bothered buying real groceries.
She has been scrolling through her phone for several minutes before she says, “Do you think they’re okay?”
“Yes.”
She looks up. “You think?”
“Benson is probably already watching film.”
Her mouth pulls into a tired smile. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
“And Rowan is probably pretending he’s not thinking about it.” That answer comes easier now too.
I know him. Not completely. I don’t think anybody gets completely known. But enough to understand that calm is not the same thing as not caring.
Lucy twists noodles around her fork. “What are you worried about?”
I look down at my bowl. “That it ends.”
The answer surprises me because it isn’t really about tomorrow. Not entirely.
“I know they could still get an NCAA spot if they lose,” I say. “I know that. But every game feels like somebody is standing next to a light switch now.”
Lucy’s expression shifts.
“Like everything is normal until it isn’t. They practice, travel, play, complain about video, whatever. Then one horn goes and suddenly there might not be another game.”
She nods slowly. “That’s exactly what it feels like.”
I think about Senior Night. The way Rowan looked back at the rink before we walked out. His grad application sitting somewhere with people who do not know him. The fact that this season is ending no matter what happens.
Sunday afternoon, I stop pretending I know how to sit through hockey normally.
By the third period, Camden is up three-one, and I am standing behind the couch because every time I sit down, Penn State gets possession.
“I don’t think you’re controlling that,” Mara tells me.
“I’m not taking chances.”
“There is no physical mechanism by which your ass touching the couch affects hockey in another state.”
“Then why did they score when I sat down?”
Mara looks at Lucy. “Help.”
Lucy does not take her eyes off the television. “She might have a point.”
“Thank you.”
The last four minutes are awful.
Penn State throws everything forward. Percy makes one save through traffic, then another. A puck gets through and hits somebody in front. Camden clears it. Penn State comes back.
I am holding the top edge of the couch so hard my fingers hurt.
“Come on.”
Forty seconds.
Blue gets the puck toward the wall but can’t get it out.
Twenty-eight.
Rowan gets there. He doesn’t force it up the boards. He turns back, takes the extra half second, and sends it behind the net where Mackey has space.
Second scan.
I recognize it before I even think the words.
Camden clears.
The clock runs down.
When the horn finally goes, I don’t scream.
Lucy grabs my forearm, and I grab hers, and for one second, we just stare at the screen as the broadcast cuts to Camden’s bench.
Then Rowan is there. Helmet still on, leaning over the boards while Stanley grabs him by both shoulders and shakes him.
They’re moving on.
Something releases inside me.
I laugh and turn into Lucy at the same time she turns toward me.
Another week.
That night, Rowan comes straight to my apartment from the bus. It’s after eleven when he knocks. I open the door wearing sleep shorts and one of his old Camden shirts. He has his backpack slung over one shoulder and looks exhausted.
“You have a house, and you drove past it,” I say.
“Yeah.”
I smile. “Come in.”
He drops the backpack beside the door, toes his shoes off, and reaches for me before I’ve even closed it. There is no buildup. No joke. He puts both arms around my waist and kisses me like he has been thinking about it for the entire drive back.
I wrap my arms around his neck. “Hi.”
“Hi, G.”
I smile softly. “You won.”
“Yeah.”
“You came straight here to me.”
His mouth comes back to mine.
I laugh softly against it.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
His hand slides underneath the back of my shirt, warm against my skin.
“You missed me,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“Like a lot.”
He looks at me. “G.”
“What?” I whisper.
“I always want you near.”
The stupid happiness that gives me should be embarrassing.
I kiss him again. This time Rowan doesn’t let me pull away.
His hands slide around my waist, and he walks me backward through the apartment without breaking the kiss.
I laugh when my hip catches the edge of the hallway table, but he only steadies me and keeps going.
“You’re very determined.”
“I’ve been gone.”
“For two days.”
“Too long.”
By the time we reach my bedroom, I’m already tugging at the hem of his sweatshirt. Rowan helps me get it over his head, tosses it somewhere behind him, then comes right back to me like even the few seconds apart were irritating.
His hands stay on me as if he is making up for the time he didn’t have them there. My waist. My back. My face when he kisses me again.
I smile against his mouth. The look he gives me makes my chest tighten. Then he kisses me again. He takes his time with me. He keeps pulling me closer and putting me on the edge, teasing me as much as he can.
“I missed you, too,” I moan against his neck as he thrusts into me.
“So much,” I say into his mouth.
“Missed you, too, G,” he moans back. “You feel so fucking good, baby.”
My head falls back as he rubs circles on my clit, and I come hard.
He comes right after, and then we hold each other.
“That nickname helped, huh?” he teases.
I laugh and push him.
He grabs my hand and tucks it against his cheek. “I got you, baby,” he says, looking into my eyes.
Spring break starts Monday. For most people at Camden, this apparently means airports, beaches, parents, road trips, or lying unconscious somewhere that doesn’t have professors.
For hockey players still in postseason, spring break means practice at nine.
Rowan informs me of this at eight-fifteen Monday morning while I am in his bed at Hawthorne, watching him search for the other half of a pair of socks.
“You don’t get any break?”
“We don’t have class.”
“That is not a break. You’re still going to work.”
“It’s hockey.”
He finds the sock under the desk.
I have been at Hawthorne since last night with a duffel bag containing enough clothes for a week, although Rowan looked at the size of it when I arrived and asked whether I had moved out of my apartment.
I told him not to be dramatic.
He told me I brought three pairs of shoes.
Now he pulls his sweatshirt over his head and looks toward the bed. “You getting up?”
“No.”
He says, “You’ve been awake for twenty minutes.”
“I have nowhere to be.”
He looks at me like this concept is offensive.
I say, “I’m on spring break. I can stay in your bed until noon.”
“You could.”
“I can order breakfast here.”
“You could.”
“I can watch terrible television in complete peace.”
“You could.”
He walks over. He puts one knee on the mattress and leans over me. “I have to leave.”
I smile up at him.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he whispers.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like you’re about to make me late.”
I grin. “You have time.”
“I don’t.”
“How much?”
“Ten minutes.”
“That is so much time.”
“It is not.”
I put both hands around the back of his neck.
Rowan kisses me anyway.
He’s late enough that Stanley bangs on the bedroom door five minutes later and yells, “Laurens, your girlfriend is destroying our season!”
Rowan lifts his head from my neck.
I start laughing so hard I have to cover my mouth. “Go.”
“He’s an idiot.”
“He’s waiting for you.”
He kisses me once more, gets up, and leaves.
That becomes spring break. Not a vacation. Just more time together.
Rowan has practice and meetings, but I don’t have class, so the hours around his schedule open up in ways they usually don’t.
I read in his room while he is at the rink.
He comes back and finds me there. We get lunch in the middle of a Tuesday.
We go grocery shopping on Wednesday night and end up buying things for two different houses because neither of us can remember where we are going to eat them.
He brings me coffee Thursday morning without asking.
Friday afternoon, he walks into his room after practice, closes the door behind him, and immediately climbs onto the bed where I am reading.
I lower my book. “Hello.”
“Hi.” He puts his face against my stomach.
I laugh and run my fingers through his hair. “Tired?”
“Yeah.”
“How was practice?”
“Long.” He turns his head enough to look at me.
I close the book completely. “Are you nervous about tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
The answer comes easier now. That’s new too. He doesn’t make me drag everything out of him.
I put my hand against his cheek. “Minnesota again.”
“Yeah.”
“How many times can you play the same team in one season?”
“Apparently a lot.”
“You should complain.”
He nods. “I’ll tell the Big Ten.”
“Thank you.”
He smiles and shifts higher until his head is beside mine.