No Taking It Back
Bennett
You can always tell when something’s finally settled into place.
Not because people say it out loud. Because they stop checking.
Stop second-guessing. Stop looking around to see who’s watching.
Around here, that’s when you know it’s real.
When someone chooses the same thing twice… without being asked.
Playlist: “Shut Up and Dance” by WALK THE MOON
Not because I couldn’t sleep—I slept better than I have in months, actually. But because the energy in my body is different this morning. Not the coiled tension I’ve carried for three years. Something else. Something lighter.
I go through my routine. Coffee, stretching, the familiar patterns that have structured my mornings for as long as I can remember. But they feel different now. Less like a cage I’ve built to contain myself, more like... just habits. Just ways of starting the day.
The difference is subtle, but it’s everything.
By the time I walk into the rink, I’ve already texted Gisele twice. Nothing important—just checking in, asking about her morning, doing the normal things that couples do. The word still feels strange in my head. Couple. Girlfriend. Mine.
But good-strange. I’ve been calling her my girlfriend in my head all morning. Testing the word. Waiting for it to feel wrong.
It doesn’t. The kind of strange that comes from finally letting yourself have something you wanted.
The locker room falls quiet when I push through the door.
Not the usual quiet—the tense, watchful silence that used to descend whenever I walked in wound too tight. This is different. Curious. The guys are looking at me like they’re not sure what to expect.
“Morning,” I say.
“Morning.” Boone’s the first to respond, his tone careful. Assessing.
I cross to my locker, start pulling out gear. Normal movements. Normal rhythms. But I can feel them watching, cataloging whatever changes they’re seeing.
“You look different,” Shep says finally.
“Do I?”
“Less like you’re about to murder someone.” He tilts his head. “More like you might actually be human.”
“Shocking revelation.”
“It really is.” He grins. “So. The group text yesterday. That was something.”
Here it is. The moment I’ve been dreading and anticipating in equal measure. The follow-up to my very public declaration, delivered to forty of my closest friends and teammates.
The old me would have deflected. Made a joke. Changed the subject.
“Yeah,” I say simply. “It was.”
Silence. Then Heath, from across the room: “So you and Gisele, huh?”
“Me and Gisele.”
“About damn time.”
The words come from Holden, delivered with the easy warmth he brings to everything. I turn to find him leaning against the wall, arms crossed, grinning like he’s been waiting for this moment for years.
He probably has.
“That’s what Boone said,” I observe.
“Boone’s a wise man.” Holden shrugs. “We’ve all been watching you two orbit each other since high school. It was getting painful.”
“Painful is an understatement,” Shep adds. “The longing looks. The almost-touches. The way you’d stare at her across the room and then pretend you weren’t staring. Academy Award-worthy denial.”
“I wasn’t that obvious.” I think about the junior prom photo behind Mom’s bar. Years of obvious, apparently.
Could’ve saved us both a lot of time.
“You were that obvious.” This from Heath, who I didn’t even realize was paying attention. “We had a pool going about when you’d finally figure it out.”
“A pool.”
“Shep started it. I had money on next month.” Holden shrugs. “So thanks for costing me twenty bucks.”
The chirping continues—good-natured, relentless, exactly what I should have expected from a locker room full of hockey players who’ve been waiting years to give me grief about this.
But it doesn’t feel like an attack. It feels like.
.. acceptance. Like they’re welcoming me into the space I’ve been standing outside of for too long.
“Alright.” I raise my voice just enough to cut through the noise. “Practice in ten. Let’s see if you can play as well as you gossip.”
“Doubtful,” Shep says cheerfully. “But we’ll try.”
Practice is different.
I notice it immediately—the shift in energy, the way the guys respond to my calls without the usual hesitation. They’re looser. More present. Moving together instead of bracing for impact.
For the first time in months, it feels like we’re actually a team.
“Power play sequence,” I call. “From the top.”
They line up. The drill begins.
It’s clean. Not perfect—we’re still the Slammers, still a team that’s been struggling all season—but clean in a way we haven’t managed in weeks. Passes connect. Positioning holds. Communication flows instead of stutters.
“Again.”
We run it again. Still clean. Better, even.
“What’s happening?” Shep asks during a water break, wiping sweat from his face. “Did someone replace our team with professionals?”
“You’re playing together,” I say. “Instead of playing scared.”
“Playing scared?” He says it like the concept is foreign. Like we haven’t been playing scared for three months while I was drowning and pretending to swim.
“Every practice this season, you’ve been bracing for me to lose my shit. Waiting for the moment I’d start screaming about discipline and control.” I meet his eyes. “You’re not bracing anymore.”
The observation lands. I can see him processing it—the realization that my constant tension has been affecting the team more than any of us admitted.
“So what changed?” he asks quietly.
“I did.”
Simple. Honest. The kind of answer I would have been incapable of giving a month ago.
Shep nods slowly. “The Gisele effect.”
“Partly,” I say. “But also the fact that we’re four wins from the playoffs and I’d like to get there.”
Shep’s grin sharpens. “We’re getting there, Cap. I can feel it.”
“Partly.” I take a drink of water. “But also just... figuring some stuff out. About what matters. About how to actually lead instead of just control.”
“Deep thoughts from Captain Soft Boy, formerly Captain Hothead.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
He grins. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
We finish practice stronger than we’ve been in weeks. Not championship-ready—I’m not delusional—but solid. Cohesive. The kind of foundation you can build something on.
As the guys start filing off the ice, Shep catches my arm.
“Hey. Serious question.”
“What?”
“Gisele.” His voice drops. “What is she to you? For real this time.”
The question that destroyed me before the evaluation. Before everything that followed. The question I couldn’t answer when it mattered most.
I don’t hesitate now. That’s the difference. Two days ago the question paralyzed me. Now it’s just the truth.
“She’s everything.” The words come out steady. Certain. “She’s the person I’ve loved since I was fifteen. She’s the reason I finally stopped being such a control freak. And if anyone has a problem with that, they can take it up with me directly.”
Shep stares at me for a long moment.
Then he nods. “Good answer.”
“It’s the only answer.”
“Yeah.” A genuine smile crosses his face. “It is.”
The locker room is winding down—guys showering, changing, heading out to their normal lives—when the door opens and Gisele walks in.
She’s not supposed to be here. We didn’t plan this. But somehow, her presence feels inevitable—like of course she’d show up at the exact moment I needed to prove something.
“Am I interrupting?” she asks, and her voice carries the same steadiness she’s always had. The confidence I’ve loved since we were kids. “I’m about to have my Off Campus moment. So cover yourselves up, if you haven’t already.”
“You’re not interrupting.” Shep answers before I can. “Captain was just telling us how you’re the love of his life. Very touching. I may have cried.”
“You did not cry,” Holden mutters.
“I cried internally. It’s a valid form of emotional expression.”
Gisele’s eyes find mine across the room. There’s a question in them—a checking-in. Making sure this is okay. Making sure I’m not about to retreat into the safety of non-answers and hedging.
I don’t hesitate.
I cross the room in four strides, cup her face in my hands, and kiss her. I hear Shep inhale about half a second before the room detonates.
Not a quick peck. Not a careful, controlled display of appropriate public affection. I kiss fully, completely, and without caring who’s watching.
The locker room erupts.
Shep’s whooping. Someone’s clapping. I’m pretty sure I hear Heath whistle. But I’m not paying attention to any of it, because Gisele is kissing me back with equal enthusiasm, her hands fisted in my jersey, pulling me closer.
When we finally break apart, she’s smiling.
“That was quite a greeting.”
“I’m making up for lost time.”
“In front of your entire team?”
“Especially in front of my entire team.” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “They need to know.”
“Know what?”
“That you’re mine. That I’m done hiding. That anyone who has a question about us can come directly to me, and I’ll answer without hesitation.”
Her expression softens. “Bennett...”
“I know. I’m being dramatic.”
“You’re being honest.” She touches my face. “I like honest.”
“GROSS,” Shep yells from across the room. “Get a room! Or at least wait until the rest of us leave!”
I flip him off without looking away from Gisele. She laughs—bright and surprised—and the sound hits me somewhere deep.
This is real. This is happening. And I’m not scared anymore.
The next twenty minutes are chaos.
The guys file past with comments ranging from genuine congratulations to absolutely filthy suggestions. Shep demands a detailed timeline of our relationship and looks personally offended when I tell him to mind his own business. Boone pulls Gisele into a hug and says something that makes her laugh.
Through all of it, I stay close to her. Telling anyone who’s watching that this is where I belong without having to say a word. Not possessively—just present. Aware. Making sure everyone can see that this isn’t a passing thing. This is permanent.