Chapter 21
Erin is curled up in the passenger seat, cheek pressed to the window, breathing in slow puffs that fog the glass each time she lets out a breath.
There was a home game tonight, but she arrived halfway into the second period because Angela made her stay late… again.
I swear I felt the change in the air before I even spotted her in the crowd.
Whenever the puck hit the back of the net, she shot to her feet, hands in the air, cheering loudly.
After I scored my first goal of the night, our eyes connected, I ripped off my helmet and patted over my heart like a caveman. I can still hear the way the crowd screamed when I pointed my stick at her.
The jumbotron found her instantly.
Her infectious smile vanished, replaced by that wide-eyed look she gets when she’s caught off guard.
And I just couldn’t help myself. I wanted the whole stadium to know she was my girl.
I winked at her.
“For you, baby,” I mouthed.
The crowd lost it.
She sank into her seat and covered her face but wasn’t able to hide her cheeks turning the prettiest shade of pink I’ve ever seen.
It’s a memory I’m tucking away for a rainy day.
As soon as the interviews were done, we set off for the campsite. She dozed off an hour into the drive.
I kill the engine and the night settles around us—cool, quiet, and carrying the scent of pine and lake water. Erin continues to sleep, and for a moment, it’s just me and the night sky.
The last time I was out here begins to sink in.
Shortly after Rudy joined The Flying Tornadoes, Hayes gathered the team together for a social event to welcome him. At the end of the night, Rudy, Hayes, Oliver, Austin, Jack and I ended up as the last six standing.
We went to Hendrick’s Bar, and somehow, Jack managed to convince us to take part in a karaoke contest. Whoever the crowd loved the most would get to name their prize—no one could refuse.
Rudy won. He stood on that stage, shirt half unbuttoned, screaming the lyrics to “Purple Rain” as if he was auditioning to play in Prince’s biopic. His singing was awful, but he won over the audience with his charm and charisma.
And his prize?
I thought we’d end up with wacky matching tattoos, but he asked the six of us to make it a tradition to go camping the first weekend we have off when the season started each year.
We’ve kept it going, but this year, he also invited Erin. I love that she said yes. I’m so glad she’s here, but it’s like my body knows there’s still someone missing. That there will always be one person missing, no matter how many people get added to the tradition.
“Miss you, buddy,” I say aloud in the dark.
I asked the others if they’d mind me bringing Erin up the night before. Thankfully, there were no objections.
I check on her before I turn on the lights of my truck to allow me to see better so I can pull the items out of the back to set up camp.
Summer seems to have skipped right over Huxley Bay this year. It’s a shame—I’d love to see Erin in a sundress—but the cold weather makes for decent camping in the middle of the woods and holding a cold Erin in my arms is all the sunshine I need.
The mud and leaves beneath me are crisp, instead of the usual dampness you’d expect to see in October. They crunch under my feet as I walk. The ground is hard and unrelenting as I hammer in the tent pegs with a rock, securing the fabric from the odd gust of wind that pushes through the trees.
The old wooden jetty stretches over the lake. I’ve sprinted down the weathered boards a hundred times—Jack right beside me, Hayes yelling at us not to slip, Oliver claiming he can do better backflips in his sleep.
My lips curve.
I have no doubt someone will end up in it by the end of the weekend. Purposely or otherwise.
The air here always smells of burning logs and wet bark. I breathe it in and let it settle inside of me the way bittersweet memories do.
Once everything is set up, I head back to the truck and find Erin exactly where I left her.
Her hair falls across her cheek as she sleeps, a soft, warm curtain against the cold night. I brush it back with my knuckles.
“Wake up, Bookworm,” I murmur.
Her lashes flutter before her eyes blink open. She’s sleepy and unfocused as she steps out of the truck.
“Why didn’t you wake me? I would’ve helped,” she says, rubbing the exhaustion from her eyes as she takes in the tents.
“I didn’t have it in me to disturb you. Your little snores were just too cute.”
“Hey, I do not snore.” She pouts, then yawns. I know she’s tired, but I’m not ready to let her sleep just yet.
“Take a walk with me,” I say, gesturing to a trail.
We walk down to the lake, her arm brushing mine every few steps.
“Earlier today,” she begins, her eyes glued to the ground as she watches her feet, “when you scored, you did this thing with your hands,” she says, making a sluggish attempt to mimic the motion from the game, like she doesn’t quite remember—even though I know she does.
“Is that something you did before the accident?”
I study her curious expression when she looks up, and I observe the way her eyes flick between mine as she waits.
She’s close.
Ready to let go of the reins and fall straight into my arms. And once she’s there, I don’t ever plan on letting her go. But this isn’t the moment to tell her I’ve already carved her into my skin.
My hand drifts absently to my sternum before I catch myself.
I force a shrug. “Us hockey players, we’re superstitious as hell. You do something once after scoring, you do it again.”
Not a lie.
Just not the whole truth.
But she’ll know soon enough.
Her eyes dip briefly to my chest, tracking the movement I didn’t mean to make, before she hums softly, like she’s filing my answer away for later.
The trees sway, and the floating lights I set out earlier blink and shimmer across the water. I halt my steps and turn to face her.
“Do you trust me, Erin?”
“I do.”
“Close your eyes.”
She does what I ask without hesitating, and I drink her in for just a moment—fluttering eyelids, long lashes, and the curve of her lips.
She’s a damn vision.
I guide her to the end of the jetty, our feet padding against the boards. “Sit down.”
She lowers herself to the wooden surface, legs crossed in front of her. I reach out and tuck a loose tendril behind her ear.
“Open,” I whisper.
She follows my instructions. Confusion and trust fill her eyes, and then she follows my gaze. Her brown eyes land on the cake and candles I set up for her, and her breath hitches
“Happy birthday, Bookworm.”
She’s still at first. Then she reaches for my wrist, looking at the date and time on my watch—October 11th, 12:01 a.m.
“I don’t understand…” Her voice cracks as she struggles to string a sentence together, her eyes clouded with disbelief. “How did you… I didn’t tell you.”
I already know she wasn’t expecting this. Bella told me last week that Erin never celebrates her birthday and doesn’t like talking about it.
“Tell me why?” I whisper.
She’s silent before her tears fall in a slow stream. I catch one with my thumb.
“I’m here.”
“Turning eight started off with a bang—three of them.”
Her words are doused in sadness and it does me in.
I pull her right onto my lap and hold her close. Her breath stutters. Her hands fist into my shirt. Then she folds into me, body shaking. Every sob that escapes hits like a horse kick to the torso.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I whisper into her hair. “I’m so damn sorry.”
“I miss him,” she wheezes.
“I know, baby.”
“I never celebrate. It hurts too much,” she says, and now I know why Bella told me what she did. Erin’s dad died on her birthday, and she never told Bella she watched it happen.
She’s quiet for a minute or two, then her head lifts and her eyes gaze into mine.
“Is this why we left tonight, so you could do this?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I just wanted to celebrate with you. You’re important to me, Bookworm. You don’t have to tell anyone tomorrow if you don’t want to, but I wanted you to feel special, even if it’s just for a couple hours.”
“I always feel special when I’m with you.”
“I like knowing that. And from now on, we’re celebrating this day together, every year. We’ll make new memories that will ease the bad ones. One year at a time. I promise.”
“Where did you come from?”
“Why? Do you want to return me?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head.
“Good, because I’m nonrefundable. Do you want your gift?
” I ask her. She shuffles out of my lap.
I pull the wrapped box from behind me and hand it to her.
She opens the card first, her eyes scanning my messy handwriting.
She unwraps the paper next, setting the gift box on her lap before lifting the lid.
“I was wondering if you’d consider wearing my jersey when you come to watch me play. I’ve ordered you five already, but I’m pretty sure the boys have been stealing them to mess with me so that you keep wearing Rudy’s. I sent this one to a place I knew they couldn’t get to.”
“This isn’t a cowboy hat thing, is it?”
“A cowboy, what now?”
“Nothing!” she rushes out, lifting my jersey from the box. “Thank you, it’s perfect. I’ll be sure to wear it at your next game.”
“I can hardly wait.”
With her head on my chest, she whispers, “You’re my best friend, Eighty-Seven.”
“And you’re mine. Happy birthday, Erin Silver Callahan.”
“Thank you, Chase.” Her eyes shine, and I want to kiss her, claim her as mine, and love her.
Forever.
All she has to do is let me.