45. Logan
LOGAN
The rest of our too-brief visit is fucking incredible. Intimate, fun, sweet. We fall into a rhythm that feels comfortable and familiar, but every day is also an endless parade of discovery and revelations about just how great my wife is.
We’re both exhausted from months of being go go go, so we tumble into bed early every night, but that just means we get to wake up early and have a leisurely wake up, too.
And it’s a relief to not have to justify my desire to spend my week off mostly resting and recuperating.
If anything, Frankie seems to need the rest more than I do.
We talk about our hopes and dreams for the future—yes, we both want kids, but later, after residency and retirement from hockey; no, I don’t care about being far from Minnesota. That’s what they make airplanes for.
When the question about babies comes up a second time, after a delightful afternoon nap, I kiss her forehead and offer as clear a reassurance as I can that it’s not a dealbreaker for me.
“If it was just the two of us forever, I would love that, too.
I just want you, Frankie. Everything else is details. "
She burrows into my chest and takes a shaky breath.
We talk about careers. She asks what I'm going to do after hockey, and I admit I’ve never nailed down a firm plan. It’s always in the future, later. Irrelevant to my current purpose. But now my current purpose has a new layer. A forever, Frankie-oriented layer.
“Maybe I’ll just be your house husband.”
She snorts. "You'd be bored in a week."
"Probably." I think about it. "Coaching, maybe. Or player development. Something where I can stay connected to the game but also have a normal schedule. Be home for dinner. Not miss bedtimes.”
The way she looks at me when I say that—like I've just promised her the moon—makes my heart stutter.
I fall in love with palm trees and grain bowls and biking along the beach. With the crowds of people, the chaotic swirl of life.
And I get to see my wife fall in love with me, which is the greatest gift I can imagine.
We haven’t said the words yet. I think them about a hundred times a day, but I want to create the space for her to say them first. I think, when she does, it’ll be a surprise to her, but it won’t be to me.
I’ve never felt this seen, this adored, in my entire life. Her gaze follows me everywhere, and she lights up like a Christmas tree when I reach for her, which is all the fucking time.
On our last night before I have to fly back to Buffalo, we're lying in bed in a Santa Monica rental when Frankie says, “You have a game in Minneapolis next month, right?”
“Mmm, yeah.” She’s playing with my hair and my eyes are closed. It’s heaven. Don't want to break the spell.
“I think I could fly in for the weekend. That might be the right time to tell your parents. If you could get excused to stay at your parents’ house? And if, um…” She exhales, and I realize her fingers are shaking.
I open my eyes and look at her.
“If they wouldn’t mind me staying there with you?”
“They won’t mind at all.” I sit up quickly. “Yes, please come. They’re going to love you.” Because I love you.
Fuck.
Just say it, Logan.
The longer I wait to say it, the bigger it gets.
But every time I think about saying the words, I remember that she needs to see it first. She won’t believe words, only actions.
She's spent her whole life being told, in a thousand subtle ways, that she's too much or not enough.
That her needs don't matter. That love is conditional.
So instead of saying I love you, I take her in my arms and hold her close enough that she can feel my heartbeat.
"My parents are going to adore you," I murmur into her hair. "And they're going to be thrilled that I found someone who makes me this happy."
Before the season is over, I'm going to make sure Frankie knows—deep in her bones—that she is loved. Completely, unconditionally, forever.
And then I'm going to say the words beating like a drum in my chest.