Epilogue 2
Rhys
Here’s the thing about Jamie Nash.
He irons his practice jerseys.
Not occasionally. Every single Sunday. There’s a whole system — ironing board in the corner of our bedroom, spray bottle, a specific order he does them in. I’ve watched him do it every Sunday morning for almost a year, and every Sunday morning it does the same thing to me.
It’s so very Jamie.
I love it.
“They’re going to get sweaty and wrinkly in four minutes,” I say from the bed.
“I know.”
“So the ironing—”
“Rhys.”
“I’m shutting up. I’m done.”
He smooths the sleeve down. Unbothered. A year of living with me and Jamie Nash remains fundamentally unrattleable before nine AM. I’ve tried everything. This is my life now, and I’d choose it again tomorrow and the day after.
He got drafted June of our senior year. I called a biotech lab in the same city in July, said I had a chemistry degree and I was very good at this, and they told me to start Monday.
I called Blake after, and apparently he already knew before I did.
Which means he and Jamie had been talking behind my back and our group chat means nothing to either of them.
Research associate. Good lab. Good work. A commute I like, a coffee place I love, and an apartment Jamie picked because it had good light and enough closet space for two people. I knew from the closet space that he was planning on this working before he ever said so.
Jamie doesn’t say things until he’s already decided.
And he chose me a long time ago. I know that about him now.
I know a lot of things about him now that I spent forever trying to crack open and now just…
have. How he takes his coffee. Which side of the bed he needs to sleep on or he gets cranky.
What his face does when something matters and he’s pretending it doesn’t. What his hands do when he’s happy.
I know him. A year ago that felt like the most dangerous thing I’d ever wanted. Now it just feels like Sunday morning.
He finishes the jerseys and gets back into bed with two mugs without being asked. His arm pulls me in automatically, the way it always does — one of those small unconscious things he doesn’t realize he does that gets me every single time, still.
Light filters through the blinds. The city outside does its Sunday thing.
I should let it just be Sunday.
I’m not going to.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” Still looking at his phone.
“Can I tell you something?”
That gets his attention immediately. He puts the phone down and looks at me fully — unhurried, complete — the kind of attention I spent so long trying to earn and now just get.
“About the Eldridge game,” I say.
Something in him stills.
“When Marcus got in my space on the ice. I never told you what he actually said.”
“Okay,” Jamie says.
“He said I miss you. And I’m sorry.”
The room goes very still, but I can feel the rage that always lies dormant in Jamie. Especially when it comes to Marcus.
“That’s why I shoved him,” I say. “He doesn’t get to say that to me after everything and act like he’s owed something back. Like I’m supposed to hear it and give him something.” I shake my head once. “So I shoved him. Took the penalty. Went to the box.”
“And when I came out,” I say quieter, “you gave me your jersey and got yourself benched on purpose.”
It settles between us.
“I didn’t know what to do with that,” I admit. “In front of everyone.” I look at him finally. “I had to leave because I was either leaving or falling apart in front of the whole team. It was too much all at once. And I never said sorry for that.”
Jamie looks at me with all of it right there. No wall. Hasn’t had one for a long time. He takes the mug from my hands and sets it on the nightstand before taking my face in both hands.
“He looked at you and decided that moment was the right one to make about himself,” Jamie says. A beat. “Fuck that. I don’t have patience for that. No one gets to hurt what’s mine. Don’t apologize.”
“Jamie—”
“I gave you the jersey because there wasn’t another option.” His thumbs brush once against my jaw. “It wasn’t a decision. It was the only thing I had and I needed you to have it.”
My throat tightens.
“And then you followed me here,” he says softly. “Packed up your whole life. Found a job. Learned a new city. You just came, like it wasn’t even a question.” His gaze stays on mine. “I don’t know what I did to deserve getting to keep you, but I’m not letting go. I picked you and you picked me.”
I look at this man — who a year ago could barely say anything real out loud. And he’s still Jamie. Still ironing jerseys at eight in the morning. Still controlled. Still quiet.
But open now.
Open in all the places that matter.
For me.
“I’m not letting go either,” I say.
He nods once like that settles it.
Then he kisses me slow and rough at the same time, the secure kind of kiss that has nothing left to prove. I grab his shirt and feel it everywhere — in the place I used to keep locked that isn’t locked anymore. When we pull apart, his forehead rests against mine.
We just stay there.
Then he says casually into the space between us:
“You looked good in my number.”
I pull back immediately. He’s already smiling. That corner of his mouth. Those laugh lines.
“Don’t,” I say.
“What?”
“You’ve been holding that in for a fucking year?”
“I’m just saying. My number on you on the ice.” He tilts his head. “Looked right. I think about it a lot.”
“You asshole—”
“I’m being sincere.”
“You are not being sincere. You’ve been waiting to say that when you know I love compliments—”
“I still have it,” he says.
I point at him. “This is revenge for every single thing I’ve ever done to you. I’m not wearing it for you.”
“It’s in the closet. In the back.” He gets out of bed unbothered. “I’m making breakfast.”
“We’re not done—”
“Eggs?”
“Jamie—”
“I’ll make yours first.”
I stop.
“You always make mine first,” I say.
“Obviously,” he says. “You’re important to me.” He glances back once. “Would be even more important to me if you wore my jersey again, but okay.”
Then he disappears into the kitchen.
I sit there in the Sunday morning light in an apartment in a city I moved to for love and listen to him start cooking and feel it everywhere.
He chose me.
That’s Jamie Nash.
That’s mine.
I get up and follow him into the kitchen.
He doesn’t look up when I walk in. Just reaches back automatically and finds my hand for one second before letting go again to flip the eggs.
Just that.
Just a second.