59
Nate
Hannah falls asleep in my jersey.
That’s it. That’s the sentence. That’s the entire, beautiful, soul-crushing problem.
I should be sleeping, too. I played sixty minutes of high-intensity hockey against Ridgemont, scored twice, took a hit to the ribs hard enough to make them complain every time I take a deep breath,
and then spent the rest of the night pretending I wasn’t completely leveled by the sight of Hannah Reed barefoot in my kitchen, wearing my name on her back.
My body is spent, but my brain is wide awake. It’s standing in the doorway of my bedroom with a clipboard and a whistle, pointing at the girl in my bed and shouting, *“Sir, we have a situation.”*
Because she’s asleep. In my bed. On my pillow.
One arm is tucked under her cheek, her hair spread across the navy fabric of the jersey like a silk fan.
Her lips are parted just slightly, her lashes casting soft, feathery shadows against her skin.
The hem of the jersey is twisted around her thighs, and one sleeve has swallowed her hand entirely.
She looks too small for the garment and yet, somehow, she owns it better than I ever did.
I am in trouble. Not the fun kind. Not the kind Coach could yell out of me with a morning of suicides and a threat to my ice time. This is real trouble. The kind that sits quietly in your chest, kicks its boots off, and starts rearranging all your internal furniture.
I lie on my side, watching her. Is it creepy?
Probably. Do I plan on stopping? Not a chance.
My girlfriend is in my bed after watching me score twice, wearing the jersey she chose because she wanted everyone to know she was there for me.
If the universe expects me to be casual about that, the universe has vastly overestimated my emotional range.
Hannah shifts, making a tiny, soft sound in the back of her throat, and my entire body goes rigid. She doesn't wake, but her hand slides across the sheet until her fingers brush my wrist. Even in her sleep, she reaches for me.
That nearly ends me right there.
I close my eyes and try to breathe through the pressure in my chest. There is a word sitting behind my teeth, and it’s been trying to claw its way out since she smiled at me in the hallway after the game.
*Love.*
I think it, and the room doesn't explode. Hannah doesn't wake up possessed by the knowledge. No sirens go off. Still, my heart kicks against my ribs like it’s been caught doing something felony-level illegal.
I love her.
The thought isn't a surprise; it’s an admission.
It’s been building quietly for weeks, maybe since before I even knew what to call it.
It was there when she wore my jersey the first time and I lied to myself, saying the way my pulse spiked was just "possession" or the "fake dating thing" working too well.
It was there during the lessons, every time she trusted me with a piece of her heart and I wanted to keep that trust safer than my own pride.
It was there tonight, when I looked up into the stands and saw her screaming my name.
I don't just love the way she looks or the way she tastes. I love that she keeps choosing honesty even when it makes her feel messy. I love that she sat at my table and asked if we were dating like the word might cut her if I dropped it. I don’t want perfect. I want her.
Hannah’s fingers curl loosely around my wrist. I brush my thumb lightly over her knuckles, the sensation of her skin against mine grounding me.
“I love you,” I whisper.
The words are barely a vibration in the air. They land in the dark, heavy and true. Hannah doesn't wake up. Good. I’m not taking it back, but I want to say it when I’m not hiding behind the safety of her being unconscious. She deserves the real version.
Her eyes flutter. I freeze like a criminal.
Her lashes lift, slow and sleepy. For a second, she looks at me without focus, her eyes dark with dreams. Then, she smiles—that small, soft, devastatingly genuine smile.
“Hi,” she whispers, her voice a raspy caress.
“Hi.” My throat feels tight.
She squints at me, her smile turning a bit playful. “Were you watching me sleep again? That’s definitely on the 'disturbing' list, Wilder.”
“I was making sure you were still alive. It’s a health and safety check.”
“It’s creepy-caring.”
“Still caring.”
She huffs a sleepy laugh and shifts closer, her knee brushing mine under the blanket. Then, she winces, just a tiny hitch in her breath. I’m alert instantly.
“What hurts? Your back? Your legs?”
Her eyes open wider. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“Hannah.”
She sighs, reaching up to press her palm against my cheek. Her skin is warm. “Don’t do that. Your face just went all tragic and guilty. I’m not in pain, Nate. Just... sore. In a good way.”
I exhale, the tension leaving my shoulders. “Good. Real okay?”
“Real okay,” she says, her thumb moving gently along my jaw. “I like that you ask that. It makes me feel like I can actually tell you the truth.”
I lift her hand and kiss her knuckles, the contact lingering. “What time is it?” she asks.
“Late. Two-something.”
“You should be asleep. You have recovery skate in the morning.”
“So should you. You have class.”
“I was asleep,” she says, snuggling closer and tucking her head under my chin. “Until a certain hockey player started thinking too loudly.”
I smile into her hair. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is. You’re projecting. What were you thinking about?”
The door is open. I could say it now. The word is right there, pushing against my ribs. But I settle for a partial truth—a piece of the weight.
“I was thinking I’m happy you stayed. And that you look incredible in my jersey.”
She laughs quietly against my chest. “I want a new memory of it, remember? One where I’m not pretending.”
“I remember.” I kiss the top of her head. “And Ethan?”
She’s quiet for a long beat. “It still hurts. Seeing the text... it was hard. But it helped. He’s a good guy, Nate. He didn't have to be that kind.”
“I know,” I say, and I mean it. I don’t hate Ethan. I hated seeing him touch her, but I respect that he cared for her. “I’m glad he’s letting you go with grace.”
“He is.” She lifts her head, her gaze searching mine. “But I chose you. I’m your little menace now.”
My heart stops. “Don't take that back.”
“I won’t,” she whispers.
I kiss her—slow, deep, and full of everything I’m not quite ready to vocalize. We fall back into a light sleep, tangled together in the navy fabric and the scent of us.
Morning arrives with gray light and a buzz from my phone.
Hannah is a thief in her sleep—she has successfully stolen the blanket, half my pillow, and my ability to feel my left arm. I wake up half-off the mattress with her sprawled across me. Worth it.
I reach for my phone. Carter.
**Carter:** *alive? if hannah is there tell her jersey magic is real. mason is writing a thesis on 'Romance as a Performance Enhancer.'*
I snort, and Hannah opens one eye. “Is that Carter? Tell him Gerald challenged him to a duel for being a morning person.”
I type back: *We’re alive. Do not come over.*
I get out of bed to make eggs. Hannah follows me a few minutes later, wearing one of my oversized hoodies over the jersey, her bare legs peeking out as she hops onto a stool at the counter. She looks like a domestic hallucination. I nearly burn the toast just looking at her.
“Distracted?” she teases.
“The bread is dramatic,” I mutter.
We eat in a comfortable silence, the kind that feels earned. But then her phone buzzes on the counter. Her expression shifts—not to panic, but to a quiet, somber stillness.
“Ethan?” I ask.
She nods and reads it aloud. “*I’m glad the game went well. I think I need some space now, but I meant what I said. Be happy, Hannah.*”
The kitchen goes silent. Hannah’s eyes shine with unshed tears. I move around the counter and pull her into my arms. She leans into me, her forehead resting against my chest.
“I’m happy,” she says, her voice muffled by my shirt. “I just feel... a lot at once. Sad for him, but so happy with you.”
I cup her face, lifting her head so I can look into her eyes. This is it. No more almost-brave. No more almost-honest.
“Hannah.”
“What?”
“I love you.”
The words are plain. No grand speech, no dramatic lighting. Just the truth.
Hannah stops breathing. Her eyes widen, and for a terrifying second, I think I’ve overstepped. Then, her face crumples—not with fear, but with a sheer, overwhelming relief.
“Nate.”
“I know it’s soon,” I say, the words tumbling out now. “And you don't have to say it back. I just didn't want to keep *almost* saying it. I think I have for a while. I just didn't know what to call it until I saw you in the stands tonight.”
She grabs the front of my shirt and pulls me down into a kiss—hard, wet with tears, and tastes like hope. When she pulls back, she’s laughing and crying at the same time.
“You idiot,” she whispers. “You said that while I’m wearing your clothes and eating your half-burnt toast? That is so unfair.”
“Is that a no?”
“I love you, too, Nate. I think I’ve been busy being wrong about it for months.”
I kiss her again, and this time, the kiss is pure joy. It’s light and bright and tastes like a beginning.
“Girlfriend,” I whisper against her lips.
“Boyfriend.” She smiles, her eyes bright. “Say it again.”
“I love you.”
“Again.”
“I love you, Hannah.”
My phone buzzes in the other room, likely Carter or Coach, but I don't move. Neither does she. We just stand in the kitchen, wrapped around each other, finally done with the pretending.
Love. Not a lesson. Not a plan. Just us. Finally.