Chapter Twenty — Rhett
Chapter Twenty
Rhett
The community rink looked smaller the second time.
Not physically.
The boards were still weathered.
The lights still hung in loose strands above the ice.
The warming hut still leaned slightly to the left like it had survived several winters through stubbornness alone.
But the first time I brought Tessa here, the place had felt large enough to hold every possibility.
Tonight, it felt like a room where we had come to decide which ones survived.
I arrived at six thirty.
Not because I was nervous.
Because I wanted the hot chocolate ready.
And the bench cleared.
And the heaters working.
And absolutely nothing left to chance.
That was Tessa’s influence.
Or possibly panic.
At six forty-seven, I checked the road.
At six fifty-two, I checked again.
At six fifty-eight, headlights appeared between the trees.
My chest tightened.
Tessa parked beside Eli’s car.
She stepped out wearing my jacket.
Again.
No gold hoops this time.
No date earrings.
Her hair was pulled back.
She carried a notebook beneath one arm.
Of course she did.
I walked toward her.
“You brought paperwork.”
She shut the car door.
“It is not paperwork.”
“What is it?”
“A plan.”
“That is paperwork with ambition.”
She looked at the thermos in my hand.
“You brought hot chocolate.”
“Preparedness.”
“You mocked me for that.”
“I was younger then.”
“By one week?”
“Transformative week.”
Her mouth curved.
Barely.
Then the smile disappeared.
There it was.
The reason we were here.
Boston.
Ten weeks.
Distance.
The thing both of us had spent the day pretending could be solved with enough optimism.
I held out my free hand.
Tessa looked at it.
Then took it.
No hesitation.
That mattered.
We walked toward the bench beside the rink.
The ice was empty.
The cold sharpened everything.
Our footsteps.
The wind through the trees.
The silence between us.
Tessa sat.
I poured the hot chocolate.
She opened the notebook.
At the top of the first page, she had written:
LONG-DISTANCE PLAN
I stared.
Then looked at her.
“You made a title.”
“It helps.”
“There are sections.”
“There need to be.”
I sat beside her.
“How many?”
“Four.”
“Terrifying.”
“Communication. Visits. Expectations. Boundaries.”
“That sounds less like a relationship and more like an international treaty.”
She handed me the first cup.
“It may prevent war.”
I took it.
“Romantic.”
“Useful.”
I glanced at the notebook again.
Under Communication, she had written:
Daily check-in
Video calls?
Practice/game conflicts
Work schedule
No disappearing during conflict
That last one stopped me.
I pointed.
“Specific.”
Her expression tightened.
“I do not want either of us to go silent because something feels difficult.”
“Agreed.”
“No waiting three days to answer.”
“I don’t do that.”
“You have not yet.”
“Strong record.”
“Rhett.”
“Agreed.”
She looked down.
“I also don’t want constant messaging to become an obligation.”
“That sounds like two opposite rules.”
“It is balance.”
“It is emotional calculus.”
“You attended economics once.”
“Changed me.”
She gave me a look.
Then wrote beside Daily check-in:
Flexible. Not performative.
I watched her.
The careful handwriting.
The concentration.
The way she turned fear into categories because categories could be managed.
I loved that about her.
The thought arrived so cleanly I nearly dropped the cup.
Loved.
Not liked.
Not wanted.
Not maybe.
Loved.
The word did not feel dramatic.
It felt obvious.
That was somehow worse.
Tessa looked up.
“What?”
I had been staring.
Again.
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
I looked down at the notebook.
“Continue.”
Her eyes narrowed.
But she did.
“Visits.”
She turned the page.
“I have Saturdays and Sundays off unless there’s a case deadline.”
“I have summer training Monday through Friday.”
“So weekends.”
“Every other?”
“That is a lot of driving.”
“I can fly.”
“That is expensive.”
“I’ll work it out.”
She looked at me.
“We split it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll be visiting you.”
“And I’ll visit you.”
“You’re working.”
“You’re training.”
“We can decide later.”
She wrote:
Alternate visits when possible.
I frowned.
“That sounds vague.”
“You like vague when it benefits you.”
“Under review.”
She ignored that.
“Expectations.”
The next page was blank.
That seemed significant.
Tessa tapped the pen against the paper.
“What do we expect from this?”
I looked at her.
“To still be together in August.”
“That is an outcome.”
“Strong one.”
“Not what I meant.”
I knew.
What are we promising?
What does distance require?
What happens if one of us changes?
All the questions nobody wanted because answers created stakes.
I set down the cup.
“I expect honesty.”
She nodded.
“Even when it’s uncomfortable.”
“Especially then.”
“No minimizing.”
She looked at me.
“That feels targeted.”
“It is.”
She wrote it down anyway.
I continued.
“No pretending everything is fine to protect the other person.”
“That also feels targeted.”
“Mutual targeting.”
She wrote:
No false reassurance.
Then looked at me.
“What else?”
“No jealousy games.”
Her pen paused.
“I was not planning any.”
“Neither was I.”
“Then why include it?”
“Because people will say things.”
“About you.”
“Yes.”
“And me.”
“Probably.”
Her expression tightened.
The public story again.
My reputation.
Her choices.
Strangers deciding what distance meant before we did.
“I don’t want you defending me every time somebody makes a joke,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because it will exhaust you.”
“That is not your choice.”
“No.”
I met her eyes.
“But I want you to know I don’t need you to prove anything publicly.”
She went quiet.
Then wrote:
Private trust over public explanation.
I smiled faintly.
“That’s good.”
“I know.”
There was confidence in it.
A little of the old Tessa.
The capable one.
The one I admired before I understood how hard she worked to earn that identity.
“Boundaries,” she said.
I leaned back.
“This section sounds dangerous.”
“It is necessary.”
“Also dangerous.”
She turned the page.
“Parties.”
I looked at her.
“What about them?”
“You go to them.”
“Sometimes.”
“You flirt.”
“I used to.”
“That is not a complete answer.”
I took my time.
She deserved one.
“I don’t want to flirt with anyone else.”
Her gaze lifted.
“Not even harmlessly?”
“No.”
“Because we’re exclusive.”
“Because I don’t want to.”
The distinction mattered.
I saw it.
Tessa looked down again.
“And if someone flirts with you?”
“I tell them I have a girlfriend.”
The word still changed her face.
Softened it.
Barely.
“And if they don’t care?”
“I leave.”
“That simple?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
Then wrote.
I looked over her shoulder.
No ambiguity with other people.
“Your turn,” I said.
“What?”
“Boston parties.”
“I do not go to parties.”
“You might.”
“I won’t.”
“You can.”
“I do not want to.”
“Good.”
Her mouth curved.
“Possessive?”
“Selective.”
“Convenient distinction.”
“Accurate.”
She closed the notebook.
I stared at it.
“That’s it?”
“No.”
Her hands rested on the cover.
“There’s one more question.”
“Why isn’t it written down?”
“Because I didn’t know how.”
The air changed.
I set my cup aside.
Tessa looked toward the ice.
Not at me.
“What happens if one of us wants out?”
There it was.
The question beneath all the others.
The ending.
Not invented.
Acknowledged.
My chest tightened.
“I don’t.”
“That was not the question.”
“I remember.”
She turned toward me.
“We need to be able to say it.”
“I don’t want an exit plan.”
“That does not mean there isn’t one.”
The fear sharpened.
Not because she was wrong.
Because she was right.
Relationships ended.
People changed.
Fathers left.
Women left.
The safest thing was to keep a door open.
The old version of me would have agreed.
Would have said no pressure.
No promises.
See what happens.
Easy.
Tessa watched me.
Waiting for honesty.
I forced myself not to look away.
“If one of us wants out, we say it directly.”
Her jaw tightened.
“No fading.”
“No ghosting.”
“No forcing the other person to guess.”
She nodded.
“And no staying out of guilt.”
That one hurt.
“Agreed.”
Her eyes searched mine.
“Can you agree to that?”
“Yes.”
Even though the thought of her choosing out made everything inside me reject the sentence.
“Yes,” I repeated.
“Because staying has to be a choice.”
There was that word again.
Choice.
The center of everything.
I moved closer.
Our knees touched.
“Tessa.”
She looked at me.
“I’m not staying out of guilt.”
“I believe you.”
“I’m not doing this because of the university.”
“That doesn’t make it easier.”
“I’m not trying because I’m afraid to lose.”
Her expression softened.
“Then why?”
The word was there.
Love.
Ready.
Terrifying.
Too soon?
Maybe.
True?
Yes.
I looked at her face.
At the woman who had sprayed me with a fire extinguisher.
Who had seen through every joke.
Who made me want to show up before she asked.
Who was leaving and still sitting here trying to build a way back.
“Because you matter to me,” I said.
Coward.
It was true.
Not all of it.
Tessa heard the missing part.
I could tell.
She looked down.
Not disappointed exactly.
Careful.
“That sounds smaller than what you mean.”
My pulse kicked.
She knew.
Of course she knew.
“You keep finding the real version,” I said.
“You told me I might.”
“I was hoping you’d be slower.”
“Unfortunate.”
Her mouth curved faintly.
Then she waited.
No pressure.
No rescue.
My turn to choose.
I took her hand.
“I love you.”
The words did not explode.
No music.
No dramatic shift in the weather.
Only the quiet rink.
The cold air.
Her fingers tightening around mine.
Tessa stopped breathing.
I continued before fear could take it back.
“I know the timing is bad.”
“That is one description.”
“I know we just became official.”
“Also true.”
“And I am not saying it because you’re leaving.”
Her eyes shone.
“I think I have been moving toward it since you pointed a fire extinguisher at me.”
“That is medically concerning.”
“I have a type.”
“You said I was the first.”
“You are.”
That silenced her.
I touched my thumb to her knuckles.
“I don’t need you to say it back.”
The sentence hurt.
Still necessary.
“I just don’t want to spend ten weeks pretending I feel less because the truth creates pressure.”
Tessa looked at me for a long time.
Then she pulled her hand free.
My chest dropped.
She closed the notebook.
Set it aside.
Then turned toward me fully.
“I had a whole plan for this conversation.”
“Of course.”
“You disrupted it.”
“Historically.”
She moved closer.
Our knees pressed together.
“I thought if we wrote everything down, I would feel safe.”
“Did it work?”
“No.”
I smiled faintly.
“Sorry.”
“I’m not.”
Her hands lifted to my face.
Warm against the cold.
My breath caught.
“Tessa.”
“I love you too.”
Everything stopped.
No crowd.
No goal horn.
No team shouting from the bench.
Still, the words hit harder than any win I had ever had.
“You do?”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“That was not my most convincing delivery?”
“I want confirmation.”
“You love documentation.”
“Deeply.”
She smiled.
Then said it again.
“I love you.”
I kissed her.
The plan slid from the bench.
Pages fluttered against the ice.
Neither of us cared.
Her arms went around my neck.
Mine locked around her waist.
The kiss was not careful.
It was not public.
It was not temporary.
It was relief.
Fear.
Promise.
Every honest thing at once.
When we broke apart, Tessa was laughing.
I touched my forehead to hers.
“The plan.”
“Ruined.”
“Tragic.”
“We can rewrite it.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I am temporarily unavailable for administration.”
I kissed her again.
Shorter.
Still enough.
Then she pulled back.
“Love does not solve Boston.”
“No.”
“Distance will still be hard.”
“I heard you.”
“We may fight.”
“Definitely.”
“You say that like you’re looking forward to it.”
“You’re attractive when angry.”
“Bad answer.”
“Honest.”
She tried not to smile.
Failed.
I picked up the notebook.
One page had landed upside down near the boards.
I retrieved it.
The title remained visible.
LONG-DISTANCE PLAN
Beneath it, written in Tessa’s careful handwriting:
Goal: choose each other without losing ourselves.
I stared at the sentence.
Then handed it to her.
“This one stays.”
She read it.
Her expression softened.
“Yes.”
We sat together on the bench.
Rewrote the pages.
Added schedules.
Visit weekends.
Call times.
Emergency exceptions.
No scorekeeping about who called first.
No using silence as punishment.
No making major decisions alone when they affected both of us.
And at the bottom, Tessa wrote:
The plan may change. The choice must remain honest.
I looked at her.
“Very you.”
“That sounds critical.”
“It’s not.”
She closed the notebook.
“So.”
“So?”
“We have a plan.”
“I love you.”
Her face warmed.
“That is not a response.”
“It’s my current answer to most things.”
“That could become annoying.”
“I love you.”
“Already annoying.”
“I love you.”
She kissed me to stop the next one.
Effective strategy.
By the time we left, snow had started falling.
Not much.
A light dusting over the gravel road.
Tessa tucked the notebook under one arm and slipped her hand into mine.
“I should go,” she said.
“Yes.”
Neither of us moved.
“Class tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“Practice.”
“Yes.”
“Then why are we standing here?”
“I love you.”
She laughed.
The sound moved through the cold night.
Warm.
Real.
Mine.
She stepped closer.
“I love you too.”
This time, I believed I could survive Boston.
Not because ten weeks would be easy.
Not because love guaranteed an ending.
Because for the first time, I was not treating the risk as proof I should leave first.
Tessa was choosing herself.
Choosing the opportunity.
Choosing me.
And I was finally brave enough to let all three be true.