Bryce snorts. “What a dick.”
I shoot him a dark look.
“Britta,” he says, corralling the package until it’s sitting in front of me.
“Come to the game tonight.”
I force my numb fingers to move, ripping the wrapping paper—and I slowly reveal an Anaheim jersey, tags still attached. My throat tightens like a bow. “I assume . . . he is going to be there?”
“Our father.” He doesn’t ask it like a question, because we both know who I’m referring to. “Yeah. He’s coming. But you have just as much right to be there. Or anywhere. You matter, Britta. And it’s okay to let someone matter to you. It’s okay to matter to someone else.” He regards me thoughtfully for a second, as if wondering if he could say more but deciding against it. Rising from the bench, he puts a hand on my head, ruffling my hair. “See you tonight, maybe.”
“Maybe,” I croak, still staring down at the jersey. “Either way, Bryce
. . . thanks. I guess.”
He smirks, stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and leaves.
I sit there for a long time. In fact, I remain at the table long after Sluggers is due to open, the teal and white blurring in front of me while I consider everything Bryce said to me. While I replay every moment I’ve spent with Sumner over the last year and ten months, wondering how someone so freaking huge could get under my skin so easily.
Into my heart.
Because that’s where he is. In a deep, tangled way I don’t think I can undo.
Love doesn’t erase the fear of the unknown, though.
I look around the bar, at the divots in the tables, the broken floorboard by the kitchen, the jewel-toned bottles reflecting the early afternoon sun, the brass bell we ring when someone buys a round. Every piece of this place was once so beloved, but my fear is turning it into a prison. And Sluggers is not a person. It can’t love me back.
It’s not him.
With a heavy swallow, I finger the tags of the jersey. I can smell the newness of the thick mesh, and it symbolizes a fresh start for Sumner. Is this . . . a new start for me as well? Is Bryce right, and I’ve been shielding myself from any further damage by hiding within these walls?
Maybe I am stronger than that.
And I’ll never know unless I test myself.
SUMNER
I’m here, but I’m not.
I’m standing in the bench area, helmet on. Can’t feel the stick in my hand.
A local veteran is singing the national anthem, and though my arm feels too heavy to keep my palm flattened over my heart, I keep it there, trying to focus despite the horrible buzzing in my head.
I shouldn’t have let Britta leave.
I’m flying to California tomorrow morning, which gave me approximately twenty-four hours to convince her coming with me is the right choice, but now I’m worried I squandered every minute of today. I was flattened after she left. Then my family convinced me to give her some space to think. That she would make the right decision with a little time and consideration. Now, I’m worried that idea was garbage. I should have gone to Sluggers, carried her into the office, and kissed her until we were on the same page. I should have been more understanding. More patient. I should have, should have, should have . . .
How the hell am I going to play this hockey game with my chest in a vise?
Part of me wishes Britta would make it easier to be in love with her.
By loving me back, by following me to Anaheim because she can’t stand to be apart any more than I can. But honestly, no. No, I don’t wish that.
Because knowing that I love her no matter the circumstances, no matter the pain, no matter the indefinite state of the future, means it’s forever. Forever.
And she has no fucking idea how long and hard I’ll work to keep her.
I’m going to start my campaign to bring her west as soon as I land in California. I’m going to call her relentlessly. I’m going to visit Bridgeport so often, she’ll wonder if I ever left. If I have to spend every dime of my savings on flights, so be it. When she opens her apartment door in the mornings, there will be flowers waiting in the hallway, just delivered. I’m going to write her name in silver Sharpie on my skates, maybe my helmet, for every game if they let me.
She is not done with me.
Someone shoves me in the back.
Turning around and showing any interest whatsoever is difficult, when Britta is all I can or want to think about, but I manage to glare at Bryce.
“What was that?” I study his face for a moment, noticing he doesn’t look as worried as he did in the locker room before the game. “What are you so smug about?”