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"Is that weird?"

I shake my head. "No. I get it. When everything feels like it could go sideways, control is the only thing that feels safe."

She looks up, and our eyes meet.

"You too?"

"Yeah," I say, setting down my spoon. "After high school, when I didn’t get picked up right away, I went through this stretch where I thought I’d never get out. People said I was too scrappy, too aggressive, too much of a risk. My family wasn’t rich, I didn’t have fancy camps or connections. I trained on frozen ponds and in sweaty basements."

She smiles softly. "You made it, though."

"Eventually. It took years. College. Trades. Sitting bench. Injuries. Learning how to keep my mouth shut and play the game, on and off the ice. I worked my ass off and learned to live out of a suitcase."

"Sounds lonely."

"Sometimes," I admit. "But hockey’s the one thing that makes sense. The rest? I’m figuring it out."

She sets her bowl aside. "You ever think about the future? Like, post-hockey?"

I nod slowly. "Lately, yeah. I’ve been thinking more about roots. What home means. If I even know how to stay in one place."

She watches me for a beat, then rests her chin in her palm again. "What does home look like to you? I mean, when you close your eyes."

I chuckle under my breath. "Used to be a rink. Anywhere I could skate. Smell of ice, sound of blades carving into it. But lately, I don’t know. I think it’s less about the place and more about the people."

She smiles at that. "That’s a good answer."

"What about you?" I ask. "What’s your version of home?"

She’s quiet for a second, fiddling with her spoon. "Somewhere I don’t feel like I have to prove anything. I’ve always been the good one. The responsible one. The one who says no when everyone else says yes. Sometimes I wonder if I’m living for myself or just trying not to disappoint anyone."

That hits something in me. Deeper than I expected.

"That sounds heavy."

"It is," she says with a soft laugh. "But it’s also freeing, in a way. Law school gave me structure. Rules. If I followed the path, everything made sense. But I’m starting to realize that real life doesn’t care about structure. Real life throws wine-stained exams and roommate chaos and really nice hockey players in your path."

"Hey," I say, grinning. "You lost me at chaos but circled back nicely."

She laughs, eyes lighting up. "You are nice, though. You didn’t have to offer me this place to study. You didn’t have to keep the TV low. You didn’t have to make me feel safe. But you did."

I glance at her, and there’s something fragile but honest about the way she’s looking at me.

"I like having you here," I say. "Even when your highlighters squeak."

She grins. "They’re vital and each color means something. Don’t mock the system."

"Never. I fear it deeply."

There’s a pause, and the mood softens again.

"Do you ever think we’d be sitting here like this?" she asks.

I shake my head. "Not in a million years. Last I saw you, you were tagging along at Allison’s grad party, wearing braces and asking if I liked Taylor Swift."

She groans. "I forgot about that. God, I was such a baby."

"You’ve grown up," I say. "A lot."