Page 10 of Hockey Halloween

Willa

The morning light filters through the sheer curtains, bathing the room in its glow. My legs are tangled with Nolan’s, my cheek resting on his bare chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.

I should be exhausted—we didn’t sleep much—but there's a different type of energy thrumming in my veins. Not adrenaline. Not nerves. It’s something gentler I don’t have a name for yet.

Carefully, I shift, trying not to wake him. His arm tightens around me for a moment before relaxing. I slip from the warmth of the bed and pad across the hardwood, pulling on my mint green robe as I head for the kitchen.

My apartment is the same as it was yesterday—small, familiar and all mine.

But now it holds the echo of his voice and the imprint of his weight on my couch.

There’s the faint scent of his cologne lingering on my skin and in the air.

His clothes are piled next to the front door, making my cheeks flush thinking about how quickly we got naked once arriving at my place last night.

I start the coffee, savoring the comforting smell as it brews. Rummaging through my kitchen, I try to put together something to eat. While heating the pan and letting the coffee brew, I grab eggs from the fridge, slice a few pieces of sourdough and cut a ripe avocado.

I’m plating the scrambled eggs when I hear footsteps behind me.

He’s standing in my kitchen nook, like he belongs right here.

His boxers hang low on his hips, and one of my throw blankets is draped around his shoulders imitating a cape.

His hair is a mess, tousled and sticking up, and his eyelids are heavy with sleep.

He’s rumpled and unguarded, beautiful in a way that steals my breath.

“You made breakfast?” His voice is scratchy and oh so sexy. It makes my insides purr.

I hold out a plate, the corners of my mouth tugging up. “Nothing fancy, but it’s hot and it’ll get you full.”

“You’re officially the perfect woman,” he brushes an unhurried kiss to my cheek before grabbing his mug. “Good morning, my Muse.”

I freaking love the nickname . “Good morning, Nolan.”

We sit on the couch with the plates balanced on our laps, the moment quiet except for the soft clink of forks and the occasional hum of appreciation. There’s no rush. No awkwardness. Only that still, suspended feeling of two people wrapped in a moment that neither of them wants to end.

He glances at my bookshelves, a knowing expression on his face. “So many books. You really are the sexy librarian type.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” I tease, nudging his knee with mine. “Otherwise that would’ve earned you a full lecture on feminist academic representation.”

“God, I’d let you lecture me all day,” he groans dramatically. “You could’ve worn glasses last night, too…”

“Shut up and eat your eggs, Mr. Ford.”

He laughs, mouth full of sourdough. My heart aches with a tender kind of joy I didn’t know I missed as I admire him carefree like this. Then his gaze flicks to the clock on the wall. His expression shifts—just a flicker—but I catch it.

“What’s wrong? ”

“I have to be at the airport by noon,” he mutters. “I don’t want to leave.”

My stomach dips following his words. “Are you going home today?”

“We’ve got a three-game stretch on the West Coast. We’ll be in California tonight.”

“Tough games?”

He shrugs. “One of them is. We’ve got a point gap to close.”

“You’ll win,” I assure him, reaching for his hand. “You’ve got that Rick O’Connell confidence thing going for you.”

He grins that unfairly charming grin. “And you’ve got that Evie-level belief in me. Dangerous combo.”

“Deadly,” I agree.

When the food is gone and only half-full coffee mugs remain, he pulls his phone from the pocket of his pants. “Give me your number.”

I rattle it off while grabbing mine, his thumb tapping his screen. My phone vibrates, making me check it. The only thing he texted me is a flame emoji.

“I can’t with you sometimes,” I mumble, saving his contact information for future use.

“I saved you under My Muse .” I arch a brow at his comment. “Could’ve gone with Willa the Sexy Historian , but I didn’t want you to ghost me for being too intense.”

“Yet you’re texting me flame emojis.”

“Look, I’m not the best when it comes to flirting. I’m an awkward turtle trying to impress the pretty girl.”

“You’re doing a great job with it so far.” I reach for his hand again, my voice softer now. “I know long-distance can be messy. Still, I want to try it with you. Even if it means bad timing, missed dates, and FaceTime calls at midnight.”

His voice is steady when he replies, “I want that, too.”

“Really?”

“Willa, I’d cross time zones for you.”

I’m caught off guard by his words and how much I love the way he says my name. How easy it feels. How real this already is .

“I’ve never felt this connected to someone so fast,” I admit, thumb brushing along his knuckles. “I know that sounds?—”

“It doesn’t,” he cuts in gently, his eyes holding mine. “Because I feel it too.”

He kisses the back of my hand, takes one last sip of coffee and rises with a resigned sigh.

He moves around the apartment, gathering his things, the morning light painting him with soft colors as he gets ready to leave.

I admire the way his hair still sticks up and how his mouth twitches when he catches me memorizing the curve of his broad shoulders.

At the door, he finally pauses. Not to check for his keys or the time, but to look around one last time. His gaze lingers on the couch, the mugs on the table, the blanket he borrowed and lastly on me.

“You’ll be back,” I promise him.

His smile is soft, almost hesitant. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

Then he walks across the room to kiss me. Once. Twice. Three times.

Every kiss holds a message he’s speaking with his actions instead of words. I press each detail into memory—the warmth of him, the way he feels holding me and the clean manly scent that’s becoming familiar.

I walk him down the stairs, keeping a tight grip on him, not caring who sees us or what time it is. The street is still quiet, the City waking up slowly around us.

When the Uber pulls up, Nolan turns to me and leans in for one more kiss. It’s slower, yet deeper this time.

“I’ll text you when I land,” he promises, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “And probably every hour after. I’ve never wanted to stay so badly.”

“The sooner you go, the sooner we’ll be reunited.”

“I guess I have to believe in that, even if leaving you is the hardest thing I’ve done in years.”

He squeezes my hand one last time, then gets in, letting go. The door clicks shut, and a moment later, the cab pulls away. Just like that, he’s gone—for now.

Walking up the steps back to my now empty apartment, the ache in my chest isn’t sadness. It’s knowing my life has been changed by the wrong date, yet the right guy.