Page 31

Lovie

H arrison once told me about a moment in hockey that feels like it defies time.

“After the ref skates to the middle, and everyone lines up,” he’d said, his voice rumbling through me as I laid on his chest, “and before he drops the puck, there’s this moment that just stretches, and stretches. Sometimes it feels like that moment is longer than the entire game.”

This moment feels like that—standing here in the stands, watching the recognition flicker over his face. Watching the dimple in his cheek pop and recede, the smile come and go, still feeling the press of his lips against mine, the gentle touch of his fingers on my lower back.

It feels like the moment of truth. Because even if I’m in love with him, and he’s in love with me, if what he said is true, and he still doesn’t want kids, it’s not going to work.

All around us, fans are torn. Some of them have gone back to watching the game, while others are still staring at us, cameras up, trying to make sense of what’s going on, trying to capture it to post it to social media.

A few months ago, the thought of that would have made me sick. Now, I don’t care.

I don’t care what they capture. What they post. My life belongs to me, and I can’t help it if people are so interested in Harrison that they feel the need to record me, take photos, post them on the internet.

Once this dies down—if this happens—people will stop caring so much. Harrison and I will become old news, and they’ll move on to berating the next couple, the next two people who just want to be with each other, despite their differences.

Harrison glances down at the jersey in his hand, then back up to me, and in the next second, my feet are coming out from under my body and I’m swinging up, letting out a little yelp as he scoops me into his arms and starts to climb, effortlessly, up the stairs.

There’s still a few seconds left on the clock. The game isn’t over yet, but Coach Clark walks right out on it, getting to the top of the stands and walking right out into the concourse, not looking back as people make noises of confusion.

He carries me straight to his office, not halting or slowing for a second until I’m set on his desk, the heels of my sneakers hitting against the wood, looking up at him.

His expression is undecipherable.

“What is this?” he whispers, holding up the jersey, his eyes darting back and forth between mine.

“I—it’s a jersey for a baby, Harrison.”

He lets out a frustrated laugh, moves closer, bracketing his arms on either side of me so there’s nowhere for me to go. I’d known that this was going to be a lot, coming here to surprise him, telling him about the baby, asking him to be there. To be a dad.

I didn’t know it was going to feel like this. Like undoing my seatbelt on a roller coaster and trusting gravity to keep me inside.

“You kissed me,” he says, clearing his throat. I decide not to correct him—he kissed me, but I basically asked him to.

“I did,” I say, nodding, “because I want you.”

“Aren’t you…worried about your job?” His eyes are intense, locked on my face, and I realize that the last time I saw him, I left because of the risk. So, it only makes sense that he would think about that, about how us being together publicly might really be an issue for HR.

For Maya. I let out a shaky laugh, thinking about how I’d apologized to her earlier, explained what was going on. Asked her for forgiveness without expecting it. When I told her my plan, she’d laughed and thrown her arms around me.

“Girl,” she’d said, throwing popcorn in her mouth. “You just saved me a mountain of paperwork.”

Now, I clear my throat and look back to Harrison, saying, “No, I’m not worried about it.

I’ve loved working with the Blue Crabs, but it’s not my passion.

I took this job because I needed the money, and as much as I’ve loved getting to know hockey, and being a part of this world, there are other things I want to work on. ”

Harrison lowers his voice. “You’re leaving the Crabs?”

“Yes.” When I confirm it, I feel the weight lifting from my chest.

“And you’re not worried about the money?”

“The only thing I’m worried about, right now, is this baby. All I want is for him to have the best possible life he can. And I think…I think that starts with you. With us.”

“With us,” he repeats, pulling back a bit, swallowing. “Lovie, I can help with your dad?—”

I hold a hand up, “We’re selling the house, and Dad and I are looking into assisted living…around here. In Baltimore. And Chrys might even be able to pitch in. We’ll figure it out together.”

“In Baltimore,” he says, quietly, raising his eyebrows and giving me a smirk. “You’ve thought it all through, huh?”

“It’s what I do best,” I joke, still shaking with the knowledge that he hasn’t said yes yet. He hasn’t agreed. It’s still possible that he doesn’t want this, and there’s a small corner of my mind that’s preparing me for that disappointment.

For the sensation of flying out of the roller coaster, completely untethered to the ground.

Finally, Harrison says, “But what about the contract?”

I lift up, reaching into the back pocket of my jeans and pulling out a crumpled, folded paper. His eyes track it, bouncing between it and me.

The paper that says he has no right to custody over the child, that details him giving up any ownership of the baby.

That says everything between us is nothing more than an agreement.

I hold it in my shaking hands and rip it right down the middle. I drop it in the trash, then I turn to him, taking a nervous breath.

“Harrison, I?—”

But I can’t get anything else out, because he’s stepping forward, tipping my head back, and kissing me. This is nothing like the kiss in the arena—this is private, hopeful.

A kiss that means something. A kiss that’s really a conversation.

A kiss that says I love you, and I want you, and I miss you.

“I already did the math,” Harrison says, voice rough and breathy when he finally pulls back. My mind is still fuzzy from the contact with him, and it takes me a moment to catch up.

“The math?”

“I’ll be sixty-eight when they graduate from high school,” he says, looking at me seriously, like I haven’t thought this through.

My chest inflates. “So, you want this?”

His eyes widen cartoonishly, and he shakes his head, “I’m sorry—was that not clear?”

When I say nothing, a tear rolling down my face, he shakes his head and wipes it away for me, lowering his voice, “Lovie. I have never wanted anything in my life as much as I want you. And this baby. This life, together.”

“Not even the Stanley Cup?”

He glances to the side, to the picture of him holding the thing over his head, skating around the ice as the team captain and MVP of the game.

Then, he turns back to me and shakes his head, saying with absolute candor, “No. Not even the Stanley Cup. But, Lovie, did you hear what I said? I’ll be sixty-eight at her high school graduation.

And seventy-two for college. Who knows what I’m going to look like when it comes time to walk her down the aisle. ”

I don’t mean to, but I laugh. Maybe it’s all that giddy energy, the way I always feel around him bubbling to the surface, combined with this perfect moment.

He raises his eyebrows, pulling back from me, trying to look serious even as a laugh slips out of him, too. “Lovie, this is our child we’re talking about.”

“No,” I say, reaching up and pressing my lips to his, whispering against them, “This is your vanity we’re talking about. Our child isn’t going to care about what you look like at their graduation, or their wedding. As long as you love them, it will be enough.”

Harrison dips his head, pressing his lips against the crook of my neck and breathing out. I feel the slow, subtle creep of tears on the collar of my shirt, and I cling to him, wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders.

We hold each other for several minutes, breathing, letting this moment cement itself in our shared history.

Then, Harrison pulls back, touches his fingers to my stomach, and meets my gaze, saying, “I already do.”