Page 28

LIAM

SIX WEEKS LATER

L ate January in New York brings the kind of bone-deep cold that makes even hockey players question their life choices.

Snow piles in dirty mountains along sidewalks, and the wind whips between skyscrapers with enough force to make walking feel like skating uphill.

Not that the weather matters today.

Nothing could dampen my spirits.

Not the arctic chill. Not the cab driver who overcharged me.

Not even the fact that the elevator in Piper's building has chosen this exact moment to break down.

Six flights of stairs with two duffel bags, a hockey stick bag, and the small velvet box burning a hole in my pocket.

No problem.

"This better be worth it, Sullivan," I mumble aloud, hefting the luggage higher on my shoulder as I round the fourth-floor landing.

It's been three weeks since I've seen Piper in person—her fellowship deadlines coinciding perfectly with my team's road trip schedule in a cosmic joke of timing.

Video calls and late-night texts have sustained us.

But nothing—absolutely nothing compares to actually being with her.

Especially not today, when I'm carrying news that will change everything.

I'm sweating by the time I reach her door, despite the January chill, and fumbling for the key she gave me at Christmas when I hear movement inside.

The door swings open before I can unlock it.

The moment I step inside, I see it.

See her.

My Piper in leggings and one of my stolen sweatshirts, hair piled messily on top of her head, glasses slightly askew—and somehow still the most beautiful sight I've seen in weeks.

"You're early!" she exclaims, eyes widening as she takes in my luggage-laden form. "I thought your flight wasn't until?—"

"Caught an earlier one," I interrupt, dropping the bags and pulling her into my arms in one motion. "Couldn't wait."

Her body fits against mine like she was designed for it, soft and warm and perfect.

The sensual vanilla scent of her wraps around me as I bury my face in her neck.

"I've missed you so much," she mumbles against my chest.

"Enough to help carry these bags inside?"

She pulls back, eyeing the pile of luggage. "That's a lot for a four-day visit, Sullivan. Planning to move in without telling me?"

If she only knew.

"Just being prepared.” I shrug. "Speaking of which, I have news."

Her eyebrow lifts with that adorable skepticism I've come to love. "Good news or 'I accidentally volunteered us to host the team party' news?"

"Definitely good," I say, hefting my bags inside. "But it can wait until I've showered away six hours of travel grime."

"Fine," she sighs dramatically, closing the door behind us. "I suppose I can be patient for another twenty minutes."

The tiny Brooklyn apartment I bought for her feels more like home than my place in Boston ever did.

Books stacked in organized piles. Color-coded sticky notes marking research for her latest fellowship article.

My UB hockey jersey framed on the wall beside her degree.

It’s the perfect blend of her orderly nature and the small touches of chaos I've introduced over my visits.

A hockey glove repurposed as a remote holder.

A collection of ridiculous fridge magnets from every city I've played in.

"How's the fellowship?" I ask, unzipping my bag on the area of floor we've designated as my temporary closet space.

"Intense.” She perches on the edge of her bed to watch me unpack. "But amazing. They're letting me lead the investigative piece on athletic department funding discrepancies. And Professor Bennett called yesterday—he wants us to guest lecture for his summer session."

"Look at you, academic superstar. And the podcast?"

"Downloads hit six figures last week. Julian says we're officially the most successful student-originated content in UB history."

"Not bad for an accidental partnership."

She rolls her eyes, but the affection in them is unmistakable. "Go shower. I ordered that disgustingly greasy pizza you like."

I kiss her temple as I pass, surreptitiously patting my jacket pocket to ensure the ring box is secure before hanging it carefully over a chair.

The shower's hot water does wonders for my travel-stiff muscles, but does nothing to calm my racing thoughts.

I've rehearsed this moment countless times, practiced the words until they felt natural rather than scripted.

But now that it's actually happening, my planned speech seems inadequate.

Because how do you tell the woman who organized your entire life that you've rearranged yours to be with her?

When I emerge from the bathroom in sweatpants and a t-shirt, hair still damp, Piper has set up our makeshift dinner table—the coffee table, adorned with actual plates instead of eating straight from the box, which is her concession to civilization.

"Okay, Sullivan," she says, pouring wine into the mismatched mugs that serve as her wine glasses. "Spill. What's this mysterious good news?"

I take the mug she offers, our fingers brushing in a way that still sends electricity up my arm even nearly a year together.

"Promise not to make a spreadsheet analyzing it immediately?"

"I make no such promises," she retorts, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Deep breath. This is it.

"I got traded," I say, watching her face carefully.

Her expression freezes, wine mug halfway to her lips. "Traded? Where?"

"New York," I reply, unable to hold back my grin any longer. "Specifically, to the Titans' development team. Contract signed yesterday. I start training with them next month."

The mug hits the coffee table with a thunk, wine sloshing dangerously close to the edge. "You're moving to New York? Permanently?"

"That's the plan."

"But—how? When? Your agent said Boston was your best option, and?—"

"Turns out my stats caught someone's attention," I explain, shifting closer to her. "Their defense could use some work, according to the scout who called, and—Piper, breathe."

"I'm processing. This is—this is huge, Liam. What about your apartment? Your training schedule? The team you've been working with months?"

"All figured out. I’ve been working on this since before Christmas. Wanted it to be a surprise."

"It's definitely that," she says faintly.

"There's more," I continue, heart hammering. "I found another space. Another apartment. Two-bedroom, in Brooklyn. Decent rent, good neighborhood, and most importantly—" I reach for her hands "—room for both of us. If you want."

Her eyes, already wide, grow impossibly wider. “So, this is it? We’ll both be here? Permanently? In New York?"

"That's generally what 'both of us' means, yes."

"But we agreed to take it slow, figure out the distance thing, not rush?—"

"Thompson…We've been figuring it out for eight months. I'm tired of missing you. I'm tired of planning visits around conflicting schedules. I want to wake up with you every day, not just on long weekends."

"But your career?—"

"Is important. Just like yours is. But we're important too. And I'm done letting logistics dictate our relationship."

She stares at me, those brown eyes swimming with emotions I can't quite decipher.

And then, in very un-Piper-like fashion, she lunges across the coffee table, sending a slice of pizza sliding to the floor as she throws her arms around me.

"Yes," she whispers against my neck. "Of course, yes."

Exhaling hard enough to make my shoulders sag, I wrap my arms around her, pulling her fully into my lap. "So that's a tentative maybe?"

She laughs, the sound muffled against my shirt. "When can we see this apartment? I'll need to measure the closet space, assess the kitchen cabinets, create a packing schedule?—"

"Tomorrow," I promise, pressing a kiss to her hair. "The realtor's meeting us at ten."

She pulls back. "Wait. How long have you been planning this?"

"Remember when I said I was in Philadelphia for that exhibition game in December?"

"You were apartment hunting? Again? You lied to me!"

"I prefer 'strategically withheld information. Sounds more like something you'd do."

She swats my arm. “I can't believe you're actually moving here. That we're going to live together. This is—Wait, what's the catch?"

"No catch," I promise, though my hand instinctively twitches toward where my jacket hangs, the ring box still hidden. That particular surprise can wait for tomorrow, when I'd planned a proper proposal at the new apartment. "Just one small thing."

"I knew it. What is it? The place has no bathtub? You've already invited Derek to crash on our couch for a month? Ryan adopted a ferret and we're pet-sitting?"

"The moving truck arrives at 8 am. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? As in, less than twelve hours from now? Your stuff is arriving tomorrow?"

"Surprise?" I offer weakly.

"Liam Sullivan!" She scrambles off my lap, already reaching for her phone. "We need boxes! And packing tape! And a labeling system! And—oh god, we haven't even seen the apartment yet. What if it's terrible? What if your stuff doesn't fit?"

"Piper, breathe," I laugh, pulling her back down. "The apartment is great. I made sure it had enough shelf space for your book collection and enough closet space for your extensive cardigan hoard. And most of my stuff is still in storage—this is just the essentials."

"Essentials like what? Your entire hockey equipment collection? That hideous chair Ryan's uncle gave you? Your trophy the from the campus hot wing eating contest?"

"First of all, that trophy was earned through pain and suffering. And second, it's mostly just clothes, training gear, and a few personal items. The furniture's coming later."

"Define 'later.'"

"Day after tomorrow?" I wince as her expression shifts to pure panic. "But hey, the good news is we don't have to sleep on the floor! I ordered a bed. It's being delivered tomorrow afternoon."

"A bed you picked out, without consulting me, for an apartment I haven't seen, to accommodate stuff arriving in—" she peers at her watch "—eleven hours and twenty-seven minutes."

"When you put it that way, it sounds bad."