Page 75 of The Five Hole

“I want you, Thatcher. We can do this. If you want to.”

Thatcher’s gaze melts and he cups my face, a thumb brushing close to my lips.

“Of course I want to, Rory.”

“I love you,” I tell him, feeling wet tracks down my face. I’m not sad, just overwhelmed by emotion.

His lips are shaking as they brush over mine.

“I love you,” he answers back, the words skating across my lips.

We stay like that for a long time, kissing, vulnerable, too many emotions for words.

“When I come back,” I finally say. “I want the bar to be everything we imagined.”

He holds my gaze.

“You’d better,” he murmurs. “Because I’m not doing the drywall twice. Not to mention the custom builds.”

We laugh. It’s small. Quiet. Real.

And I kiss him as he runs his fingers through my hair with sawdust on his hands.

Chapter twenty-two

Roe Monroe

The Bench Social Media Group

Marge Calloway: It’s official. Roe Monroe signed on for a full season with the Knights.

Patti Jensen: I just dropped off a care basket at Thatcher’s. It included tissues, bourbon, and one of those sad little succulents that mean “I’m still here.”

Ash Patel: Roe said it was temporary last time. This? This feels bigger.

Stan Gordon: Heard Jamie’s been wearing Roe’s Iceguard jersey under his warmup gear. That kid’s loyalty is unmatched.

Riley Novak: Thatcher hasn’t said a word, but he rebuilt the shelves in the library yesterday. By hand. Quietly. With intent. They’re damn beautiful shelves.

Marge Calloway: The man doesn’t speak his feelings. He carves them into local architecture.

Ash Patel: So what happens now?

Patti Jensen: We wait. We cheer. And we make damn sure that bar is still standing when Roe comes home.

The months leading up to pre-season camp fly by as the Iceguard season ends, and then the Knights’ does as well, and the next thing I know it’s time to pack my gear once again.

It’s bittersweet leaving the Iceguard; the send off was as loud and obnoxious as anticipated.

Jamie insists on walking me out to the car, even though it’s 6:00 a.m. and the sun’s barely up.

He’s still in his hoodie and socks, arms wrapped tight around my waist like I might float off if he lets go too soon.

“You’re gonna text me during games, right?” he mumbles into my chest.

“Everyone,” I say. “And you’d better keep sending me those goal recaps.” And I will be home between games, and they will come to Chicago. But we’ve made all those plans. Jamie knows them. Truth is, even if we were in the same city, hockey schedules are brutal on relationships.

“Only if you admit my slap shot’s better than yours.”