Page 81 of The Roommate Game
“I love you,” I repeated. “I want us. I want you. And I want to come home to you. I don’t care if the house is a mess and my orange juice is long gone.” Oh, no. I was a blubbering mess. I wiped my nose on my forearm and continued. “You make me happy and crazy and you bring so much joy and?—”
“So do you. Shh. Don’t cry.” He caught a tear with his thumb and cupped my chin. “I’m right here.”
“I know. I just…need you to know that my heart is yours. That’s corny, but it’s true. I choose you, Gus. Choose me back. Please.”
“Yes.” Gus dropped his hockey stick on the ice and wrapped me in his arms, murmuring, “I love you, love you, love you.”
I cupped his scruffy jaw and sealed my mouth to his. Someone cat-called from the opposite side of the rink. Gus didn’t seem to care, and I wasn’t about to pull away.
He chuckled. “I think I just came out to a couple of my new students.”
I glanced at the teenagers zipping by on the ice. “Is that a problem?”
“Not for me.” Gus smiled. “I think it’s best to be unapologetically honest from now on. What you see is what you get.”
“Good. This isn’t a game. It’s real.”
“I know.” He stroked a finger along my jawline. “And if I’ve got you, I’ve already won.”
“Just like that?”
Gus flashed another sunny grin and winked. “Just like that. I love you, Rafey. Let me spend the next seventy-five years showing you how much.”
“Seventy-five. That’s oddly specific.”
“You’re right. I might live to be a hundred and one. Will you think I’m coming on too strong if I say I want to be with you forever?”
I melted inside. “No, it sounds perfect to me.”
And it did.
I wanted to share a lifetime with my best friend.
No dream had substance without this man. No prize mattered. Together, the world seemed infinitely brighter and anything was possible. Even love.
EPILOGUE
“The more difficult the victory,the greater the happiness in winning.”—Pelé
Three Years Later
Gus
“Mr. L!Um, I’m sorry to bug you, but I was wondering…does the report have to be five hundred words? That’s kind of a lot, and I have practice in, like, ten minutes.”
I glanced over my shoulder at the teenage kid in line behind me at Coffee Cave. Brice Alvarez, QB for the Bears’ JV team, a world-class smartass and a weasel. Brice was the kid who assumed every assignment was up for negotiation. Did he really think there was a chance I’d tell him to write whatever he wanted and call it a day? Okay, sure…the old me might have, but not now. I was a professional, for fuck’s sake.
“Brice, my man. Thanks for checking in. Your commitment to your schedule is admirable,” I said, stepping forward in the queue.
“Uh…thanks.”
“Did you read the book?”
He shrugged. The gesture made his bangs cascade across his forehead. “Not yet, but it won’t take long.”
Wow. How did I put up with these knuckleheads? Let me tell you, it took the patience of a saint most days, but for some weird reason, I was good at it. I’d been told that other teachers weren’t as approachable. Not many fourteen-year-olds would have dared disturb the crabby geometry teacher, Mr. Olstrom, while he waited for a much-needed, end-of-day caffeine infusion, that was for damn sure.
The kid still had no hope of getting out of his homework. Under my “cool adult” persona, I was a hard-ass.