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She shakes her head, and suddenly I know what she’s saying before the words pass her lips.
“It’s not everything. Not anymore.”
It rocks me to my foundation. Knowing she picked me over her dreams, it’s fucking humbling.
And I can’t let her do it. “I don’t want to be the reason you give up what you love.” I won’t.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Okay, then I don’t want to be the reason you cut off your dream at the knees.”
I’ve already lived my dream, met my goals. I would never want Lara to miss out on that.
“Ben, I love you. And I love that you care so much about me and my goals that you’d want me to pursue them, even if it meant letting me go. But?—”
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
“No. I’m talking about supporting a long-distance thing for a while. Year, maybe two. Critical clarification there. Let you go physically, for a limited duration, with lots of conjugal visits that involve the replastering of walls after.”
She lifts one pretty brow. “Conjugal?”
“Yeah, as in for married people. Because I want my ring on your finger, Lara. I want you to have my name or like a hyphen. Fuck it, I’ll take your name, but only because you’re so amazing.”
“Ben, you’re getting ahead of yourself, don’t you think?”
“You don’t want to marry me?”
“Of course I do! But someday, when you’ve had a chance to think about it. When you know it’s what you want.”
I step carefully here. This is too important to stumble over my words and accidentally say something I don’t mean. “That’s the thing, Lara. Elliot, Elle. I’ve known I wanted to marry you since prom. I told my mom.”
That open-mouthed gasp is the perfect opportunity to steal a kiss, a quick and dirty one, since little Z is still an aisle away.
“Lara, understand me. I want to be with you. I want you to be mine, and me to be yours… in here.” I press my hand to her heart. “No matter where we are physically. So I’m in Chicago for the season and you’re in New York. We can make it work. There are eighty-two games in the season, I’m traveling for forty-one. Fifteen percent are in New York. We can make this work.”
“Maybe they’d let me work from Chicago part of the time.”
“And I’ll live in New York in the off-season.” A lot of guys don’t play where they live. And it’s not forever. “We’ll share a Google calendar. It’ll be hot.”
She’s nodding. Which is fucking good.
“I know what it means to live without you. Really without you. It wasn’t living. It was existing. Passing time until you brought the meaning back. And I never want to live that way again. I want to text and talk and laugh and love. I want to find every minute we can to share space, but even when we can’t… I want us to be together. Does that make sense?”
She’s nodding faster, her smile gone watery. Her lashes dark. Beautiful.
My instinct starts tapping its stick.
Yeah, I know, buddy.
I reach into the cooler and grab a can of Eye-C-T with one hand and then wrap my arm around my girl. Lifting her so she presses her face into my shoulder and her toes dangle as I walk toward the front of the store, I keep talking.
“I know hockey isn’t the most secure career choice, and stability is important to you. There’s risks even if you don’t get hurt on the ice. Last season was a scare that had me thinking about backup plans, about what was next… even before you. But so you know, I’m going to get my degree in education, and when playing this game doesn’t feel like the right choice anymore, I’ll get a job teaching and coaching at the high school level.”
She lifts her head, and I’m pretty sure those are tears on my shirt. “You want to teach?
“You know I fucking love math.”
That smile.
