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And I didn’t say anything back.
I still haven’t. We haven’t addressed it at all.
We’ve talked in the week since. Every day. Mostly, not much has changed between us. We still hold hands on campus, I still drink in her moans when we kiss, I still lose myself in bliss between her thighs, we still hang out in her room and play with Salsa.
But while we’re doing all that, there’s something heavy hanging over us. We both feel it, but we’ve scrupulously refused to address it.
Every moment we spend together is like a picture overlaid with a color filter—the shapes and composition may be the same, but the atmosphere is fundamentally changed.
The worst part about all this? I’m pretty damn sure I do love Summer, too.
But until I met her, I was never in a real relationship. Hell, I hardly ever hooked up with the same girl more than once. Just three months ago, the idea that I’d be dating someone would have been completely absurd to me.
All my life was about hockey, about treating anything other than hockey as a distraction. And keeping those distractions to a minimum.
I was able to accept that I was head over heels smitten with Summer. But accepting that I’m in love with her? Accepting that I’m in love with her, she’s in love with me, and everything that comes along with those facts?
That’s not so simple. I’m thrown through a total fucking loop mentally, and I don’t know how to make sense of it all.
Summer’s waiting for me outside the locker room, like she has been at every home game we’ve played since the beginning of the season. She’s wearing my jersey, like always. She smiles when she sees me, like always; but this time, the smile doesn’t quite jump into her eyes like it usually does.
There’s an uncertainty inside her that dulls the sparkle in those beautiful green eyes I’m so used to seeing. It kills me that I’m responsible for that—because I didn’t know how to return her words, words that no doubt meant so much to her.
Hugging her feels just as good as it always does, though.
“Don’t let our boy be too hard on himself,” Rhys says to Summer as he gives me a slap on the back while walking past. “Just shaking off the cobwebs is all.”
“Hudson? Hard on himself? Never.” Summer shoots a wry smile at me, and even though my thoughts are still racing a mile a minute, I can’t keep my own lips from tugging up.
Normally, Summer and I would go out with the guys or go to her or my place together after a game. But right now, with everything going on in my head, I feel like I need time alone.
“Hey, babe,” I tell Summer, “I’m feeling really sore. And fucking exhausted. Is it alright if I just head home and we hang out tomorrow?”
She nods, though I don’t miss the way her smile flags. “Of course. That’s fine.”
I tighten my arm around her and press my lips to hers, savoring her taste.
It’s a taste I love. I love everything about Summer. Her talent, her sense of humor, the way her personality contrasts with and complements mine, her laugh, her voice, our inside jokes, the way being with her feels effortless and so, so right.
Does that mean I can say I love her? And stand by everything that declaration entails?
What do I even know about love, that kind of love? I never even planned for it to be part of my life.
When I get back to my room and lie down on my bed, staring up at my dark ceiling, I haven’t managed to make these tangled thoughts one bit looser.
I wish I had somewhere other than my head to work them out. Someone I could talk to. Obviously, my dad’s out of the question. Talk to him about anything other than hockey? I know how that goes.
I find myself wishing I had a best friend. A lifelong friend. Someone who knows me, knows what I’ve been through, knows the way I think, what makes me tick. Someone who could give me advice that I could trust.
I wish I’d spent more of my life making connections like those. Instead of avoiding them like I avoided anything that might take up space in my life reserved for hockey.
Suddenly, something clicks in my head. I can practically hear the gears shifting perfectly into place. In a flash, everything makes sense.
I sit up straight in my bed. I’m making that same fucking mistake right now.
Two hypothetical futures flash in my head. One where I have hockey, but I don’t have Summer; another where I have Summer, but I don’t have hockey.
Which future am I happier in? My heart pulses in my chest with the realization—there’s no contest.
