“We made this list when the world was our oyster, Clare. When we had enormous dreams and even more confidence that we could actually reach them. I’m game to knock a few things off it if you are.” His hazel eyes sparkled as he spoke and the more he spoke, the faster his words came, like they were fueled by the excitement of the teenager who had helped craft the list all those years ago. “Unless you’re chicken.”
Ugh. She hated when he baited her. He knew her too well. She sipped on her wine as she scanned the list. “We’re too old for some of these things, Eli. Too old and too broke.”
“And you’re going to make up any excuse you can not to step out of your comfort zone. We can use some creative license on some of the crazier ideas. We’ve both already done number fifteen.” He grunted, bitterness coating his words. “You can cross that one off.”
#15—Get married.
He was right, they had. At the time they’d written it, she’d always assumed they’d marry each other, not other people. He produced a purple marker from his pocket and handed it to her. “You in?”
She stared at the list again. “I think—”
He smacked the table. “Stop thinking. We weren’t thinking when we wrote this list, we werefeeling. What are you feeling?”
She covered her face with her hands. “Scared? Embarrassed? Ashamed?” Heavy tears slid down her cheeks. She hated where she was in life, and more than that, she hated that he was still Elliott, the person who managed to make her dig deep, to feel deep, and who never let her hide, not even from herself.
“I hate you.” But not really.
He didn’t say anything, just waited in silence for her tears to stop. She wiped her face, took the marker he was still holding, and crossed off number fifteen. Putting the cap back on the pen she tapped it on the list. “We did number twenty-nine, too.”
#29—Write a letter to yourself to open in ten years.
“I don’t know where we put them. I’d guess they’re in Mom and Dad’s attic somewhere if they survived the ages, but we did it.” She ticked off twenty nine, and a weird look flickered across Elliott’s face. “What?”
With a deep breath he dug back into his pocket. Oh God. No. He didn’t. He couldn’t. Fuck. He totally did.
The sight of the faded pink envelope made her heart quicken. “How?”
“You want the truth? Or you want me to tell you it was in your mom’s attic?”
A fresh wave of tears trickled down her cheeks as she took the envelope from him.
“I kept them in a box under my bed.” His quiet admission and the weight of everything else unsaid pressed on her chest. He’d kept them. The list, the letters, their history, her mauled fucking heart, he’d kept it all.
What the fuck did that mean?
She slid the envelope to the side of the table while she dipped her finger into the hummus and sucked it off her fingertip. She wasn’t hungry anymore, it was just something to do, something to distract her from the envelope, from the feelings welling in her chest and the tears still close to the surface. She’d open it later, when she was alone, when he couldn’t read her like a fucking book.
“We can check off number eighteen too.” She put a line through the box next to it.
He chuckled. “I didn’t win the Stanley Cup.”
“That’s true. But you won the Frozen Four—as a player and a coach—and you won the Hobey Baker memorial award.”
His eyebrows shot up and his eyes widened.
She nodded smugly. “I pay attention. I know that the Hobey is the most prestigious award in college hockey. It recognizes the top NCAA DI men’s ice hockey player in the country.” She’d memorized the spiel when he’d won it.
“But wait—hockey skills and stats aren’t the only criteria, no sir. The Hobey is awarded to the player that most embodies a variety of qualities, including sportsmanship and character.” She grinned at him.
The flush that spread up his neck and into his cheeks was adorable. He’d never been good at taking compliments. “I can’t believe you kept up with my career.”
She shrugged. She’d absorbed every single news story she could find about him while he was away. She watched away games, read blogs and hockey forums, she’d even ordered a jersey with his name on it when he’d gotten to the AHL.
“You also got the Dudley Garrett Memorial Award for rookie of the year when you moved up into the AHL.”
He winced. “A short-lived career in the minor leagues.”
“Don’t downplay your accomplishments. Each one is important. Plus, they’re all there in black and white on HockeyDB.com.” She wagged a finger. “You played hard, you won a ton of things. Sure, it’s not quite the Stanley Cup, but it’s worthy of a check mark on our list. You basically won everything that was in your path along the way. And I bet if you’d gone to the NHL you’d have won the Colin SmytheandLord Stanley.”
