“I love you,” I whispered against his neck, finding a patch of new skin where I could press my lips without hurting him. “I love you so much, Theron. Do you hear me? You don’t get to leave me. Not after telling me you love me. Not after that. That’s not fair, you stubborn ass.”
My voice cracked, but I kept going. Words spilled out of me like water through a broken glass—everything I’d held back, everything I’d been too scared to say.
“I’m moving in with you. I hope you know that. I’m not even asking. The second you wake up, I’m getting all my stuff out of that apartment and I’m moving into that ridiculous house of yours with the kitchen you don’t use and the bedroom that’s bigger than my whole life. And I’m going to cook for you every single day. Even when you’re being impossible. Even when you’re growling at me about line combinations and skating drills.”
I pressed closer, careful but desperate, trying to push every degree of warmth from my body into his.
“And I don’t care about hockey.” My voice broke on the word, because it wasn’t entirely true and we both knew it, but it was true enough. “I don’t. If I never play another game, I don’t care. If they trade me, if they release me, if the whole league finds out about us tomorrow and blacklists me forever, I don’t care. Do you hear me? You’re worth more than all of it. You’re worth everything.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound. But his chest kept rising and falling beneath my arm, and I clung to that like a prayer.
“You can be whatever you want. A dragon, a coach, a hundred years old, a thousand—I don’t care what you are. I just need you to be. That’s all. Just be here. Just stay with me.”
I didn’t know how long I talked. The light shifted again outside the window, going from gold to gray to something darker. My throat went raw. My eyes burned and refused to close. Every time I felt myself drifting, I’d jolt awake, convinced his chest had stopped moving, only to feel it rise again beneath my arm.
“You promised me you’d explain everything,” I murmured at one point, my voice barely there. “You can’t break that promise. That’s bad form, Coach,” as my dad would have said. “Real bad.”
The arm beneath my cheek twitched.
I froze. Held my breath. Convinced myself I’d imagined it.
Then his chest shifted in a way that wasn’t just breathing—an inhale that was deeper, sharper, conscious. His hand, the one I’d been afraid to touch, lifted slowly and came to rest on the back of my head. Heavy. Warm. Real.
“Dante.” His voice was a wreck. Barely a voice at all. More like gravel dragged across stone.
I burst into tears.
“You bastard,” I sobbed, fisting my hand in the sheet by his hip because I was terrified of squeezing him too hard. “You absolute bastard. Don’t you ever—don’t you ever—”
“Shh.” His fingers moved weakly in my hair. “I heard you.”
I lifted my head. His eyes were open. Just barely, just slits, but open. And the copper was there, faint but present, alive.
“How much did you hear?” I asked, hiccupping.
A ghost of a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Enough. You’re moving in.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t care about hockey.”
“No.”
His eyes drifted closed again, and panic spiked through me, but his hand stayed steady on the back of my head. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a thread.
“You can’t quit. Got a game seven to win first.”
Chapter twenty-three
Final Shift - The last time a player takes the ice in that game.
Theron
“—and there he is, ladies and gentlemen, Dante Russo, cleared to play tonight after missing game six following that car accident earlier in the week. You can see the bruising on his face, Marty, that black eye is something else.”
“It really is, Pat. The team confirmed yesterday that Russo was rear-ended on his way home from practice, and given the severity of the collision, it’s frankly remarkable that he’s out here at all tonight. Word fromthe team doctor is he passed every concussion protocol, every test they could throw at him.”
“That’s a kid who wants to be on the ice. You don’t suit up looking like that unless you’re determined.”
