"Alright," I call out.
And I skate.
Epilogue 2
Rhys
Here’s the thing about Jamie Nash.
He irons his practice jerseys.
Not occasionally. Every single Sunday. There’s a whole system — ironing board in the corner of our bedroom, spray bottle, a specific order he does them in. I’ve watched him do it every Sunday morning for almost a year, and every Sunday morning it does the same thing to me.
It’s so very Jamie.
I love it.
“They’re going to get sweaty and wrinkly in four minutes,” I say from the bed.
“I know.”
“So the ironing—”
“Rhys.”
“I’m shutting up. I’m done.”
He smooths the sleeve down. Unbothered. A year of living with me and Jamie Nash remains fundamentally unrattleable before nine AM. I’ve tried everything. This is my life now, and I’d choose it again tomorrow and the day after.
He got drafted June of our senior year. I called a biotech lab in the same city in July, said I had a chemistry degree and I was very good at this, and they told me to start Monday. I called Blake after, and apparently he already knew before I did.Which means he and Jamie had been talking behind my back and our group chat means nothing to either of them.
Research associate. Good lab. Good work. A commute I like, a coffee place I love, and an apartment Jamie picked because it had good light and enough closet space for two people. I knew from the closet space that he was planning on this working before he ever said so.
Jamie doesn’t say things until he’s already decided. And he chose me a long time ago. I know that about him now. I know a lot of things about him now that I spent forever trying to crack open and now just… have. How he takes his coffee. Which side of the bed he needs to sleep on or he gets cranky. What his face does when something matters and he’s pretending it doesn’t. What his hands do when he’s happy.
I know him. A year ago that felt like the most dangerous thing I’d ever wanted. Now it just feels like Sunday morning.
He finishes the jerseys and gets back into bed with two mugs without being asked. His arm pulls me in automatically, the way it always does — one of those small unconscious things he doesn’t realize he does that gets me every single time, still.
Light filters through the blinds. The city outside does its Sunday thing.
I should let it just be Sunday.
I’m not going to.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” Still looking at his phone.
“Can I tell you something?”
That gets his attention immediately. He puts the phone down and looks at me fully — unhurried, complete — the kind of attention I spent so long trying to earn and now just get.
“About the Eldridge game,” I say.
Something in him stills.
“When Marcus got in my space on the ice. I never told you what he actually said.”
