Or she won’t. And that’s okay too.
What matters is that she’s texting me at 11 PM because she can’t sleep and wants to know my most embarrassing hockey moment. What matters is that she saves me a seat in the facility cafeteria without me even asking. What matters is that when I see her in the hallway, her whole face lights up.
Even if it’s just friendship. Even if that’s all this ever is.
It’s not enough. But I’m trying really hard to convince myself it is.
Late January,I’m cleared for full contact.
The team is on a win streak, I’m back on the ice actually contributing, and everything should feel perfect. But there’s this restless energy I can’t shake. Like I’m waiting for something but I don’t know what.
“You need to tell her,” Almardon says one day after practice.
“Tell who what?”
“Don’t play dumb. You need to tell Juliette you’re into her.”
“We’ve been over this. She needs a friend?—”
“It’s been almost three months since the breakup. At some point you need to stop making excuses.”
“I’m not making excuses.”
“You literally schedule your entire day around when she’ll be at the facility.”
“That’s called being a good friend.”
“That’s called being in love and refusing to do anything about it.”
The words hit harder than they should. In love. I’m not—I mean, I really like her. Obviously. But love is—that’s?—
Oh shit.
“You just realized it, didn’t you?” Almardon is grinning at me.
“Shut up.”
“You’re falling for her.” Almardon’s still grinning at me but all I can hear is static.
“I’m not—we’re just?—”
But the thing is, he’s right. Somewhere between the coffee shop in early January and now, I stopped just wanting Juliette and started needing her. Needing her texts in the morning and her laugh and the way she calls me out on my bullshit and the way she remembers small things I mention in passing.
I’m falling for her.
And I have absolutely no idea what to do about it.
February starts with a road trip.Four games in ten days, all on the East Coast. It’s exhausting but we win three out of four, and I’m playing well enough that Barrett’s actually complimenting me.
But the whole time, I’m texting Juliette.
Photos of terrible airport food. Complaints about hotel pillows that are either rocks or marshmallows with no in-between. A voice memo of Almardon snoring that makes her send back seven cry-laughing emojis.
She sends me updates about her students. A video of a kid falling spectacularly during a lesson with the caption “this is how I feel about life right now.”
On the flight home, I’m scrolling through our texts and Almardon leans over.
“You need to ask her out for real when we get back.”
