“I know.”
“Then after Round 2.”
“Zach.”
“Mackie, you’re going to keep moving the line.”
“Because I know my dad and I know that once we do this we can’t undo it. There’s no version where we tell him and then everything is fine by dinner.”
“I’m not asking for fine by dinner. I’m asking for honest.”
I pull my knees up on the couch and press my forehead against them and breathe.
“Give me the conference finals,” I say into my knees. “Let me have the conference finals. Let him have them. This is his last real shot at the Cup and you’re the one in net for all of it and I cannot be the thing that blows up both of you right now. I can’t do that to either of you.”
Zach doesn’t answer right away. I lift my head and he’s still on the counter, pasta forgotten, and he looks tired. Not game-tired. All-over tired.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay?”
“Conference finals. But Mackie—after. Win or lose. No more stalling.”
“After. I promise.”
We’rein his bed a few nights later. Zach just won Game 2 with thirty-one saves, one goal against, and a post-to-post in the second period that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen which I tell him and he only says thanks and rolls over. I lie there staring at the back of his head for about forty-five seconds before I poke him between the shoulder blades.
“Hey.” Nothing. I poke him again. “Zach.”
“Mm.”
“Talk to me, please.”
He doesn’t move and I wait because his breathing just changed and I know something’s coming. Rushing Zach when he’s building up to something is like yanking a fish out of the water before it’s on the hook—you lose everything.
He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. Then he turns his head and looks at me and his hand comes up and cups the side of my face and I was not prepared for that. At all.
“I’m scared,” he says. “About what happens next. I know we need to tell your dad and I keep getting mad that it gets delayed, and then I can’t even be mad about it because the reason we’re moving it is that we keep winning and I can’t be pissed about winning playoff hockey.” He laughs but it’s hollow. “And part of me doesn’t even want to tell him. Because right now it’s just us, it’s always just been us.” His voice cracks slightly and he runs his thumb across my cheek. “I don’t want to lose times like this with you.”
I turn my face into his hand and kiss his palm. “We’ll figure it out,” I whisper, letting him pull me closer. I press my face into his neck and breathe him in, staying snuggled there until his body relaxes and he falls asleep with his arm around me. I don’t sleep at all.
He’s makingeggs in the morning and I’m sitting on the counter with coffee and I’ve been awake for four hours building a case so I just open with it.
“The video room.”
“No.”
“You didn’t even let me?—”
“I didn’t need to. No. We’ve been over this.” He doesn’t lookup from the pan. “It’s my workplace. Your father’s workplace. The risk-to-reward ratio is?—”
“Okay but hear me out.” I set the coffee down. “The wrist thing.”
His spatula stops moving.
“And the hair thing. And the hand over my mouth thing. And last week when you told me not to move and I almost died.” I tick them off on my fingers. “You like holding me down. You like telling me what to do. You like being in control. Yes?”
His ears are red. Full red, not pink, the color they go when he’s embarrassed about something real. He’s looking at the eggs like they hold the answer to whatever he’s feeling.
