I lean against the doorframe and stand there watching her for a moment.
I don’t know what to do with that. I’ve never known what to do with that—the way she just shows up, like it’s decided, like I don’thave a say in whether or not someone takes care of me. I’m not sure I’ve ever had a say with her.
She stirs when I sit on the edge of the bed, her eyes fluttering open, unfocused and soft with sleep.
“Hey,” she mumbles, already reaching for me. “You’re home. Get in here.” She tugs at my arm, uncoordinated and barely awake. “You’re legally required to hold me now.”
“I need to shower, I’ve been traveling for?—”
“No. Cuddles first. Shower later.” She tugs harder. “Girlfriend rules.”
I give up and let her pull me down, still in my travel clothes, and she immediately burrows into me, her face pressing against my chest, her arms wrapping around my waist. I press my face into her hair and breathe.
“I watched the whole game,” she says, muffled against my shirt. “You were good.”
“We lost.”
“Not because of you.” She tilts her head back to look at me, eyes clearer now. “The breakaway wasn’t your fault. You were already in a no-win situation. I watched it back like four times.”
“You watched the replay four times?”
“I wanted to be sure before I told you it wasn’t your fault.” She pokes me in the ribs. “I was right.”
“You always think you’re right.”
“Because I always am.” She shifts closer, tangling her legs with mine. “Game 7’s at home. You’re going to be amazing. And I’m going to be there losing my mind in the family section pretending I’m not completely obsessed with you.”
“Your dad’s going to be on the ice.”
“I know. I’ll be sneaky.”
“You’re never sneaky.”
“I am extremely sneaky. I’ve been sneaking into your apartmentfor months and nobody has any idea.” She yawns, huge and unashamed. “Take your pants off.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re wearing jeans in bed, Zach. It’s weird. Take them off and hold me properly.”
I laugh, but I strip off my jeans. She watches me with sleepy satisfaction, and when I get back under the covers she immediately plasters herself against me, her back to my chest, her cold feet finding my calves the way they always do, like she’s specifically targeting the warmest part of me.
“Go to sleep,” she says. “You need rest.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Then just lie here with me and pretend. That’s almost as good.” She yawns again. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
So I lie there in the dark with her breathing slowing against me and I think about the game, the goal, the read I got wrong, the half-second I’ll never get back. And then I think about seven months ago. Walking into Pucks & Pucks for the first time with Rodriguez and meeting a girl with red hair and knowing in that moment that nothing in my life would ever be the same.
26
MACKIE
I’m standingin Zach’s kitchen at nearly 6AM wearing his t-shirt and one sock—I can’t find the other one, it’s been swallowed by his bed. I'm blending a smoothie he’s going to complain about, but I’m making it anyway. It's part of the ritual.
The ritual goes like this:
Game day morning, I make him a smoothie with banana, peanut butter, blueberries, and spinach. He hates spinach, which he’s told me approximately thirty times. But I read an article about antioxidants and athletic performance in January and decided that my boyfriend was going to consume blended spinach before every game whether he liked it or not, and the Puckaneers have not lost a single game in which he’s drank the smoothie.
