“I’d love knife collecting, which would remind me that I love you, and if I’m reminded of that …”
“Got it. Vicious cycle.”
“So?” His frown deepens.
“You follow questionable Reddit threads.”
“Ryan.”
“I’m not going to Shadowridge,” I tell him. “Not going back to professional hockey either. At least not for now.”
“You’re … not? I thought you’d pick that one for sure.”
“Tell me with a straight face you would have actually been able to let me go.”
“That’snot important. You said you’re not doing those things. We don’t need to talk about hellscapes that may never come to fruition—it’s better not to give me nightmare fuel.” His relief is tangible. “But are you going to be happy without a professional hockey career?”
That’s hard to say. I need time to figure out who the fuck I am without my father’s chains holding me hostage.
“Not one hundred percent sure. I’m young enough that I can think about it in a year or two. I’ve still got a couple more seasons of college hockey in the meantime. And if Griff insists on staying at North Point, I’m not leaving him.” I bump his shoulder. “Above all, it turns out that the thing I want the most is you. I’d be too fucking miserable without my husband for that long.”
Tate smiles. “Not gonna lie, I’m relieved. Okay then, onto Plan: North Point.” He claps his hands, rubbing them together, moving on quickly as if he thinks I’ll change my mind.
“You have a plan for that?”
“Of course I do. It’s not as awesome as Plan: You Live at the Brewery, but it was my second choice.”
“Definitely not living at the brewery.”
“I don’t think you’ve considered it long enough. You’d have the run of the place?—”
“Tate.”
“I’d hire your own personal assistant?—”
“Tate!”
He grips under my thigh, pulling it around him, burying his face in my neck. “I’d build you your own apartment?—”
This time, he’s cut off by a loud banging at the door. He takes my hand, and I grip the blanket with the other. Inside, the banging is louder.
“Coach! Coach! I have good news.”
“Just a second, McKinnon.” He tosses me a pair of sweats from a drawer and grabs a pair for himself. Tate in gray sweatpants should be a religion. But, like, I’m the only member of that religion. Once we’re half-clothed, he opens the door enough to talk to McKinnon. “What?”
“That hockey fight where your crazy-ass husband almost gave me a concussion? Made me totally famous. It went viral on socials, and I’ve got companies barraging my DMs with paid partnerships for our channel. We were already fine for money with what we set up with the other frat house, but this right here is security.”
“Are you sure you don’t have a concussion, McKinnon?”
McKinnon makes a frustrated sound. “Whatever. Sorry, Ryan. Socials don’t look so good for you. I’d maybe stay off them for a bit.”
Of course, not. The world shines on McKinnon, leaving dark clouds in its wake for me. That’s how it is.
“Luke’s still loop-de-loo, so he’s gonna have to stay here until he’s okay again, unless you want my dad asking questions. The rest of us are gonna get breakfast started out here.”
“With what food?” Tate says.
“Ordered groceries.”
