Page 93 of Here We Go Again

I lean down and press a kiss to the side of her head. “Does that count as funny business?”

She picks up her head and lifts her hand to my cheek, guiding my lips to hers. “Mmm,” she murmurs against my mouth. “I vote no. Kissing isn’t funny at all.”

I let myself lean into the kiss. She’s right—there’s nothing funny about it. But kissing her also wakes up every nerve ending in my body, sparking the kind of heat we already decided we don’t need tonight.

Becca must sense the same thing because she tightens her grip on my t-shirt before pulling back and dropping her head on my chest with a sigh. “Okay, that’s probably not a good idea,” she says.

“For my mother’s sake,” I joke, and she giggles, then nestles in a little deeper.

She moves her hand to mine, turning my palm so she can run her fingers over my scar. She’s quiet for a beat before she asks, “Was it scary? The night you cut your hand?”

I close my eyes, memories of that night flooding my senses. “Terrifying,” I say simply, and she tucks my fingers into hers, giving them a squeeze. “Some parts are still a little fuzzy. I remember being up against the boards, fighting for the puck, then Kiminsky hit me from the side, and we started scuffling, enough that I lost my glove. Then he went down, and I went down, and I guess that’s when Isakov’s skate got me. I don’t remember that part though. I don’t know if I passed out or if my brain just blocked whatever happened next, but the next thing I remember is waking up in the ambulance.”

“That had to be so scary,” she says, her voice soft.

“All I could think about was the night I lost my dad. I just kept thinking I wasn’t ready to lose someone else. Which doesn’t make sense when I think about it now. I was the one who was injured. I wasn’t losing anyone. But … the whole ride to the hospital, I felt this weight on my chest that was just like that night. The same kind of fear.”

“I think memories can do that.” Becca picks up her chin and props it on my chest. “Did an ambulance take you to the hospital the night your dad died?”

“Yeah. I was fine. Just a little bruised up, but they wanted to be sure.”

“And you didn’t know, right? That your dad was gone?”

“Not until I was at the hospital.”

“Then it makes sense that’s where your brain went,” she says, and I nod.

“Yeah, I guess it does.”

Quiet settles between us, and I let my eyes close, my breathing slowly settling. In any other circumstance, talking about that night—either night—would leave me anxious, even irritable. But it’s different with Becca. She anchors me like no one else does—not even Carter, which is a hard thing to admit. My brother has been my rock, my best friend, the person I rely on most for my entire life.

I wouldn’t trade that relationship for anything.

But Becca stirs something in me that’s so much bigger. Carter shares my blood—his presence as certain as the last name printed across both our jerseys. But she’s here because she wants to be. She’s choosing me. And there’s power in that. Feeling chosen. Like maybe she believes I can take care of her the way I’ve always needed people to take care of me.

We talk all night long. Until the sky has turned a hazy, muted blue and the birds are chirping outside the window.

Becca tells me the story of how she met Mia. I tell her about Holly and his late wife Claire and how the team still pitches in to help with his daughter, Charlie. We talk about our favorite movies and our favorite shows and the Mumford & Sons album we’ve both been listening to on repeat. We talk about our mothers’ newfound friendship and how happy it makes us both. She tells me about her dad’s recent dedication to a surprisingly cutthroat cornhole league, including the leather pouch he uses to store his custom, competition-certified bean bags. She pulls out her phone and shows me pictures of Alyssa with her new college boyfriend and Gigi holding up a bowl she made in the pottery class she’s taking this summer.

Slowly, we chip away at the time we were apart, filling in the gaps, the memories, the moments we missed. There isn’t enough time, but it’s a start. Which is what this whole night feels like. Like I’m right in the middle of beginning the rest of my life.

Hours later, I wake up, late morning sun streaming in through the window. Becca’s gone, but there’s a text from her waiting on my phone.

Becca

Went to the beach for a swim. Moms have gone antiquing. Come find me!

Ten minutes later, I walk across the sand to find Becca lounging under a beach umbrella on her stomach, book open in front of her. Her wet hair is piled on top of her head, and one of her knees is bent, her foot bouncing lazily in the humid air.

I pause when I’m ten or fifteen feet away and just look at her. I don’t know a lot about love. Whether it can happen at first sight or if there’s such a thing as soulmates. I just know that when she kissed me last night, some part of me that’s been broken for years suddenly felt whole again.

She’s the embodiment of everything I’ve ever wanted, and not just because she’s beautiful. It’s also because she’s funny and smart and compassionate. She’s confident and careful and organized and thoughtful. She’s everything.

The realization sparks a nagging fear in the pit of my stomach.

I really don’t want to mess this up.

“So … are you just going to stand there and stare?”