Page 253 of On His Team

“I did.”

She laughs. “I regret offering my help.”

She folds both shirts and puts them in the suitcase anyway.

I watch her move around my room. She’s pretty much moved in here, and I’ve stopped thinking about it. Her things are here. Her charger, her face wash, hair ties, and one of her coats in my closet. I used to notice every time she left something here. Now I notice when she takes something home.

Gianna picks up a sweatshirt from the floor and folds it. “You’re going to need a bigger suitcase.”

I shake my head. “Nah.”

“You haven’t packed shoes yet. You need dress shoes. And your suit?”

“Garment bag.”

“Toiletries?”

“Side pocket.”

She looks down at the suitcase. Then at me. “Okay.”

I stand and go over to her. She’s still holding one of my sweatshirts when I put my hands on her waist.

“What now?” she asks. I can see the tension in her shoulders. “Am I annoying you?”

“No,” I say, pulling her in. I grab her chin and kiss her.

Her arms go around my neck without hesitation, the sweatshirt caught between us. I take it from her and throw it onto the bed.

“That was folded.”

“I’ll fold it after.”

“Who are you?”

I kiss her again.

She laughs into my mouth, then stops when I pull her closer. I don’t know when it happened, but this stopped feeling temporary. I always looked forward to the next time, but now she’s here in my space, and I can do this whenever I want.

She pulls back slightly.

I look at her and smile. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”

I look around the room. My room at Hawthorne. My suitcase open. Her clothes mixed into mine. The framed picture my mom gave me after Senior Night still sitting on the dresser because I have not figured out where it’s supposed to go.

Gianna follows my eyes. “You mean leaving?”

“Yeah. Growing up.”

Her expression shifts. I did not mean to make it heavy.

“I keep thinking about how many times I’ve packed in this room,” I say. “Road trips. Holidays. Summer. It never felt like anything. And now everything feels like it could be the last version of it.”

She looks at me for a moment. “Lucy and I were talking about that before Toledo,” she says. She looks down at her hands. “Benson. Hawthorne. The team. You.”

I stay quiet.

She says, “I think I spent most of college assuming this would all keep happening. Benson would always be at Hawthorne. There would always be another hockey weekend. Everybody would always end up in that living room afterward.” She gives a small shrug. “And then I realized there’s not always another one.”