Page 27 of Best Things in Life

“Final.” I give him a smirk and knock on the coach’s door. The kid’s relentless good cheer lifts my mood because he’s genuinely happy and a fucking badass player. It would be no surprise to me if he took over the first line center position, displacing fucking Bigs by the end of the season.

“Come in,” Coach calls out and I push inside, leaving Whiskey in the hallway. He’ll probably eavesdrop, but I trust him not to talk and my instincts on trustworthiness are infallible.

“What is it, Nate? Looked good out there today. I hear you’ve been putting in a lot of extra time in the gym.”

“Yes sir. I’m determined to win the Frozen Four this year. But,” I clear my throat because his face immediately changes to wary. No matter. I need to do what I need to do. “A personal matter has come up and I need to go home tomorrow for two days.”

“Personal matter? What is it? Spell it out.”

“A close family friend passed away and I need to go to the wake and funeral.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But you know the rules, Nate. Unless it’s an immediate family member we do not grant time for bereavement. Besides, I’m sure hockey will keep your mind off things and your family will understand. That all?”

The breath I’d been holding comes whooshing out. Fuck. I nod, turn around, and walk out of the office without another word. What is there to say? He has his rules and I get it. There’s no way to explain to him the obligation I have, how it’s seared into my DNA that I need to pay respect and the way I need to do it, that it’s the way I was raised, it’s who I am and I can’t stop being me now.

I have a choice to make, except it’s not a choice at all. There’s only one thing I can do.

“Fuck, that’s too bad,” Whiskey says under his breath as he falls in step beside me and we walk down the hall to the nearest exit. “What are you going to do?” We stop at the door and I push it open. Daylight spills inside as we stand on the threshold and I step outside feeling something like I’ve been let out of prison.

“I’m going to the wake and funeral,” I say without looking at him. But I can feel his reaction and when I slide a glance, he’s grinning.

“I knew it. I had a feeling.”

“You’re not pissed that I’ll be letting down the team—as captain? Ditching out on two days of practice against the rules and against the coach’s directive?”

“Pissed? Fuck no. It’s important to do what you need to do in real life. Hockey is… hockey. Life is bigger.”

Fucking kid is smarter than I am. I thump him on the back.

“Let’s go. You wanted a ride, right?”

Chapter 11

SARINA

The Wake

Throwing my phone on my childhood bed, I’m grateful for the anger aimed at Bigsby because it’s a blessed distraction from the weight of sadness pressing on my chest so that it’s hard to breathe. There’s no text to say he changed his mind about not coming today. He’ll be here for the funeral tomorrow.

From the moment my mom called me, the pain in my chest has been a real physical thing like my heart has been literally wounded. A stabbing pain juts through me and I wonder if I should see a doctor. But the notion is fleeting as I replay Bigsby’s words in my head. I have hockey practice and I can’t miss it for a wake. People don’t even have wakes anymore. The words stung even after he promised to come to the funeral tomorrow.

I try to imagine myself being consoled by him, leaning my head against his strength, but the picture doesn’t gel in my head. Anger rears up again and saves me, feeding some life back into me. The bastard refused to understand that the wake is part of our family tradition, that it’s part of the grieving process. It’s an Italian Catholic thing and, most importantly, that it means a lot to me.

The next stab through my chest almost makes my knees buckle because I’ll never talk to my Zia Rosaria again and I could really use her words of wisdom right now. My world is melting down around me. Bigs isn’t who I thought he was, not the understanding man who claimed his world revolved around me. He’d been thrilled I was coming to SPU, excited enough to have his dad pull some strings for my housing and some classes. And now he’s using hockey as an excuse to miss the wake, to not be here for me because if Nate’s here, it had to be okay for Bigs to come too. Because Nate would never miss hockey for me.

Nate—I don’t even want to think about that kiss the night I cooked at BMOC House or the fact that he’s here.

Nate is downstairs in my living room waiting to go to the wake with me and my family because he loved my Zia Rosaria and he understands about the wake and the tradition. He’s not here for me.

That’s the story I’m telling myself as I go downstairs, steeling myself, refusing to think of the kiss.

At the bottom of the stairs, he’s waiting, and my chin starts to wobble like the glue holding me together’s been dissolved with one look from him. His deep brown eyes hold mine, familiar empathy and remorse reaching out to me and reeling in my too vulnerable heart. But even all the sadness can’t cloak the sizzle of heat underneath our connection.

Does that stop me from walking right into his arms as he opens them? Fuck no because right now I’m a needy bitch and I can’t stop myself from the magnetic pull any more than I can stop my heart from beating too hard, or stop my chest from constricting around my lungs.

Until I land against his solid body and his strong arms wrap around me like a warm blanket and I sigh a deep breath, sucking his aura into my starving lungs. He strokes my back and even though we’re not alone, no one says a word except him, whispering comfort into my ear, his hot breath like a balmy breeze, bringing me to a sweet place where the hollowness in my soul is filled with promise.

“Cookie, don’t cry. Then you’ll make me cry,” he says, his voice soft and cajoling and I laugh-cry into his dress shirt. I let him console me until I finish shedding the tears I didn’t know I had left in me, releasing me from the heaviest weight of grief for now. But I clutch his arm when my mother says it’s time to go because if I let him go I might lose control again.