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But I manage to stop the inching.
I manage to focus in on what Lake is saying.
And I manage to keep myself firmlyoffthe road.
Remaining in that peaceful, that easy.
In the love for this man.
I’ve never beento a professional hockey game, even with having a best friend with a professional hockey player for a brother.
Part of that is…moving forward, not stopping long enough to enjoy the spoils of the present.
The rest is something I’m only just beginning to understand.
Fear and hiding, yes. But also…not wanting to impose on Ella. To take her up on her offer of free tickets. To take advantage. Because if I take, if I express what I want, then they—my grandma, my boyfriends, my sister, my parents, my friends—might leave me.
And because of that fear, I sacrificed time and fun with my best friend.
Ugh.
Sighing, I break off a piece of the soft pretzel, shove it into my mouth. It’s salty and delicious and takes my mind off the buzzing in my head.
Too much thinking.
Too much time in my own head.
Not enoughbranchtime.
And not enough time with Ella, who’s been making the trip up regularly, but who also has a life in the Bay Area.
It’s almost Christmas.
That’s one of the busiest times of year for hairstylists—everyone wants to look good for family get-togethers and work events and holiday parties—so she’s been working eight or ten hours a day, six days a week.
Not these next two days, though.
She’smine.
And Knox’s too, I think with a scowl.
Damn brothers, cramping my style.
“Drinksies!” Ella says, plopping down next to me, carrying two drinks and rosy cheeks.
I frown, taking one of them, thankful that I woke up with my period that morning, that Lake’s and my relationship can keep moving forward without becoming supercharged by a baby. Thankful that I can drink because there’s something weird going on with Ella. “Where have you been?” I ask her.
She rolls her eyes, but I see her cheeks grow a little pinker. “Knox wanted to do his hair.” A shake of her head. “Can you believe that?”
I sip, but there’s something about her tone that isn’t right.
Something that tells me she’s hiding something.
Call it Best Friend Radar.
“No,” I say, holding her eyes with my own. “Ican’tbelieve that.”
More pink, but I don’t have the chance to prod at that tell because the lights go down and the music goes up and the Sierra’s mascot—a giant pine cone skates out on the ice.
