Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Josie snorts. “Maeve.”
“What?”
Leighton gives me a be so fucking for real look too. “What she said.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, turning to Fable. “You get me, right?”
My redheaded friend hedges with a “Yes and no.”
“Fine, fine. Tell me what I did wrong,” I say, exasperated. “I’m trying to give him space to figure things out. Remember, I’m the girl who clings.”
“Maeve, you gave him space, sure,” Josie says. “But did you actually tell him how you feel? Or are you expecting him to magically guess?”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
Josie sets her cup down. “We mean, you’re waiting for him to read your mind. That’s not how this works. You’re not clingy—you’re just not saying what matters.”
“Right.” Josie nods. “It’s not clingy to tell someone how you feel. That’s called ‘honesty.’ It’s a useful tool.”
“Well, tell me what you really think,” I say with a laugh, but her words hit harder than I let on. “Okay, fine. You make a point. But I told him I’d give him space.”
“But did you give him information?” Leighton presses. “I know he’s dealing with stuff, but does he know you’re madly in love with him?”
I stare at her like she’s lost it. “No, it wasn’t the time or place.”
Fable scoffs. “It never is,” she says. “That’s why it’s called…taking a chance.”
My phone buzzes. I grab it, hoping it’s Asher, but it’s Angelina with details about another job. I stare at the text, and it hits me. I didn’t wait for my career to fall into place. I chased it with everything I had, gave it my whole heart, and fought like hell for it.
And if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s to follow my dreams.
56
A LOVE LESSON
Asher
I sit in the visitors’ locker room, tightening the laces on my skates. It’s quiet—just Miles and me. He claps me on the shoulder as he walks by.
“You doing okay?” he asks.
I take a breath and nod. “Better than yesterday.”
“Good.” His voice is steady. “If you need anything, let me know.”
I turn his offer over in my head, grateful for it, even though he doesn’t know the details of what went down yesterday morning. But still, he’s there if I need him. And the truth is…I think I might. More than that, I think it’d be helpful to talk. In sports, the more you practice, the better you get. So I try it first with him, taking the chance to practice.
“I’m going to see a therapist,” I say. The words feel heavier than I’d expected. But in a good way.
Miles’s eyebrows shoot up as he grabs his pads from the stall. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Appointment’s tomorrow when we’re back. There’s some stuff I need to work through.”
“Proud of you, man,” he says, offering a fist-bump.
Sometimes you bump fists to celebrate a win. Maybe this is one too. But more than that, it feels like genuine support. Like the kind I’ve been working to make accessible for young athletes. The kind I should have taken advantage of myself.
But I will tomorrow.
And that’s a start too.
A little later, we hit the ice for the face-off. The game starts fast and aggressive—players crashing into each other, sticks clashing, the puck snapping between us. I shove everything else away and focus. Hockey hasn’t changed—it’s always been my escape. But maybe I didn’t realize what I was escaping from: the way I tried to control everything off the ice.
On the ice, I know I can’t control the outcome, but I can give it my all. Charging down the rink, weaving past defenders, I fire the puck at the net with everything I’ve got, just like I always have.
Sometimes it works out. Sometimes it doesn’t.
But I do it anyway.
And that’s exactly what I’ll need to do with Maeve.
No wonder I haven’t told her I love her. I’ve been trying to control the outcome of our romance, waiting for the perfect moment. But love’s like hockey—you can’t guarantee a win, but you can give it your best shot.
When we end the game in Seattle with the W, I change quickly into my travel clothes. On the way to the airport, I make a call to a store in San Francisco, place a rush order, then I count down the hours till we land.
By the time the plane taxies down the runway in San Francisco in the early evening, I have everything in place. I don’t head into the arena with the other guys. Instead, I grab a Lyft and swing by the store. Then I call Maeve.
“You home?” I ask.
She sounds breathless. “No, I’m at the arena, just finishing up.”
“Stay there,” I tell her.
“Bossy,” she says with a laugh.
“Sometimes I am,” I reply, smiling. I hope she likes this.
I’m back at the arena in ten minutes, heading through the players’ entrance. I didn’t plan a big speech. I just go straight to where she’s working.