Page 66 of Heart Checked By the Hockey Heartthrob

She looks up. “But you’re not running now.”

“No,” I say. “I’m standing still. On purpose.”

We hang one of the photos—a shot of me, Griff, and Beck covered in mud from some backyard football game. We’re all laughing, younger and stupider, and the frame she finds in a cabinet is a little crooked, but perfect.

I never thought anyone would help me hang memories on these walls.

We work side by side, occasionally bumping shoulders or exchanging dry commentary about my sad bachelor aesthetic.

I try to play it cool, but the truth is, having her here—barefoot, slightly paint-stained, hair in a messy twist—it makes the space feel more alive than it ever has.

And I can’t stop imagining what it would be like to come home to this every day.

Later, we collapse on the deck with takeout tacos and lime sodas. The ocean is calm. The sky’s a soft blue gray. The salt in the air is sharp but soothing. She’s curled sideways in her chair, legs tucked under her, and she steals my last tortilla chip like it’s a sacred ritual.

“I can’t believe you’ve had this house the whole time,” she says.

I shrug. “I didn’t think I deserved it. Or maybe I didn’t know what to do with it. It felt like too much… for a guy who didn’t know if he was coming or going.”

“And now?”

“I want it to be a home. One with color and warmth and maybe a ridiculous blanket ladder you made me buy.”

She smirks. “The blanket ladder stays.”

We’re quiet for a while. Not awkward—just full. Full of everything unsaid. Full of everything still coming.

“Why me?” she asks, voice soft.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… of all the places you could go, people you could have… why Sunset Cove? Why this house? Why me?”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and choose my words carefully.

“Because when I picture my future now, it’s not a hotel room or a press box. It’s this porch. It’s you stealing my chips and mocking my barstools. It’s the way you don’t let me pretend I’m okay when I’m not. It’s the way you showed up at my lowest and made it feel like a beginning, not an ending.”

She blinks fast, lips parting.

“And because,” I add, “you make this place feel like mine.”

She doesn’t answer, not right away. But the look in her eyes—steady, open, real—says everything I need to know.

After our quasi-dinner, we stack the takeout containers and carry a few old boxes to the curb. One box splits open halfway down the driveway, spilling a pile of broken coasters and a lava lamp I forgot I owned.

“Let it go,” she says, laughing.

“Wasn’t gonna fight you.”

After dinner, instead of heading back inside, I grab her hand and nod toward the French doors that lead out the side.

“You haven’t seen the best part yet.”

She steps onto the porch, eyes widening. “Whoa.”

The deck wraps around the back of the house like an embrace—wide planks weathered gray, railing lined with solar lanterns, and a view that stretches straight to the water. There’s a fire pitin the corner I’ve never used, two Adirondack chairs still with tags on them, and an outdoor shower I once thought would be fun but have never touched.

“I had big plans,” I say.

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