Page 66 of Mile High Coach

Harrison lowers his voice. “You’re leaving the Crabs?”

“Yes.” When I confirm it, I feel the weight lifting from my chest.

“And you’re not worried about the money?”

“The only thing I’m worried about, right now, is this baby. All I want is for him to have the best possible life he can. And I think…I think that starts with you. With us.”

“With us,” he repeats, pulling back a bit, swallowing. “Lovie, I can help with your dad?—”

I hold a hand up, “We’re selling the house, and Dad and I are looking into assisted living…around here. In Baltimore. And Chrys might even be able to pitch in. We’ll figure it out together.”

“In Baltimore,” he says, quietly, raising his eyebrows and giving me a smirk. “You’ve thought it all through, huh?”

“It’s what I do best,” I joke, still shaking with the knowledge that he hasn’t said yes yet. He hasn’t agreed. It’s still possible that he doesn’t want this, and there’s a small corner of my mind that’s preparing me for that disappointment.

For the sensation of flying out of the roller coaster, completely untethered to the ground.

Finally, Harrison says, “But what about the contract?”

I lift up, reaching into the back pocket of my jeans and pulling out a crumpled, folded paper. His eyes track it, bouncing between it and me.

The paper that says he has no right to custody over the child, that details him giving up any ownership of the baby.

That says everything between us is nothing more than an agreement.

I hold it in my shaking hands and rip it right down the middle. I drop it in the trash, then I turn to him, taking a nervous breath.

“Harrison, I?—”

But I can’t get anything else out, because he’s stepping forward, tipping my head back, and kissing me. This is nothing like the kiss in the arena—this is private, hopeful.

A kiss that means something. A kiss that’s really a conversation.

A kiss that says I love you, and I want you, and I miss you.

“I already did the math,” Harrison says, voice rough and breathy when he finally pulls back. My mind is still fuzzy from the contact with him, and it takes me a moment to catch up.

“The math?”

“I’ll be sixty-eight when they graduate from high school,” he says, looking at me seriously, like I haven’t thought this through.

My chest inflates. “So, you want this?”

His eyes widen cartoonishly, and he shakes his head, “I’m sorry—was that not clear?”

When I say nothing, a tear rolling down my face, he shakes his head and wipes it away for me, lowering his voice, “Lovie. I have never wanted anything in my life as much as I want you. And this baby. This life, together.”

“Not even the Stanley Cup?”

He glances to the side, to the picture of him holding the thing over his head, skating around the ice as the team captain and MVP of the game.

Then, he turns back to me and shakes his head, saying with absolute candor, “No. Not even the Stanley Cup. But, Lovie, did you hear what I said? I’ll be sixty-eight at her high school graduation. And seventy-two for college. Who knows what I’m going to look like when it comes time to walk her down the aisle.”

I don’t mean to, but I laugh. Maybe it’s all that giddy energy, the way I always feel around him bubbling to the surface, combined with this perfect moment.

He raises his eyebrows, pulling back from me, trying to look serious even as a laugh slips out of him, too. “Lovie, this is our child we’re talking about.”

“No,” I say, reaching up and pressing my lips to his, whispering against them, “This is your vanity we’re talking about. Our child isn’t going to care about what you look like at their graduation, or their wedding. As long as you love them, it will be enough.”

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