Page 13 of Hockey Halloween
Our shoulders brush as I stand beside her, studying the letters. The handwriting is elegant and looping, ink faded in places but still readable. I lean in to read one line that’s been underlined in pencil.
I still believe in us, even if the world doesn’t.
“Jesus,” I breathe out, the words hitting me square in the chest. “That hits hard.”
She nods slowly. “They weren’t allowed to be in love in public. Still, they mattered and their storystillmatters. They helped feed people. They cherished each other. Their love alone deserves to be remembered.”
I glance at her. She’s not just reciting facts, she’s carrying them with her. She sees through time and space, caring for people the world forgot and refuses to let them stay buried.
“You saved this story,” I say in awe.
“I only uncovered it. They wrote it.”
I don’t know why she downplays her role, but I know what I see. I see someone quietly changing the world without applause or recognition.
“You talk about these people like you carry them with you.”
She lifts one shoulder in a shrug, but it’s not flippant. “I guess I do.”
I’ve never wanted to kiss someone more than I do right now. Not because she’s gorgeous—though, let’s be honest, she is—but because she’sreal. Bone-deep, soul-level real. The kind of woman who walksthrough a world of forgotten names and whispers, “You mattered. You still do.”
Clearing my throat, I try to find words that match the weight in my chest. “I think I get it now.” She looks up at me, brows raised. “This,” I motion around us. “Why it’s more than a job to you—why it’s your heartbeat.”
Her lips part, letting out a quiet gasp. There’s a shine in her eyes. I take a step closer.
“I want to matter like that. Not because I scored a goal or made some highlight reel. I want to mean something…to someone,” I explain.
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “You already do.”
The moment floors me. Not just the words, but the certainty in them. Like it’s not up for debate. We stand there for a moment, not touching or speaking, everything between us feeling altered. Like gravity shifted somehow.
Then she grins, breaking the heaviness with a glint of mischief. “Want to see the weirdest item we’ve got?”
I’m relieved at the change of topic because things were getting heavy and I want us to enjoy our time together. “I thought you’d never ask.”
She heads toward a locked cabinet in the corner, opening it with a flick of her wrist. She lifts the lid of a white archival box, humming to herself.
I lean in, only to jerk back with a laugh. “Is that a fucking hot dog?”
“Preserved hot dog,” she corrects in the most librarian tone imaginable, as if I just misidentified a priceless artifact. “Dropped behind a concession stand in the Peacocks’ arena in the early 50s. Found during renovations in the late 90s. The reason why we know when it was left behind is the design on its paper bag.”
I shake my head, still laughing. “Only hockey fans would turn that into a historical artifact.”
“Exactly. That’s why I kinda love it.”
She’s ridiculous, brilliant and unexpectedly sexy.Damn, I’m so far gone, it’s stupid.
Stepping in again, I let my fingers barely graze hers. “Willa?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really glad you invited me in here.”
Her expression softens. “Me too.”
I think about kissing her. Right here, surrounded by ghosts of the past, beautiful letters, and even that stupid hot dog. But I don’t. Not yet. Not with sacred stories lining the shelves and her soul still alight with purpose.
Willa
