Page 82 of Wild About You
A guilty expression washes over her face and I stop and go to her.
“I was kidding, Pipes. This was fun.”
“I can’t pay you back. At least not for a long time. Do you know what the starting salary is for a teacher in this state?”
“No, I guess I don’t, but you don’t need to pay me back. It’s the least I owe you for taking such good care of Ev.”
She nods. “Thank you.”
“You love it? Teaching, I mean.” I know it was her dream, but sometimes dreams don’t work out the way we think.
“I do. It’s different than I expected, but the kids are great.”
Smiling, I wrap an arm around her waist as we walk toward the restaurant.
“I think it’s a really admirable profession. Way more important than getting paid to play hockey. I mean, who knows where Everly would be without you. And money isn’t everything.”
“Says the guy that has a lot of it now.” She laughs softly. “Everyone says that until they don’t have it. I’m sure I did too. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I need to be stupid rich.” She waves a hand back toward the car and smirks at me. “But worrying about how you’re going to pay for things all the time is stressful.”
“Calling those shoes stupid, baby?”
“The shoes, definitely not. Just the number of them you bought.”
I squeeze her side playfully and she laughs again. God, I love her laugh.
“I can’t explain it. I just feel like it’s what I was meant to do. I’m going to grad school next year. A master’s degree will help my starting salary, and who knows? There are lots of private schools and opportunities beyond what I’m doing now. Maybe I could keep tutoring on the side. Or I could start an after-school homework help company and pimp you and the guys out.”
“They’re really good, right?” I ask.
“Surprisingly, yes.”
I hold open the door for the restaurant. A hostess leads us to our seats. Once we’ve ordered and have our drinks, Piper places both elbows on the table and leans forward.
“What about you?” she asks. “What’s your next big dream?”
I take a sip of my water. “What do you mean?”
“All you ever talked about was becoming a pro hockey player. Now that you’ve made that happen, what else do you want to accomplish?”
“I think this is it,” I say.
“There isn’t anything else you want?”
“I guess I haven’t really made room for much else. Every day is survival right now. If I have a couple of bad games, I could be sent down like that.” I snap my fingers.
“Yeah, that’s brutal, but you won’t. You’re good. Really good. I always knew you would make it.” She ducks her head to sip from her straw and looks up at me through thick lashes. “I saw you play once after we broke up.”
“You did? When?”
“I came to Green Bay about a month after we broke up. I planned to talk to you after the game. I still hoped that you’d miss me so much you’d call me. I sent you a text before the game. The one about how you inspire me to keep pushing toward my own dreams.”
“The last one you sent.” I must have read it a million times. I don’t think she realized how much her words of encouragement meant.
She stares at me with disbelief like she’s still surprised that I remember this stuff. I don’t know when it’s going to sink in for her that I remember it all. She wasn’t some girl that I dated and broke up with, then forgot and moved on. I couldn’t cling to her, but I held on to everything else.
“Not calling you nearly killed me. It was a struggle every day. From the time I woke up until I fell asleep. It’s all I wanted, but I couldn’t help but worry that you were going to resent all the things you were missing out on. And maybe more than that, I wanted you to have it because I couldn’t. I don’t know. I’m not saying it’s right, but I can’t change it.” Not sure I would even if I could.
“I was so lost without you,” she says. “After my dad’s stroke I felt like I didn’t have anyone. Dad could barely talk in the beginning and Mom spent every second caring for him—as she should have. My friends from high school tried to be there in the beginning, but I was miserable to be around and they couldn’t really relate to the stuff happening at home. I missed you so much.”
