Page 87 of The Last Guy On Earth
“Not like that,” I say quickly. “Can’t imagine those words ever coming out of his mouth.”
“Butstill,” she gasps. “He’s all, like, ‘Hey we were amazing together. I get that now. Okay, bye’?”
“Well…” I screw my eyes shut. “He was open to more, but it’s a nonstarter. I had to shut that down.”
Another gasp.
“Kait, seriously. A player can’t date a coach.”
“I know that,” she insists. “But what I don’t get is how you’re so calm about it. The love of your life said he wants you back. And you’re, like, ‘No can do! See you at practice.’”
“Kait! I’m not dead inside. But there are literally no other options here, unless Iquit my job. Which, as you pointed out five minutes ago, is going better than ever before.”
“But that’s just so depressing!”
“I KNOW!” I shout. “It sucks! I spend half my time trying not to think about it! And in case you wondered, this conversation isn’t helping!”
She sighs. Tragically. “I think I hate him even more now, and I didn’t think that was possible.”
“Don’t hate him. Jeez.” I sigh, too. “He’s a good guy.”
“He stomped on your heart,” she grumbles.
“The thing is…he wasn’t wrong fifteen years ago. I wish he’d been able to talk to me like a grownup and tell me I wasn’t the only one who cared. But there was almost no practical way we could have stayed together and still had our careers.”
“You thought there was,” she points out. “And he didn’t try.”
“He didn’t,” I agree. “But what if it’s nobody’s fault? Maybe it was just easier to blame him. Easier, but wrong.”
“Maybe,” she mumbles, because Kait is as fair as she is loyal. “But what about the future? How many years does he have left in hockey?”
“Another season probably.”
“That’s not so long,” she says.
I laugh. “Feels long, though.”
“There’s a dirty joke in there somewhere.”
“Kait.”
She snickers. “Okay, hear me out. The Cougars win the Cup three months from today. And then Hale retires in a blaze of glory. You two could be a couple then, couldn’t you?”
“I guess. Maybe.” It’s not like I haven’t had this thought before. “It’s not like I can ask him to do that.”
“Can’t you?” she presses. “Both your lives have been built around hockey—with no compromises. Maybe he’s a little sick of it, just like you are.”
“I didn’t say I was sick of it.”
She sniffs. “You didn’t say it out loud. But I know you. You’ll win the Cup. And then go home to your empty apartment and wonder what you’re supposed to do now.”
That sounds depressingly plausible. “I thought you called to congratulate me, not psychoanalyze me.”
“Can’t help it. Occupational hazard. Oh—one more thing. I’m pregnant. With twins.”
I sit up fast. “Wait, what?”
“Two babies, due in September. A boy and a girl.”
