Page 113 of Play Along With Me
Everyone else files out on their own accord.
And finally, it's just Audrey and me, surrounded by the aftermath of celebration—empty food containers, discardedcups, black and gold decorations that somehow migrated into every corner of the apartment.
"So," she says, dropping onto the couch beside me. "Starting goalie for the Boston Saints, huh? How does it feel to be living your childhood dream?"
"Surreal," I admit, pulling her closer until she's tucked against my side where she fits perfectly. "But right."
"I am obscenely proud of you," she says, abandoning her usual protective layer of humor for a rare moment of complete sincerity. "And I'm not just saying that because your new contract means we can finally replace that horrific coffee maker that sounds like it's summoning demons every morning."
"That's at least seventy percent of why you're proud," I counter, playing along.
"Seventy-five, minimum," she agrees, then grows serious again. "But really, Jake. What you've accomplished—it's extraordinary. Not just making it to the NHL but earning the starting role through sheer determination and work."
"I've had help," I remind her, threading my fingers through hers. "Coaches, teammates, agents. You."
"Me?" She raises an eyebrow. "I've contributed nothing to your hockey career except an encyclopedic knowledge of penalty names without any understanding of what they actually mean."
This is true. Despite attending nearly every home game over the past five months, Audrey's grasp of hockey rules remains charmingly haphazard. She can enthusiastically yell "THAT'S INTERFERENCE!" without being able to explain what interference actually is. She has developed an impressive repertoire of hockey-adjacent vocabulary while maintaining almost complete ignorance of its proper application.
"You've contributed everything to the rest of it," I tell her seriously. "To the parts that matter outside the rink. To making this place a home instead of just somewhere I sleep between games. To giving me something to look forward to whether we win or lose."
"Now who's getting sappy?" she teases, but the slight catch in her voice betrays her.
"I mean it, Audrey. When I walked into the general manager's office today, I wasn't just thinking about what this contract means for my career. I was thinking about what it means for us. Stability. Putting down roots. Building something that lasts."
Her eyes widen slightly. "That sounds suspiciously like future talk, Marshall."
"Is that a problem?" I ask, suddenly aware that we haven't explicitly discussed long-term plans beyond her moving in.
"Not a problem," she says softly. "Just unexpected from Mr. One-Day-At-A-Time, Focus-On-The-Next-Game."
"Maybe I'm evolving," I suggest. "Learning to think beyond the current season."
"A fascinating development," she nods seriously. "The female scientific community will want to study this phenomenon."
I laugh, pulling her closer. "I love you, Audrey. You know that, right?"
We've said the words before—the first time after two months together, huddled under blankets during a February blizzard that knocked out power to half the city. It had felt momentous then, crossing that threshold from possibility tocertainty. Now it feels like the most natural thing in the world to say, as essential as breathing.
"I know," she says, her expression softening. "I love you too, even when you track ice shavings into the apartment and disrupt Mr. Darcy's meticulous grooming schedule."
Mr. Darcy, as if summoned by his name, chooses this moment to leap onto the couch beside us, fixing me with his usual vaguely judgmental stare before settling against Audrey's leg.
"Even the cat is proud of you," Audrey insists. "This is his version of enthusiastic support. Very restrained, very dignified."
"I'll take your word for it," I say, reaching out to scratch Mr. Darcy behind the ears. He tolerates this with an expression of long-suffering patience that reminds me eerily of Audrey when my mother shows her baby pictures of me for the hundredth time.
"So, NHL starting goalie," Audrey says, leaning back to study my face. "Does this mean I get a jersey with your number and 'WAG' printed on the back?"
"WAG?"
"Wives And Girlfriends," she explains. "I've been doing my research. Apparently, it's a whole thing in professional sports. The women have their own section at games and everything."
"You hate sitting with the other players' partners," I remind her. "You said, and I quote, 'If I have to hear one more conversation about proper protein shake ratios or the best neighborhoods for private preschools, I will throw myself onto the ice and beg the Zamboni to put me out of my misery.'"
"That was before I was serious with the starting goaltender," she points out. "Now I have status. Power. Influence. I could revolutionize the WAG section. Introduce discussions about literature and the existential despair of late-stage capitalism."
"I'm sure that would go over well during a playoff penalty kill."
