Page 43 of Powder
I wish we could have all stayed here, but we didn’t have the space, so I had been researching other, bigger, and better options. My career took me all over the country. Jack was here with friends, and my parents were talking about how much they loved the area, suggesting that if I stayed in PA, they might moveas well. Then Jack casually mentioned he’d like kids someday and asked if I was interested.
Kids.
Me?
Hell, yes I was. It sounded awesome. Perfect. Everything I wanted with Jack.
So, yeah, we needed a bigger place, and Jack agreed, but that was a discussion for after the playoffs, not before. The same delay applied to the information I compiled on both surrogacy and adoption channels.
We collapsed onto the sofa in a tangle of limbs. His jersey smelled faintly of sweat and cedar detergent, and he had a scrape across his jaw from practice, proof he still threw himself into hockey like it was life or death.
“How long are you here this time?” he asked, brushing a thumb over my cheekbone because he couldn’t stop touching me.
“Six weeks,” I said. “California, after that, and I found us a place to rent if you want to join me for your summer break.”
“Of course I do.”
“But between now and then? You’re stuck with me here.”
His grin softened into something private, almost shy. “Good. I’ve got plans for us for after the playoffs.”
“Plans?”
“Yeah. Stuff normal guys do. Like grocery shopping. Pizza on the couch. Maybe forcing you to sit through everyRockymovie in order.”
I laughed because he meant it. And maybe that was what I loved most about Jack O’Leary—not the goals, not the medals, not the captaincy. But the way he wanted the same ordinary things I did, the things we’d both been denied by pressure, fame, fear.
“Sounds perfect,” I whispered.
We sat there for a while, just existing. The TV played some rerun neither of us watched. My hand fit against his chest, steady and solid, like proof he wasn’t going anywhere.
When the pizza was delivered, he handed me a slice, extra cheese, grease already soaking through the napkin. “Authentic Milan flashback,” he said with a smirk.
I laughed so hard I nearly dropped it. “Only difference is no paparazzi outside the window.”
“Don’t jinx it,” he warned, but his arm stayed slung around my shoulders, tight, claiming.
“How’s the team?” I asked after a yawn, and snuggling deeper into his arms.
“Still hard work,” he admitted. “Something’s got to give, otherwise we’ll fuck up the run to the cup.”
“You’ll win this year,” I said with conviction and he kissed me, slow and certain.
“Hey, Tian?” he murmured.
“Yeah?”
“Love you.”
I smiled against his shoulder. “Love you more.”
I thought back to Milan, to medals and promises, to the sharp ache of leaving him at the airport. Back then, I’d wondered if we’d make it. Now, sitting here with his arm around me and the future stretching out like a mountain run waiting to be carved, I knew we would.
Because love wasn’t just the highs—the medals, the wins, the headlines. Love was this. Pizza boxes on the coffee table. A hockey game on low in the background. His hand wrapped around mine, tethering me to the life we were building together.
I had it all. Right here.
THE END
