She scoffs, then comes around to the couch at last, bends for the paper, and folds it back up along well-worn crease lines, holding it close. I feel a little chastened, perhaps rightfully so. I push to my feet. “Sorry again. I’ll leave you alone.”

  A hand comes out, grabs my biceps. “It’s taken me two years to start it,” she admits quietly.

  A beginning. A truce.

  I sit back down. “Yeah?”

  She sits too, taking her hair down and sliding the scrunchie onto her wrist. It’s like she’s unlocked. “My aunt gave it to me before she died. She’d been sick for a year. A really hard year.” She takes a beat, to collect her thoughts I suspect. “But she wanted me to have fond memories of her. Of us. She wanted to leave me with something. So she wrote me this list so I’d have…” She stops again, her voice breaking. “This piece of her when she was gone.”

  My heart lurches toward her. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” she says, then meets my gaze, her blue eyes pools of emotions. “That’s why I was so happy when you had the scarf. It’s hers, and she gave it to me.”

  “I’m glad I found it,” I say, and not only for the reason I’d originally wanted it. But because it means something to her. Something important. “And I apologize again for looking at your list.”

  She shakes her head. “It’s okay. I would have done the same. I didn’t want you to think I wrote it myself, and it always takes me a minute to say she’s gone. You know?”

  No one I’m that close to has died, so I don’t truly know. “I understand,” I say since that feels true enough.

  Fiddling with the scrunchie, she says, “It’s taken me a while to start it because…” She stops, eyes welling. “I’m not that good at getting out of my comfort zone. I’m…a creature of habit.” She meets my face, shrugs a little hopelessly. “I’m not the daring girl. I’m not the bold one. I’m the girl who escapes into books.”

  My heart clenches for her. For the way she sees herself. For how she believes she’s not adventurous. “I don’t buy that. You’re the girl who walked half-naked through the city to get back into her apartment rather than waiting till her friend came home,” I remind her.

  She gives a small shake of her head. “But it’s taken me two years because…I research everything. I’ve researched all these items on the list. I’ve never had a one-night stand. I’d only been with one guy. Before you,” she quickly adds, and this intel should not delight me as much as it does. Yet it’s so fucking delightful. “I mean, I even looked up how to have a safe one-night stand.”

  Yep, called it with her being adorably old-fashioned. “And everything about you makes perfect sense now.”

  That earns me a small laugh. “I did! I read articles on what to talk about, how to discuss STDs, and consent. Where to have one.”

  “Well, you nailed it—your first one-night stand.”

  “And you nailed me,” she says, and now I’m picturing bending her over the bed, sliding home, feeling her tighten around me. Hearing her ask for what she wanted.

  “And that is on my list of things I don’t regret,” I say, since we’re being honest.

  “Me too,” she says, then pauses before she turns more serious. “With the list though, I put it off so long, and then it was easier to start it when I moved here.”

  “Why now?”

  She sighs. Swallows. Inhales. “I missed her so much when she died. It was hard to…” She purses her lips, fighting off tears. “Move on.”

  My heart aches for her. I want to wrap her in my arms and kiss her hair. “Maybe it’s not true that you’re not the bold one. Maybe you were just holding on to someone you loved.”

  With a small smile of admission, she rubs her palms on her thighs, blowing out a breath. “I felt like she understood me better than anyone else. I guess that’s why I didn’t do it. Maybe also because I was getting my master’s degree and school and all that.”

  “Maybe you weren’t ready. Not being ready doesn’t mean you’re not bold,” I say.

  “But some of the list terrifies me. Well, not the item My O Supplier checked off.”

  It takes me a few seconds before I realize what she’s done. Given me a nickname. “That’s what you call me?”

  “It’s true,” she says.

  “It’s seriously fucking true,” I say, wishing, wishing so damn much that I could make it true again. Even though that’d be a big mistake. I force myself to think about the rest of the list.

  Then, about walking into my home a half hour ago, pouring a scotch, sitting down to chill on the couch and play a video game, and seeing it there.

  Too tantalizing to look away from.

  The promise of new horizons, new potential, new possibilities.

  The list is like a blueprint for becoming…your happiest self. It’s a list that cries out—do me now.

  Several minutes ago I was thrilled to be on it, masculine pride and all driving me on. Now, there’s a new feeling taking root inside me.

  There’s a possibility that the Top Ten Things I Never Regretted would be good for both of us. Sounds, too, like that’s what she needs—a partner in taking chances.

  Excited by this possibility, I sit up straighter and jump headfirst into the waters. “Can I do it with you?”

  She flinches, taken aback. “You want to do it?”

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m already part of it,” I say, and I feel connected to it. But I feel like it’s what I’ve been missing too. “But it’s also…” I stop, take a deep, fueling breath, and then say something hard. “You know what you said the other week about me being hockey, hockey, hockey?”

  She winces. “Yes?”

  “You’re not wrong. I am. It’s hard not to be. It’s why things didn’t work out with my ex, Anna. She said I didn’t like anything besides hockey.”

  Josie shakes her head adamantly. “That’s not what I meant when I said that. I was impressed with your discipline. That’s all.”

  “I know,” I say gently. “I know you didn’t mean it the same way. She wanted me to be someone I’m not—someone who discusses theoretical issues at dinner parties. Who reads long-ass articles that go on for days. Who debates philosophical issues.”

  Josie shudders.

  “Exactly. I don’t want to talk about some man named Immanuel Kant,” I say. “But it still made me think—I don’t always have fun outside of my job. And I’d like to. I’d like to do something that has nothing to do with hockey. Someday my life won’t be hockey, hockey, hockey.”

  “That won’t happen for a while. You’re twenty-seven.”

  “And yet, you never know.” I tilt my head to the side. “So, what do you say?”

  For the first time since she walked into the living room tonight, her smile spreads. “You really want to do this?” she asks, not uncertain but like she wants to be one hundred percent sure I’m on board.

  “I do.” Then I shrug, a little cocky, pointing to the item about making a new friend. “And anyway, I’m number one and number three, so you’d regret not doing the rest of the list with me.”

  She taps her chin playfully, seeming to consider my offer, then looks back down to the paper, her eyes landing on the third thing. “So we’re friends now? The jock and the nerd?”

  “We are. How’s that for our roomie rule?”

  She sticks out a hand and I take it, shaking on this new friendship rule. Too bad I still want to tug her onto my lap, pull her close so she’s straddling my thighs, then hold her face, run a hand down her throat, and trace the outline of those pretty lips.

  But there’s too much at stake. This living situation. The team. And now, her.

  This woman who’s on the cusp of something. Who’s changing. Learning how to be a bolder version of herself. Maybe I’d like to be another version of me too. The version that isn’t defined by the one thing I’ve been good at, the only thing I’ve ever been told I could do well.

  She takes the paper and unfolds it, then grabs a pen, and hands it to me. “Well, new friend, why don’t you cross off number three?”

  I uncap it, then make a long strike through that item—Make a friend who’s nothing like you. You learn the most from them.

  I set down the pen, then say, “Time for the next one.” I read number two out loud. “Overcome a fear (take a class you can’t prepare for, baby! Psst—improv class time!)”

  She groans. “Why does anyone take improv class?”

  “To think on their feet better.”

  “It sounds dreadful.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to be able to prepare for things. Research them. Prep. There is no prep in improv. Ergo—it is my personal hell.”

  “And yet we’re doing it. We’re going through hell and coming out on the other side. When is it?” I smile, loving this little bit of intel I’ve gathered about her. “I’m sure you’ve researched the next and best class in town.”

  “I have. And it’s Thursday night.”

  “And why does it sound dreadful?”

  “See the list—overcome a fear. Your roommate has a fear of public speaking. When I teach classes at the library, I have to speak to groups of people, of course. But I can plan those out. I have materials and curriculum and information at my fingertips. But without information I’m free falling. I hate acting. And I am not good on my feet.”

  I smile, then drape an arm around her shoulders. “Well, I am good at all those things. So I’ve got you.”

  I might want more, but this will have to be enough.

  18

  A BRAND NEW BRUISE

  Wesley

  Two solid weeks does not a season make. But it’s a better way to start than the alternative. Still, I put our 5-2 start out of my mind when I hit the ice two nights later. I always put our record, the past, and other games out of my head when it’s game time. Years of working on mental fitness—thanks, Dad; no really, I do appreciate his insistence on mental prep—have honed me. When I’m on the ice, I’m all about the present.

  Like now.

  As I skate across the ice with the puck, racing behind the net in the third period, I’m determined to break this annoying fucking tie. The arena’s alive with the thunderous beat of the crowd, their cheers and roars fueling every move as I narrow in on the prize.

  Trouble is this bruiser of a Seattle defenseman has been up in my grill all night. As I fight like hell to hold on to the little black disc, Number Seventy-Eight looms in front of me, a giant clad in red and black, blocking my path to the goal.

  But Asher’s free, so I slip the puck to him seconds before their defender slams into me, then I slam into the boards. Goddamn, that hurts. Pain shoots along the side of my abs, a sharp burn. Gritting my teeth from the impact, I crumple to the ice, tangled up with the other player for a few seconds.

  The crowd chants fight, fight, fight, but this moment is nothing. These moments happen in every game when you crash into each other. I get to my knees and push myself back up, and a few seconds later, I’m right back in the zone next to Hugo, who’s blocking. This time Alexei, our center on the second line, passes the puck to me.

  I slap it right toward the goalie’s open legs. But Seattle’s not our toughest foe for nothing. Their big goalie blocks it.

  Frustrated, I skate to the bench, hopping over the boards for a line change, then grabbing some water. I’m next to Christian, who taps his stick to mine. “We’ll get it next time,” he says.

  “We fucking will.”

  After his shift, I’m back out there as the seconds tick down on the game clock. Adrenaline courses through my veins as Seattle goes on the attack fast and hard across the blue line, two of their guys flicking the puck back and forth, barreling toward Max at the net.

  But when Seattle’s winger flings it toward our goalie’s shoulder, aiming to send it whizzing past him, Max blocks it easily with a glove. Our defender gets the rebound, sending it to Alexei, who spins around, flying the other way.

  I don’t want to go into overtime. I really don’t. I stick by Alexei. Their big defender is all over me again, but I’m not in the mood. I’m faster, and I’m open when Alexei sends it my way.

  And wouldn’t you know? Asher is ready. I slip it to Asher like a goddamn pickpocket. Then, he’s shooting it and the puck smacks against the crossbar and ricochets into the net…yes, fuck yes!

  I smack gloves with my buddy. There’s one minute left and all we have to do is hold on. Sixty seconds later, the arena is playing our victory song—“Tick Tick Boom” by Sage the Gemini—and I swear my shoulders loosen a little, the knot in the pit of my stomach unwinds.

  Then, I relax a little more. Max, Asher, Hugo and I head off the ice and into the tunnel.

  “Dude, we should call you Poker Face. That’s your new nickname,” Max says to me.

  I tap his stick, earning the name by hiding a smile. “Works for me.”

  “Poker Face,” Asher repeats, like he’s trying it on for size.

  “But you’re the man,” I say to the golden boy, since he’s been having a helluva start to the season.

  The dude flashes me a winning smile as Hugo seconds the praise. “I’d say stop showing us all up, but never stop,” the teddy-bear defenseman says.

  “That’s the goal,” Asher replies as we reach the corridor, where Everly’s waiting as she usually is post-game. She’s holding a tablet against her team-blue blouse, and she’s ready for negotiations with that professional slicked back hair. Some of her requests will be easy. Others, not so much. She’s smiling, but she’s always smiling post-game. It’s her superpower, I’m sure, come rain or shine.

  “Asher. Wesley,” she says, in her upbeat tone. “Will you two rock stars talk to the press tonight?”

  “Of course,” I say.

  “Always,” Asher seconds. He is not shy. The camera loves him, and he loves the camera.

  “Hugo, I won’t bug you tonight, because you were a sweetheart to talk to that sports podcaster earlier in the week. I can’t even begin to tell you how happy the GM was about that,” she says, and I’ve got a feeling she’s heaping on the thanks both because she means it and as a way to needle Max.

  “Anytime,” Hugo says.

  After Everly takes a quick—and likely soldiering breath—she turns to Max, amping up the wattage on her grin. It’s part of their dance. They do this tango every time. “Max, are you up for it? That was a great game tonight.”

  As he rips off his helmet, our goalie flashes her a smile that’s dripping with irony. “Aww, thanks for asking, but I have a bingo thing to get to.”

  It’s a game, the excuses he makes to avoid the press.

  “I’d be happy to charter you a helicopter to make it on time after you chat with The Sports Network,” she says with a tilt of her head. “Would that help? You can talk to the media and still be at your bingo thing with minutes to spare.”

  He stops, seems to give it some thought, then asks, “Will there be strawberries and champagne on the helicopter?”

  I roll my eyes, right in tandem with Asher. This is a new level of theater.

  “If that’s what it takes,” she offers brightly, going toe-to-toe with the grumpy goalie.

  He taps his helmet against his padded thigh. “Let me get back to you. Your generous offer does not go unnoticed.”

  I can tell she’s biting back a fuck you, Lambert even as she says, “Can’t wait to hear.” Then, with genuine gratitude, she says to Asher and me, “And I appreciate your help, guys.”

  “Anytime,” Asher says, speaking for both of us.

  When we turn into the locker room, Max says, “What’s it like being the nice guys?”

  “Let me see if my agent wrote a new sponsorship deal and I’ll let you know,” I say dryly.

  “I’ll check my bank account too,” Asher says.

  Max huffs, then trudges ahead to his stall and I go to mine—where Christian’s waiting for me.

  “I told you we’d get it next time,” he says.

  “You did, Winters,” I say, but out of nowhere, a flash of tension rushes through me. That’s weird. I don’t usually feel tense post-game. Usually this is when I start to unwind. But I keep the focus on the ice as I undo my skates. “And nice goal earlier,” I say since Christian scored the first point.

  “Thanks.”

  “How are the kiddos?”

  “Perfect,” he says, a proud dad, then clucks his tongue. That sounds ominous. “Listen, how’s everything with Jay?”

  It takes me a beat to align Jay with Josie. But when I do, I try not to think of her list, or their aunt who passed away, or the fact that I know things about her that her brother doesn’t.

  Besides, well, the obvious thing that’s a secret between Josie and me.

  I don’t want to misstep with him so I’m careful forming an answer. “She’s cool,” I say, figuring that sounds low-key.

  “Yeah? Everything going okay? No problems?”

  It’s not like I’d go telling on her to her brother if we were having problems. But it’s easy to tell the truth. “Everything is super chill. We get along and give each other space,” I say.

  That’s accurate-ish.

  No, it’s not. Space is not having dinner in the kitchen, hanging out on the couch, and planning to go to an improv class together as part of her get-out-of-her-comfort-zone bucket list.

  “Awesome,” he says, offering a fist for knocking. I knock back as he adds, “Really appreciate you helping out, Bryant. You’re my eyes so I don’t have to worry about her.”

  I bristle. She’s a grown woman. She doesn’t need a babysitter.

  He seems to be waiting for me to say something, but it’s not like I’m going to tell him all the details of her life like what she’s eating, and when she leaves, and if she did her dishes this morning. “It’s all good.”

  He sighs, contentedly. “My kiddos are good, my wife is good, we won the game. And my little sister is fine. I guess my work here tonight is done.” He stands and surveys the post-game scene, then shoots one last look my way. “You still doing those post-game workouts?”