Page 120 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

“Well, besides Bruins fans, obviously, I’d say someone who doesn’t laugh at my jokes.”

“There are women who don’t laugh at your jokes?” I repeat, sounding as horrified as I feel. “That’s tragic.”

“Can you believe it? Crazy,” he says. “But, you know, not everyone has good taste.”

“Clearly.”

“Exactly. So, they’re out. Automatic deal breaker.”

“Fair enough,” I say, nodding into the dark. “What else?”

“I guess someone who doesn’t respect my time. Like, if they can’t handle that I’ve got a busy life, it’s not gonna work.”

“That’s fair,” I say softly, appreciating the honesty in his tone.

“What about you?” he asks. “Anything else you haven’t told me yet?”

I think for a moment, letting the silence stretch out. “Probably someone who isn’t kind. Like, I don’t care how smart or funny or good-looking you are—if you’re not a good person, it’s a no.”

“Agreed,” he says, his voice low and warm. “Kindness is non-negotiable.”

The mattress sinks as he rolls toward me, searching for my face in the dark, his lips finding the bridge of my nose and kissing it.

“I love spending time with you.”

“I love spending time with you too,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Good,” he says, his hand brushing lightly over my cheek. “Because I don’t think I’m ever going to get enough of it.”

I’m not sure what he means by that. His words hang between us, heavy and soft, and I feel his breath against my cheek, warm and steady.

“What do you mean?” I ask quietly, my heart thudding in my chest. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Maybe it is,” he says, his voice low and thoughtful. “Maybe you and I overthink things too much. Now I understand why people complicate things.”

“Why?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Because they’re scared,” he says simply. “Scared of how easy it could be if they’d relax and let the universe work its magic.”

I stare into the darkness. “That’s not how it works though. It can’t always be that easy. Relationships are messy and complicated.”

“Sure. Sometimes,” he says. “But not always. Not every second of every day needs to be hard. If it’s right, it should feel good, shouldn’t it?”

I’m not certain how to put my thoughts into words.

“I guess I’ve just always thought love was supposed to be hard. My parents fought a lot when I was younger so that was the example. It’s hard to unlearn that, you know?”

“I know,” he says quietly into the dark room. “It’s like hockey—you practice, you work at it, and yeah, sometimes you lose. But when you’re on the right team? The wins outweigh everything else.”

I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head. “Only you would compare love to hockey.”

“Hey, it’s a good metaphor,” he says, grinning. “You’ve got to trust your teammates, be willing to pass the puck, and know when to take the shot.”

“And what happens when your team screws up?”

He’s silent for a moment. “Then you regroup, figure out what went wrong, and try again. You don’t just quit because it gets hard.”

I don’t have a response, not one that feels big enough for the moment. So instead, I let my head rest against his shoulder, the steady rhythm of his breathing lulling me into a quiet sense of calm.