Page 114 of Slapshot Baby

"The address is on the tag."

She picks it up. A small leather tag hangs from the ring stamped with a street address on the east side of Melrose, the stretch where design showrooms cluster between coffee shops and galleries.

"I don't understand."

"You told me once that your studio lease costs more than your first apartment. That the rent increase this year nearly broke you and you've been working out of your kitchen half the time because the studio isn't big enough for client presentations."

Her lips part. She turns the key over in her fingers.

"It's twenty-two hundred square feet, a corner unit with natural light all day. The previous tenant was an architecture firm, so the layout already has a reception area, a drafting space, and a client meeting room. I had the floors refinished last week."

"You had the floors refinished?"

"They were scratched. You would have hated them."

She stares at me for a long time. "Kai. You bought me a building."

"I bought you a studio. The building has other tenants."

"You bought me a commercial space."

"You spent months rebuilding my entire life for free. You invested in me when I had nothing to offer you back. This is me saying thank you."

Her hand closes tight around the key. Her knuckles go pale.

"The lease at your old place ends in a few weeks. I checked. You can take your time moving in or you can start tomorrow. The space is yours either way. Your name is on the deed."

"You put my name on a deed?" Her voice has gone thin.

"It's your studio, Ava. Not mine. I'm not a landlord or an investor."

She sets the key down on the counter, her hands shaking. She presses both palms flat on the granite. Breathes.

"Nobody has ever done anything like this for me," she says quietly.

"That's the problem I'm fixing."

She crosses the kitchen, takes my face in both hands, and kisses me. Slow and deep. When she pulls back, her thumbs trace the line of my jaw.

"I'm so proud of you," she says. "And I hate you a little bit for making me cry in your kitchen."

"Noted."

Her forehead rests against mine. I hold her there, hands on her hips, her breath warm on my lips.

Then suddenly she goes still.

“Did you remember meeting me before the accident?” she asks.

That's when I feel it.

A memory gap.

I recovered the championship. The road trips. The argument with my father in Chicago. Wyatt's bad jokes and Theo's daughter learning to walk.

Four years of my life came back today.

But when I reach for the memory of meeting Ava, there's nothing.