Page 98 of The Goalie in Room 1

My grip tightened around his hand. Cash leaned closer.

Four.

Three.

Close enough that I felt his breath against my lips. A kiss wouldn’t stop there, not after Christmas Eve.

Two.

“Someday,” Cash whispered, his chin trembling.

One.

The chaos erupted on the television. Confetti fell down the screen as the cameras panned to catch people shouting and couples kissing.

Cash didn’t close the last inch.

Neither did I.

“Happy New Year, Doc.”

His voice scraped over every nerve ending I had.

“Happy New Year, brat.”

He squeezed my hand and settled against me again, his head returning to my shoulder as if he belonged there.

I pressed my mouth to his hair.

Cash went still.

So did I.

Then his body softened against mine. He pulled our joined hands to his lips, pressing a slow, soft kiss to the back of my hand while fireworks burst across the television.

I didn’t move my mouth from his hair.

Two weeks in, the new year hit like a freight train — my surgical schedule exploded, clinic booked solid, staff drowning. Being chief of surgery meant more meetings than actual surgery, and most mornings, I left before six while Cash still slept.

Some nights I’d come home to find light under his door and the sounds of whatever game he was playing. I never knocked. We hadn’t seen each other all day, and knocking felt like admitting how much that bothered me.

I wasn’t that pathetic.

Yet.

I craved the days when we’d spent most of our time together, laughing, cooking, flirting. But working fourteen-hour days meant I missed all the best parts of his day.

I glanced at the clock on the dash as I pulled up in front of the garage. Not even eleven. I’d made it home before the late shows came on for once.

I left the car in the driveway and went inside through the front door.

“Cash?” I called as I stepped into the kitchen.

No answer.

I dropped my keys, wallet, and phone on the island, then shrugged out of my jacket and hung it over the back of a barstool. The house was quiet, but not sleeping quiet.

Empty quiet.