Page 58 of Date With Skates

“Then do something with your life. Leave me out of it. I have a career.”

“Des fois, t’es tellement égoïste et énervant que je sais même pas pourquoi je te parle,” I growl at him.

He has the audacity to smile at me. “Thank you very much.”

“It wasn’t a compliment!”

He holds my gaze and I know he’s fucking with me. Why wouldn’t he be?

Nico isn’t actually happy that I just called him selfish and annoying, but he doesn’t know what I said so he puts on a smile because he knows it’ll annoy me. Which it does.

I take a breath and drop the questions. My options were ridiculous, I know that. Who just decides to become a marine biologist at twenty-two when they’ve never even considered college before? And a private investigator? I don’t know the first thing about doing that.

But I need to do something. So, I settle back on the couch, pick up my phone, and start searching for careers that you can start at twenty-two.

There’s an ache in my chest that won’t go away. I hope that it’ll disappear when we go to the game, but something tells me it’s only going to get worse.

I nudge Nico one more time, and this time, he jerks upward, ready to murder.

I smile at him. “Love you, Nico.”

His face softens. “Love you too, Étienne.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Connor

Well, losing sucks.

Good thing we’ve already secured a playoff spot.

So, we didn’t win the gold, but we still have a chance at winning the Cup. In some ways, that’s better. Olympic gold is something I’ll probably never stop wanting, but the Cup? That’s ours. It belongs to hockey. You spend an entire season fighting for it with the same guys beside you night after night. It’s months of bruises, shitty flights, early practices, late nights, wins that make you feel unstoppable and losses that piss you off for days.

And if you make it through all of that?

You get your name on the Cup.

Forever.

Yeah. I fucking want that.

I really want it. Maybe more than I wanted the gold. Maybe that’s why we didn’t get it. We just didn’t want it badly enough.

Tonight, at the game, I wasn’t in a good head space. It’s weird being here, so close to Étienne, knowing I could meet up with him if I only called, but he hasn’t called me. Or texted. So even though he had that little proclamation on the bench the night before we left, he obviously made his decision.

Which I understand.

This is too hard. Not being apart but trying to be together. How would that even work? We’d never be able to see each other. I’d be in town for a night, and that’s just to play the game. It’s not like we’d have a lot of time together. We fly in, practice, play, and go home. Depending on our schedule, we may not even stay the night.

So yeah, I get why he hasn’t called, and it has to be the same reason I haven’t called him. Because I can’t bear another goodbye.

“What are you doing?” I ask Roman when we’re in the locker rooms.

Everyone’s in a shit mood. We came here ready to win, but the joke was on us. We lost 4-0.

“Going back to the room. I just want to sleep. You?”

“Going to grab a beer.”