Same Time Next Year

I’m powerless to do anything but tell her the truth. “Since the first night I came to Sluggers and saw you.”

The flirtatious quality of her smile melts away slowly, replaced with something so vulnerable, I almost reach over and pull her into my lap. To protect her from whatever it is. “Sumner. I don’t . . . I can’t—” She remains very still for a moment, then turns to face me with her eyes squeezed shut.

“What you said before—about fear—you were right.”

Sensing she’s on the verge of opening up to me, I don’t dare move a muscle. “Was I?”

“Yes.” She wets her lips and braids her fingers together tightly. “My father was a long-haul trucker. When I was twelve, he sat my mother and I down at the kitchen table and told us he had another family.” She looks at me to get my reaction. I have no idea what’s showing on my face, but I’m totally and utterly stunned, so probably that. “He told us he was sorry, but he was going to live with them permanently.”

I’m not even sure I can form words. “Britta . . . you never should have been there for that conversation. Not like that.”

She acknowledges that with a stilted nod. “My mom’s mental health suffered for a long while after that. She couldn’t get out of bed for her shifts at Sluggers, so I tried to help. And I felt so bad, because I didn’t want to be home. It was so scary to see her so still and silent like that. And my dad was gone—”

I pick her up and put her in my lap, my arms wrapping around her like steel bands.

She’s trembling a little, and I have to trap a tortured shout by pressing my mouth to her shoulder, stroking her hair probably way too hard. The story she just told me is so much more fucked up than I was imagining. I’m livid. I’m fucking livid over her having to live through any of that. But I can’t let the anger run away with me because the focus needs to be here, on Britta, not on my reaction. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”

Practice is over, but some of the guys are still down on the ice.

Bryce is among them, and he’s looking at me knowingly. And it dawns on me why.

“Bryce is your half brother. He’s . . . part of that other family. That your father left for.”

She nods into my neck. “He got in contact with me when I was a senior in high school. To say sorry. I really wanted to hate him, but I couldn’t. He’s too . . . Bryce. For years, we kept in contact, online mostly. It was just a coincidence when he got picked up by the Bandits.”

I’m desperately trying to take in all this information and keep my millions of questions at bay. There will be time for those later, but right now, there is one pressing issue that I can’t ignore. I’ve seen this unique light shining inside her since day one, and here it is. Proof that I’ve had her pegged correctly as one of a kind this whole time. “Britta.”

“Yeah?”

“The grace and character and fucking forgiveness it took to be friends with Bryce? Those are not small things. The bravery it took to cover your mother’s shifts . . . not small.” I let out a gusting exhale. “I’m sorry I mistook protecting yourself for fear.”

I hear her swallow several times, and I pull her as close as I can, wishing I could soak her into my chest where it would be easier to guard her. If anyone ever hurts this girl again, I’m going to start tearing down skyscrapers like hockey Godzilla. “Does he ever come to the games?”

She knows I mean her father. “Always. Every single one. That’s why I never buy tickets.”

Even as I nod in understanding, I hate knowing that. I’d rather have her at my games than the entire rest of the crowd. “Thank you for telling me all of this, Britta.”

We inhale and exhale together.

“I think telling you helped, actually. I feel lighter.”

“I’m glad, sweetheart. I’m sorry about all of it.”

“I know you are. Your heart is bashing up against my ear.” With her cheek nuzzled into my sweaty chest, she closes her eyes. “Tell me everything about your four sisters.”

Above her head, I smile, grateful for her curiosity. Grateful to finally be holding her. Praying like hell that it means more than interview preparation. “Well, the oldest is Chrissy. She’s a hairdresser, and she used to use me to practice her skills. You should have seen my blowout on the first day of fourth grade . . .”





Chapter Four

BRITTA





June


I’m in the passenger side of Sumner’s truck, fanning my cheeks even though the air conditioner is blasting. We’re sitting outside a long beige government building with black reflective windows, an American flag whipping overhead in the summer breeze.

Today is the day of our green card interview.

Sumner reaches over from the driver’s side, stilling my flapping hand and then bringing it to the center of his chest. “Britta, we have nothing to be nervous about.”

“I don’t know, Sum. They say these interviewers are human lie detectors.”

He raises a dark eyebrow. “Who is ‘they’?”

I give him a sheepish look. “The internet.”

Sumner shakes his head at me, and I can’t help but notice the way his black hair rubs against his collar in the process. My fingers twitch, wondering what it would feel like wrapped around my knuckles. Not that I plan on finding out. Or anything. “Did you pick up any conspiracy theories while you were scaring yourself on the web?” he asks, clearly unaware that I’m mentally pulling his hair while he— “Don’t get me started on the Roswell cover-up,” I rush to say, giving him a half smile to let him know I’m joking. But our usual banter is doing nothing to calm the butterflies in my stomach. Or the sexual tension that has been creeping into my stomach more and more quickly, potently, when he’s around. “I just don’t want to let you and the team down.”

“You’ve done more than enough for the team. I’m still here, aren’t I?”

he says without missing a beat. “I understand why you’re nervous, though.

We don’t exactly have jobs that require interviews. It’s new territory.”

“Bashing bodies is your job application. Pouring liquor is mine,” I murmur, staring out the front windshield of the truck, my fingers clutching the binder in my lap. It contains electric bills for my apartment in both our names, mail Sumner has received at my place, pictures of us together that we’ve taken over the last six months. In the bar, at the Bridgeport Marina, in the stands after hockey practice. Our arms are around each other, and we’re smiling. Looking like a couple. There were a few times I wanted to suggest he kiss me in one of the photos, but something held me back.

Maybe a fear I wouldn’t be able to stop once I started? “Although, now that I’m a part owner in the bar,” I say, needing to distract myself from those wayward thoughts, “I’m realizing how little I know about the business end of things. In another life, I would . . .”

I can feel Sumner’s gaze brushing down the side of my cheek. “You’d what, Britta?”