Same Time Next Year

“Go to business school. Maybe.”

I’m surprised by the nerves that bounce around in my stomach just having spoken that dream out loud. Why would I be apprehensive about something that will probably never happen? I don’t know, but the idea of spending significantly less time in the bar, while I attend classes, makes me feel more exposed than I would have expected. Almost like I would be without my armor. Has Sluggers become more of a safety zone than a livelihood?

“You’re an owner now, right?” he says, diverting my troubling thoughts, thankfully. “You could hire someone to work while you’re in class.”

“I could. You’re right. But speaking of job applications, I doubt a lot of bartenders have ‘hockey player babysitter’ listed under their special skills.”

He sighs. “Good help is hard to find these days.”

“Mmmm.”

We trade a slow smile, and my stomach does a somersault—which is beginning to become a regular thing. Out of necessity, Sumner and I have been spending time together, learning everything there is to know about one another’s lives, down to the names of our first-grade teachers and the outfits

we’d like to be buried in, in the event of our untimely deaths. I know his mother’s maiden name, his preferred brand of laundry detergent, and his favorite movie, which turned out to be A Dog’s Purpose.

In fact, I watched it alone one night, for research, and refused to speak to him for a week afterward, my emotional damage ran so deep.

“If they ask me your favorite movie, I’m going to lie, by the way,” I say, leaning closer to the air conditioner. “They probably don’t grant green cards to psychopaths.”

“Me?” He tips his head back on a laugh, and there’s his throat . . . that incredible throat. “Your favorite movie is Clue. If they should be worried about anyone, it’s you.”

“It’s a good thing they can’t kick me out of the country, I guess.”

His attention runs down to my bare thighs, lingering on the hem of my skirt, the black of his pupils expanding. “No one would kick you out of anything, sweetheart.”

Oh. Wow.

I resist the intense urge to squirm. Or cross my legs.

Did the temperature go up another fifty degrees in here?

“Sorry, I slipped,” he says, voice low.

“It’s okay.”

We stay quiet and still while his statement fades from the air, but the effect of his words doesn’t go away so easily. “Listen, I uh . . .” He clears his throat hard and leans back, digging in the pocket of his suit. “In the name of this, us, looking authentic . . .” He opens his palm and produces two gold bands. “I picked us up some rings to wear for the interview. Or for . . . whenever we want to wear them.” He slides the larger of the two onto his ring finger, and it’s such a natural movement, I almost wonder if he’s practiced it before. “I plan on keeping mine on while I’m in Canada this summer.”

I’m so distracted by the glint of the rings, his announcement almost slips past my notice. When it does sink in, however, my heart burrows down into my stomach. “While you’re . . . where?”

SUMNER

“While I’m in Canada,” I say again, slipping the gold band onto her finger while she’s not paying attention. Not very ethical, no, but I tell myself it’s a necessity for the interview. As soon as it’s finally on her all the way, a puck gets stuck in my throat, and there is no amount of swallowing that will dislodge it.

Damn, I wish I could afford a diamond, but maybe it’s for the best that I can’t. I don’t think I would be able to play it cool right now if she had an engagement ring on her finger. The gold band alone is nearly enough to kill me. I’m so busy trying to absorb the sight of her wearing a symbol of commitment to me, whether it’s real or not, that I almost miss her stricken expression. What the— “Britta, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Her gaze bounces between her ring and mine, her hand dropping kind of fast. “I didn’t realize you were officially going home. You just caught me off guard.”

“Going home temporarily. I’m coming back.” For some reason, I feel the need to clarify that information, even though it’s obvious. “Providing this interview goes well—and it will—I should have an interim green card that will get me through customs.”

She nods.

And she just keeps nodding. “Yeah, you have to go home and see your family. They must miss you so much.”

Something about her demeanor is off, but I’m not really sure where we got off track. Was it the rings? Or is it the fact that I’m leaving? I’ve mentioned the possibility of going home for the summer to her a few times, and it never seemed to bother her before. It’s kind of standard procedure for athletes to go home in between seasons. And believe me, I considered forgoing the whole trip so I could stay close to Britta. I’ve thought about it a lot. But she makes it pretty clear every chance she gets that I shouldn’t be making decisions around her. That I shouldn’t treat this as anything other than an expirationship. So what’s with her hollow expression?

Am I missing something?

“My family is a major reason I’m going home, sure, but there’s also a training camp in Edmonton. I’m not going home to lie around and watch television for two months. I need to be ready when practices start again in September. I’m not going to squander this chance you’re giving me, Britta.”

“Two months,” she says under her breath, almost to herself. “Cool, I’m just going to . . .” I watch her hand fumble with the door handle of the truck, and before I know what’s happening, she’s launching herself out into the parking lot. The door closes behind her.

I shove mine open, jumping out too. “Britta.”

We meet at the bumper of my truck. “Yeah?”

I have to dig my fist into my pocket to resist cradling the side of her face. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

I’ve never seen her like this. Dazed and a little fidgety. I don’t know how to handle this, so I dig back into my memory bank and recall a time when my mother kept saying, “I’m fine,” and my father wisely didn’t believe her. This moment with Britta is somehow reminiscent of that. What was it my father said to my mother that got her to crack? “Can you please try and piece together what you’re feeling and communicate it to me?”

She blinks up at me once, twice, like she can’t believe what she’s about to say out loud. “I think I’m going to miss you.”

Holy fuck, my father is a genius.

“I . . . wait.” Don’t move. Don’t even breathe. “Did you just say that you’re going to miss me?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“How . . . am I going to miss you?”

“That’s what I’m asking.”