56. A Love Lesson

56

A LOVE LESSON

Asher

I sit in the visitors’ locker room, tightening the laces on my skates. It’s quiet—just Miles and me. He claps me on the shoulder as he walks by.

“You doing okay?” he asks.

I take a breath and nod. “Better than yesterday.”

“Good.” His voice is steady. “If you need anything, let me know.”

I turn his offer over in my head, grateful for it, even though he doesn’t know the details of what went down yesterday morning. But still, he’s there if I need him. And the truth is…I think I might. More than that, I think it’d be helpful to talk. In sports, the more you practice, the better you get. So I try it first with him, taking the chance to practice.

“I’m going to see a therapist,” I say. The words feel heavier than I’d expected. But in a good way .

Miles’s eyebrows shoot up as he grabs his pads from the stall. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Appointment’s tomorrow when we’re back. There’s some stuff I need to work through.”

“Proud of you, man,” he says, offering a fist-bump.

Sometimes you bump fists to celebrate a win. Maybe this is one too. But more than that, it feels like genuine support. Like the kind I’ve been working to make accessible for young athletes. The kind I should have taken advantage of myself.

But I will tomorrow.

And that’s a start too.

A little later, we hit the ice for the face-off. The game starts fast and aggressive—players crashing into each other, sticks clashing, the puck snapping between us. I shove everything else away and focus. Hockey hasn’t changed—it’s always been my escape. But maybe I didn’t realize what I was escaping from: the way I tried to control everything off the ice.

On the ice, I know I can’t control the outcome, but I can give it my all. Charging down the rink, weaving past defenders, I fire the puck at the net with everything I’ve got, just like I always have.

Sometimes it works out. Sometimes it doesn’t.

But I do it anyway.

And that’s exactly what I’ll need to do with Maeve.

No wonder I haven’t told her I love her. I’ve been trying to control the outcome of our romance, waiting for the perfect moment. But love’s like hockey—you can’t guarantee a win, but you can give it your best shot.

When we end the game in Seattle with the W, I change quickly into my travel clothes. On the way to the airport, I make a call to a store in San Francisco, place a rush order, then I count down the hours till we land.

By the time the plane taxies down the runway in San Francisco in the early evening, I have everything in place. I don’t head into the arena with the other guys. Instead, I grab a Lyft and swing by the store. Then I call Maeve.

“You home?” I ask.

She sounds breathless. “No, I’m at the arena, just finishing up.”

“Stay there,” I tell her.

“Bossy,” she says with a laugh.

“Sometimes I am,” I reply, smiling. I hope she likes this.

I’m back at the arena in ten minutes, heading through the players’ entrance. I didn’t plan a big speech. I just go straight to where she’s working.

I find Maeve, without the dog, climbing down from her ladder at the Sea Dogs mural, her painting T-shirt streaked with color, a daub of red on her cheek. My heart swells at the sight of her, and it hits me: I can’t believe I waited this long to tell her. But at the same time, I know exactly why I did—and knowing that makes all the difference.

She watches me, her eyebrows lifting in curiosity as I approach.

“Question for you,” I say, our familiar line.

A twitch of her lips follows. “Hit me.”

“Would you like to go on a date with me? A real date. Tonight. Tomorrow. The weekend. And every weekend after that. When the season ends, during the summer too, and beyond. Because you were right. ”

Her lips part, but her brows furrow in confusion. “Right about what?”

I take a breath, ready to show her the real me—the parts I was afraid to show when she moved in but wound up showing her anyway. The parts I tried to hide, but now, in retrospect, I’m glad she discovered in the kitchen when I was lost in my obsession. She pulled me out. She spoke the truth to me. She helped me to see who I could become. “About me. I am trying to control everything, I do have obsessive tendencies, and I need help. So, I made an appointment with Marcus for tomorrow. I know it won’t happen overnight and it won’t be easy—but I’m doing this. I’m going to work on myself because I don’t want to hurt you—or myself. I want to sleep better. I want to stop researching everything, learn how to be proactive in smart ways, and figure out how to chill the fuck out.”

She brings a hand to her mouth, covering her trembling lip before she lets her hand fall away—the hand with that brilliant ruby I hope she always wears. “I’m so happy,” she says.

I laugh. “That makes you happy?”

“Yes. More than anything. Even more than the dog.”

“That’s saying something,” I reply, stepping closer. “But I’m not done.”

“Okay,” she says, breathless and maybe excited.

I cup her cheek, my thumb grazing a red streak of paint that I love on her. She shudders, and I love that too. “And part of me being so controlling is that I didn’t let myself see what was happening when we first met.”

“What do you mean?”

“I fell in love with you ten years ago,” I say, no safety net, no guarantee, no idea if she’ll love me back. I let go of her face and reach into my bag, pulling out the framed picture. “And I fell in love with you all over again when you said, ‘I do.’”

I show her the picture I had printed and framed today at the same shop where I had the others made when she moved in. This one, though? It’s not just of her. It’s of us, in Las Vegas, at the concert, before the singer launched into the new tune about promises made and kept. The selfie I snapped impulsively.

“All those pictures I took? I was taking them for me. Because I was falling in love with you every day. And when you married me, I finally admitted to myself that it’s you. It’s always been you. And I don’t know if you feel the same or even want me, but I’m wildly in love with you. I don’t want to just take pictures of you. I want them of us. And I want this to be our next big adventure,” I say, referring to the picture and the words I photoshopped onto it this afternoon— Love lesson: Tell her you love her often. Tell her every day. Tell her as soon as you can.

Her eyes shine as she looks at the words, then back at me, and I swear I can see forever in her gaze.

“And if you can handle an obsessed, obsessive, bossy guy who thinks you’re the greatest thing in the world and who’s trying to be a little less anxious, I’ll give you the world. Because you mean the world to me, Maeve Hartley Callahan.”

She takes a breath, her shoulders rising and falling with the movement. “I have the answer.”

I furrow my brow. “To what?”

“Your real date question.”

“Yeah?”

She reaches for my hand and squeezes it, never looking away. “I love you too. That’s my answer. You’re my best friend and my lover, and I want us to stay together. I want us to hold on tight to each other. Because you’re my new dream.”

I never knew this was possible—to fall in love with her even more. But it’s happened.