Chapter Nineteen

Bex

Riding up the lift car with Rowan to her apartment, there’s an anticipated silence between us. We stand close enough that I feel the faintest brush of her shoulder every now and then, but I keep my hands firmly in my pockets.

What am I even doing here? Walking her to her door like this is some kind of date. I’ve never been one for romantic gestures, but there’s something about Rowan that makes me want to… linger. Maybe it’s her laugh. Or the way she looked at me earlier tonight, like she saw straight through the layers I’ve built around myself.

When the elevator dings, she steps out first, leading the way down the hall to her door. She fumbles with her keys, muttering something under her breath that I don’t quite catch, and I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips. She’s nervous. It’s endearing.

The door opens, and I follow her inside, immediately hit with the unmistakable sense of her. The space feels warm and lived-in—a mix of cozy clutter and deliberate placement. Framed prints hang on the walls, alongside what looks like magazine articles. Her work.

I linger near the door as she drops her keys on a small table, watching as she straightens a stack of books almost out of habit. There’s something intimate about this, stepping into her world.

“Nice place,” I say, my attention caught by a framed article on the wall. I step closer, scanning the title.

She follows my gaze, a small, proud smile playing on her lips. “That was my first big break after college,” she says. “I won a contest for an art piece I wrote about. My sister framed it and sent it to me. Guess I’m a little sentimental.”

I nod, studying the piece again. “It’s an accomplishment. Not many get to frame it on their wall. You should be proud of it.”

“I suppose you're right,” she agrees, leaning against the wall as I take in the rest of the space. My eyes drift over her small collection of art and prints, noting the way they’re thoughtfully arranged but somehow incomplete.

“You could use something big on this wall,” I say. “A proper statement piece—something that grabs attention, takes up the space it deserves.”

She quirks a brow, a small grin tugging at her lips. “I thought you didn’t care about art.”

“I don’t care much for it but I grew up attending art galleries with my mum. Turns out some of it stuck.”

She crosses her arms, tilting her head and stares at the blank space I’m referring to. “Hmmm. You might be right, but I can’t afford something like that right now.”

She turns and heads for the small kitchen that opens up to the living room.

“You’re doing alright though I assume? Living alone in a one-bedroom apartment close to downtown isn’t cheap.”

She reaches for two glasses in the cupboard and fills them with water and then walks back over to hand me one.

“I’m lucky, I didn’t mean to suggest that I don't make enough. Getting this promotion has a small pay increase, but my salary is no Head Coach for the Seattle Hawkeyes contract,” she smirks with a glint in her eye and then takes a sip of her water. “But don’t change the subject, you’re here for one reason only. You have a secret birthday wish to spill and I haven’t forgotten.”

“I’ve noticed.” The humor fades slightly as I lower my voice, suddenly aware of the weight of what I’m about to say. “Alright. My wish…” I hesitate, both of us turning from staring at the wall and face each other. I glance at her lips before locking eyes with her again. “If I were the type to make wishes, Rowan, mine would’ve been for a chance. Just one good, proper chance. No interruptions, no other people involved. Just you and me, to see what it could be like. Maybe more than once.”

Her eyes widen slightly, and for a second, I worry I’ve overstepped. But then her expression softens, a flicker of something vulnerable and open crossing her face.

“A chance for what?” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

“To do this without all the distractions,” I admit. “To see what you and I could be without anyone or, in my case, hockey, getting in the way. No Drew, no games, no one else… just us.”

The air between us thickens, her gaze locking on mine like she’s trying to read every unspoken word beneath the surface. My heart pounds in my chest, louder than the quiet hum of the building around us.

“And you were just going to keep that little wish all to yourself?” she asks, stepping closer.

“I thought you were too stubborn to wait ‘til midnight to find out,” I say, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth despite the nerves gnawing at me.

“Guilty as charged,” she murmurs, taking another step. She’s close enough now that I can feel the warmth radiating off her, her eyes searching mine. “Well, now that you’ve made your wish, Coach… what’s next?”

I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I reach for her hand, tracing her fingers lightly before letting my thumb rest over the back of her hand. “This,” I whisper, leaning down slowly.

Our lips meet softly at first, a tentative kiss that feels like a question, an offering. Her hand slides up to my shoulder, pulling me closer as I deepen the kiss, pressing her gently against the wall.

Time seems to slow, the world narrowing to the quiet rhythm of her breath, the soft press of her body against mine. For the first time in my life, hockey’s place in my world might have a true contender.