Page 106 of Risky Pucking Play
"That was... good. Better than I expected."
She smiles up at me. "They're trying, Nate. It's a start."
"Because of you." I brush a strand of hair from her face. "You made this happen."
"No," she says firmly. "You did. You're the one who decided to answer when they called. You're the one who kept the conversation going. You're the one who invited them to brunch tomorrow."
I kiss her forehead, grateful beyond words for this woman who sees the best in me, who helped me see it in myself.
"Let's go home," I say, taking her hand.
Elena kicks off her boots as soon as we get through the door of my place. It's almost eleven, but neither of us could sleep if wetried. The adrenaline of the win, seeing my parents, all of it has me wired.
I watch her walk into the kitchen for water–so, so beautiful. My chest tightens with that familiar feeling—like I can't believe she's real, and she's mine. Tonight feels like everything coming full circle. And there's one more thing I need to do to make it complete.
"You were amazing tonight," she says, handing me a glass of water. "That last goal? I nearly lost my voice screaming."
"You should've heard the guys on the bench." I gulp down the water, suddenly parched. "Pretty sure they broke the sound barrier."
She laughs, setting her glass down on the counter. "And your parents? I felt like that went really well."
I run a hand through my hair. "It was... good. Weird, but good."
"They seemed genuinely proud of you."
"Yeah." I nod, thinking of my father's stiff hug, my mother's whispered words. "I think they actually were."
Elena wraps her arms around my waist, resting her head against my shoulder. I hold her close, breathing in the scent of her shampoo.
"I have something for you," I say against her hair.
She looks up, eyebrows raised. "For me? But you're the one who just won a huge game."
I take her hand, leading her to the bedroom. "Wait here."
I go to my closet, reaching up to the top shelf where I've hidden the journal. The leather is worn now from a year of regular use, the edges of pages wavy from getting some water on it.
When I turn around, Elena is perched on the edge of the bed, watching me curiously. I sit beside her, the journal heavy in my hands.
"My therapy journal," I explain, watching her eyes widen. "I've never shown it to anyone."
"Nate..." She touches the cover gently. "Are you sure?"
I nod. "You're the reason I started therapy in the first place. You're the reason I kept going when it got tough. And you're the reason I'm..." I gesture vaguely at myself, struggling to find the words.
"The reason you're what?" she asks softly.
"Happy," I say simply.
She blinks rapidly, fighting tears. "You did that yourself. I just believed in you."
"That’s what got me through it." I hand her the journal. "I want you to see."
She takes it carefully, like it's something precious. "Do you want to show me specific parts, or...?"
"Let's go through it together."
She opens to the first page, dated from right after we started having sessions together. My handwriting is messier than usual, the words pressed hard into the paper:
