Page 45 of Accidentally Fudging the Beast
But Coach just nods like my answer doesn't surprise him.
Trent and I file out of his office in silence, but don't even make it three steps down the hall before Trent has me pressed up against the cinderblock wall, his eyes wild as they meet mine.
"Did you mean it?"
I don't even hesitate. "Yes," I whisper. "I mean it."
His face splits into a slow, perfect grin, and for the first time all morning, I'm pretty sure I might actually survive another day as his physical therapistandhisgirlfriend.
"Good," he says, pulling me in by the waist and pressing his forehead to mine. "Because I plan to keep being the best thing for you, Sunshine."
"Deal," I whisper.
Iwake with thesun on New Year's Eve morning with Trent spooned behind me in his big bed, one arm draped across my waist like I might escape if he lets go. His beard scratches my shoulder with every exhale, and his hair is a tangle against the white pillow.
He looks softer when he's asleep. Younger. Not like the menace who throws his weight around the ice and threatens to murder anyone who even breathes wrong at his teammates.
He stirs, nuzzles closer, then groans and mumbles something unintelligible into my skin. His morning wood is impressive, pressing into my lower back with single-minded determination.
I try not to laugh, but the sound escapes anyway.
He grunts, then blinks awake, one green eye peeking over my shoulder.
"Morning, Sunshine," he rasps, his voice gritty with sleep.
"Morning," I reply, rolling over to face him. His arm tightens around me, like he's afraid I'll vanish. I know the feeling.
Aside from the one away game they had, we've spent every night together since the day before Christmas Eve, and I still wake up expecting to find that it was all just a dream. Except it's not. He's very much real. And this is our new reality.
Best. Life. Ever.
For a moment, we just lay there, soaking in the quiet. It's just us, tangled up and lazy, with nowhere to be and nothing to do today except exist in this weird, perfect little bubble.
He stares at me like he's memorizing every detail.
"You're staring," I say, but I'm guilty of the same.
He shrugs. "I like looking at you."
I bite my lip, then reach up to smooth a strand of hair from his forehead. "You're ridiculous," I tell him, but my voice is soft.
He grins, then ducks his head to kiss my neck, slow and lazy. "Move in with me," he says, the words muffled against my skin. "Marry me."
My heart stutters.
"What?" I pull back, propping myself up on one elbow. "Did you just propose to me? It's only been a week!"
He rolls onto his back, stretching like a very smug cat. "I want to wake up with you every day." He turns his headto look at me, his expression suddenly serious. "I'm all in, Dani. Are you?"
It's so casual, so matter-of-fact, that I just blink at him for a second, trying to process. And then I realize that he's absolutely serious.
Of course he is. This is the guy who almost died of an allergic reaction and still declared my fudge the best ever, who faked a back injury for weeks just to hang out in my office, who defended my honor to Coach, and then stood there, ready to burn down his own career if it meant saving mine. This is the guy who let me see every part of him, messy and raw, and then let me give him back the same.
I think about the last week—the way he skipped Christmas to take care of me when I was sick, the way he makes me breakfast every morning, the way he looks at me like I'm the only thing in the universe worth seeing.
I've never belonged anywhere. Not really. But here, in this bed, in this moment, I realize that home isn't a place.
It's a person. It'shim.
