Page 49 of Just My Puck
She grabs the biggest, most obnoxious bow we have and slaps it on top. Then, she tilts her head, inspecting it. “Huh.”
I hold back a laugh. “Better?”
She grimaces. “Not really.”
I chuckle, leaning in slightly. “It’s fine. Trust me, Owen will be too eager to open it to even care about the packaging.”
“Good point,” she says, shaking her head. “I hope he likes tacky golden bows.”
“He’ll love it.” I laugh. “And we’ll have an entire year to improve your gift-wrapping skills before next Christmas.”
“True.” She agrees easily, asthough it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
As though she’ll still be here next year.
I glance at her, and she meets my eyes without hesitation, holding my gaze longer than usual. There’s no cloud of doubt, no uncertainty—just quiet, simple agreement.
Something tightens in my chest. She said it without realizing what it means—without realizing it’s the first time she’s talked about the future like she’s a part of it. And I really want her to be. It’s crystal clear now. I’ll find a way to manage hockey. If the others can do it, why can’t I? Who says I’ll make the same mistakes I did when I was a teenager? I’m a grown man, and balance is one of my best skills. My dad managed to build a successful business while caring for his family. He’s already proven what’s possible. If there’s a chance at something with me and Aria, I have to take it.
After wrapping the gifts, we pull out the LEGO basketball court we’re building and settle back into our routine. The soft click of plastic pieces snapping into place fills the quiet space between us. Aria is meticulous, her brows pinching in concentration as she carefully aligns each block. The glow of the table lamp casts a warmlight over her face, highlighting the curve of her cheek as she studies the instruction manual.
“We make a good team,” she says softly, her fingers brushing mine as we both reach for the same piece. The contact is brief, but my skin tingles in its wake.
“Definitely.” I nod, placing a red block, though my focus lingers for a second too long on her lips before I look away.
“Then again, maybe we’re taking twice the time you do when you’re alone.” She chuckles, the carefree sound curling around me like the floral scent of her shampoo.
“Nope. We’re faster, I think. And we’re making fewer mistakes. You know, the four-eyes principle.”
“Right. Good thing I got my other eye back,” she jokes, tapping her temple. Her gaze flickers to me, and for a brief moment, I swear there’s something deeper in her eyes—something unspoken, something I don’t have the nerve to name.
“It’s starting to look super cool. Where are you planning to put this one?” she asks as she shifts slightly, her knee bumping mine under the table.
“I’m not sure.” I glance around the family room, suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that we’re alone, the house still and silent around us. “I usually build animals and monuments, but this set was too goodto pass up. A branded New York Eagles basketball court? I mean, come on. Childhood dream come true.” I fiddle with one of the blocks. “Actually, I would have been more ecstatic about a Raptors rink, but that doesn’t exist.”
“Yeah,” she murmurs, looking away. “It’s a shame. Maybe you should bring that up to whoever’s in charge of branding and retail? I’m sure people would go crazy for a Raptors LEGO set.”
“Solid plan.” I bob my head, wondering why I didn’t think of that sooner. But before I can say anything else, a loud yawn escapes me.
Aria chuckles, her lips curving. “Maybe we should call it a night? You worked all week, and I’m guessing you’ve been up since dawn. Not to mention that massive fall you took.”
“Hey!” I throw a small LEGO at her, which she easily dodges. “That’s mean,” I grumble, grinning despite myself.
“Just kidding.” She smirks, then nudges my arm. “But seriously, we can finish this another day.”
“That’s probably wise.” I sigh, gathering up the loose pieces.
After stowing the set, we make our way upstairs, the quiet of the house settling around us as we climb the two flights. Our steps fall into sync, and I’m painfully aware of how close we are—the occasional brush of our arms, the way her breath quickens from the climb. Then again, maybe that’s just my own pulse kicking up for a reason I refuse to analyze.
When we reach her door, she hesitates, turning to face me. The dim hallway light illuminates her face, catching in her eyes as she looks up at me.
“Well . . .good night,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Night,” I murmur. Neither of us moves.
As our eyes lock, it feels like something else should happen—like I should say something, do something. All I can think about is kissing her. But is that what she wants? Can she even consent to a kiss when she still doesn’t know who she is? The moment stretches on for too long, turning into an almost-awkward silence, and she shifts on her feet, reaching for the doorknob.
“See you in the morning,” she adds, her voice quieter now.
