Page 55 of Offside for Christmas
"Maybe you weren't cooking for the right people," Ellie said softly.
Cole looked up, found her watching him with those eyes that saw too much. "Maybe I wasn't cooking at all. Just going through the motions."
"And now?"
"Now I'm sitting in a rental apartment in a town I swore I'd hate, cooking for someone who's probably too smart to stick around once I leave." The words came out before he could stop them. "So yeah, still not sure my grandmother's theory holds up."
He kicked himself for saying it, but it was too late.
Ellie's fork stilled. Something flickered across her face—carefully blank, but not quite fast enough. "I'm not going anywhere. I live here, remember?"
"That's not what I meant."
"I know what you meant." She took a sip of wine, and when she looked at him again, there was something guarded in her expression that hadn't been there a moment ago. "This is just... temporary."
"Ellie—"
"It's fine. I knew that going in." She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "We're both adults. We can enjoy this without making it complicated."
"What if I want it to be complicated?"
Ellie set down her glass with careful precision.
"You say that now. But when Chicago calls, or Toronto, or whoever wants you..." She trailed off, shaking her head.
"I'm not him." Cole's voice came out rougher than he intended.
"I know. You're grumpier." She tried for lightness, but her fingers were gripping her fork too tight. "But you're still leaving. That part's the same."
"So what, we just don't try? We have a few more weeks of this and then pretend it never happened?"
"I don't know." Ellie's voice went quiet.
Cole wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her he wouldn't, that this felt different, that maybe he was tired of choosing hockey over everything else.
But he'd spent the last eight years doing exactly that. Choosing the game. Choosing the career. Choosing to be alone rather than risk anything that might complicate the NHL.
And before that? He'd lost everyone. His parents. His grandfather. His grandmother. The lesson had been pretty clear: getting close to people just meant more pain when they inevitably left.
"I've been pretty lonely," he admitted finally, the words harder to say than they should be. "Even when I was surrounded by teammates, even when I was playing in front of thousands of people. I've been lonely for a long time. And I'm tired of it."
"But not tired enough to change it," Ellie said, not unkindly. Just stating a fact.
"I don't know if I can stay. Hockey is all I have. If I give that up..." He stopped, frustrated with himself for not being able to finish the thought. For not being able to promise her something he didn't know if he could deliver.
"I'm not asking you to give it up. I'm just..." Ellie pushed her pasta around her plate. "I'm just being realistic. You have a career. A life. And it's not here."
"But what if I wanted it to be?"
"Do you? Or do you just like the idea of it when you're eating homemade pasta and watching snow fall?" Her eyes met his, sad and knowing. "But when the bar fight blows over and some team offers you a contract—are you really going to choose this? Choose me?"
Cole opened his mouth. Closed it.
Because she was right. He didn't know. And that not-knowing was the problem.
"I'm not trying to be difficult," Ellie said quietly. "I just need to protect myself. I can't let myself believe in something that's going to end."
"But not right now?" The question came out almost desperate. "Right now, can we just... be here?"
