Page 15 of Slots & Sticks
Mom’s eyes are swollen when I reach her. “That was beautiful,” she says, voice breaking on the word. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to spend more time with Delilah. I always thought I’d retire someday and we’d all end up together somewhere—some weird group home for old Venom players and their wives.”
“I should pitch that to Dante as his next business venture.” I try for a smile. “He’d love it. He’s obsessed with keeping the team together.”
Dad groans. “Please don’t encourage him. I haven’t forgiven him for the billboard thing yet.”
“The one with your—”
“Yeah. That one.” He sighs. “The man’s a menace.”
I huff a quiet laugh, but it tapers quickly.
Dad slings an arm around my shoulders, his voice dropping low. “So. You and Dot, huh?”
“What?” I glance around, but everyone’s distracted. “No. I’m just being supportive. She doesn’t… she doesn’t see me that way.”
Dad’s gaze pierces deep. “And you’re still holding out for her.”
I don’t answer. My eyes drift back to the corner where Dot’s talking to Kingsley, her shoulders shaking, Kingsley’s hand stroking her hair.
“Yeah,” I say, mostly to myself. “Still holding out.”
Back in college, I’d had too many beers at a family cookout and made the mistake of getting philosophical. Somewhere between the ribs and my fourth drink, I told Dad I’d never slept with anyone because I was “holding out for The One.”
I thought it sounded mysterious. Noble, even.
He saw right through it.
It took him all of two seconds to put it together—that the girl I’ve been in love with since we were kids is the same one who still makes me forget how to breathe. That every time I thought about crossing that line with someone else, it felt wrong. Empty. Like cheating on a promise I hadn’t even made out loud yet.
So yeah. I’m twenty-six. I’ve played hockey on three continents, made more money than I ever dreamed, and I’ve never taken a woman to bed. Not because I’m scared or inexperienced. I’ve done things. More because I’ve never wanted anyone enough to be inside them.
Because no one has ever been Dot. She feels like home.
“Yes, Dad,” I say quietly. “I’m still waiting.”
It’s not that I care what anyone else does behind closed doors. I know Dot had a boyfriend in college, and I don’t hold that against her.
But for me? I can’t fake that kind of connection.
It’s always been different with her.
Even when we were kids—before either of us knew words like neurodivergent or why the world sometimes felt too loud—Dot just… fit. She never tried to fix me when I went quiet, and I never asked her to smile when she couldn’t. We understood thestatic in each other’s heads, the need to disappear and recharge, the way a small touch could mean more than a hundred sentences. She’s woven into every version of my life—mud on our shoes after Little League, the smell of her mom’s perfume in the hallways at the rink, the look on her face when she talked about saving something broken and making it whole again.
That’s why I can’t be casual with her.
She’s not a crush I never outgrew.
She’s the rhythm underneath every memory.
If I ever get to touch her, it’s going to mean something. It’s going to mean everything.
It won’t be casual. It won’t be a release. It’ll be a homecoming.
Because every time I think of love, it wears her face.
Dad studies me for a long moment, the edges of his eyes crinkling the way they do when he’s proud but doesn’t want to show it. Then he claps a hand to my back—hard enough to make my breath stutter.
“I really admire that,” he says. “Holding out for love in a world that doesn’t believe in it anymore. I hope she knows what that’s worth.”
