Bad Call

Chase

By the time I got home, I was seriously considering whether I could survive the rest of my senior year on protein bars, caffeine, and whatever food Jackson’s girlfriend occasionally brought over.

The answer was probably no, but I was willing to give it a shot.

I pushed through the front door with my hockey bag hanging off one shoulder and nearly tripped over a pair of sneakers somebody had abandoned in the entryway.

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, catching myself against the wall.

From somewhere in the living room, Trevor called, “You’re welcome.”

I looked down at the shoes. “Are these yours?”

“Depends. Are you about to throw them?”

“Out the fucking window.”

“Then no.”

I kicked them against the wall and stepped inside.

Our house was exactly what you’d expect from four college hockey players living together. There were sticks propped against the wall beside the front door, a pile of mail nobody had bothered sorting through, and a faint smell of laundry detergent fighting a losing battle against the lingering scent of hockey equipment.

We weren’t complete animals. Jackson made sure of that.

But four guys with full course loads, practices, games, and social lives weren’t exactly competing for a feature in Architectural Digest.

I dropped my bag beside the stairs, making a mental note to take my equipment downstairs before it started smelling like something had died inside it.

“Shoes off the floor,” I called toward the living room.

“Love you too, Holloway.”

“Fuck off, James.”

“See? This is why we work.”

I followed the sound of the television into the living room.

Trevor James was stretched across the couch wearing gray sweatpants and a Westhaven Falcons T-shirt, his feet planted on the coffee table. A half-empty bag of pretzels sat beside him, and he had some sports debate show playing at a volume that suggested he was personally invested in whether the commentators could hear him disagreeing.

“Why aren’t you doing anything productive?” I asked.

He glanced at me. “Why aren’t you?”

“I just got back from practice.”

“And I just got back from class.”

“Your class ended three hours ago.”

“Recovery is important.”

I looked at the television. “You’ve been recovering since noon?”

“It’s a demanding lifestyle.”

I grabbed a handful of pretzels from the bag.

“Hey.”

“Recovery nutrition,” I said around a mouthful.

He flipped me off without looking away from the screen.

I headed into the kitchen, where Jackson Reid stood in front of the open refrigerator with his phone pressed between his shoulder and ear.

Our captain was wearing black athletic shorts and a navy hoodie, his dark hair still damp from his shower. He looked like he was trying to solve a particularly complicated problem involving a carton of eggs.

“No, I’m not saying we can’t do Saturday,” he said into the phone. “I’m saying we have film in the morning, and if Coach decides we’re skating afterward, I don’t know what time I’ll be done.”

He paused, listening.

“Yeah. I know.”

Another pause.

His expression softened.

“I’ll figure it out. I’ll call you tonight.”

He ended the call and put his phone on the counter.

“Trouble in paradise?” I asked.

Jackson glanced over. “No.”

“Sounded romantic.”

“It was my girlfriend.”

“That’s generally where the romance comes in.”

He shut the refrigerator.

“Did you finish the biomechanics assignment?”

I groaned. “Don’t.”

“It’s due tomorrow.”

“I’m aware.”

“Because last week you said you were aware, and then you spent forty minutes trying to upload the wrong file.”

“That was a technical issue.”

“You named the file ‘final final actually final.’”

“And?”

“And it was your grocery list.”

I opened a cabinet and found exactly three boxes of pasta, a jar of peanut butter, and a bottle of hot sauce.

“Technology isn’t my thing.”

“Clearly.”

I shut the cabinet. “Do we have food?”

Jackson pointed toward the freezer.

I opened it.

Frozen peas. Ice packs. A bag of chicken that looked like it had been there since freshman year.

“Fantastic.”

“There’s rice.”

“Where?”

“Pantry.”

I checked.

There was rice, technically. About two tablespoons in the bottom of a bag.

“Who the hell finished the rice and put the bag back?”

“Trevor.”

“You didn’t even have to think about that.”

“Because I watched him do it.”

I stared at him.

Jackson shrugged. “I told him to throw it out.”

“And?”

“He said he would.”

From the living room, Trevor yelled, “I can hear you assholes!”

“GOOD,” I yelled back.

Jackson pulled a bottle of water from the refrigerator and leaned against the counter.

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

“Seriously. You all right?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

He nodded like he understood.

Which he probably did.

We’d been back into the full swing of the season for a few weeks, and Coach Brennan had apparently decided that senior year should be an extended lesson in physical suffering.

Morning lifts. Afternoon practices. Film sessions. Classes squeezed into whatever time remained.

I loved hockey.

I’d loved it since I was five years old and my dad first took me skating at the rink near our house. I’d spent most of my life working toward the possibility of playing professionally, and now that graduation was approaching, the future felt both closer and more uncertain than ever.

I was good. I knew that.

But good didn’t guarantee anything.

Neither did being one of Westhaven’s leading scorers, or having scouts at games, or hearing people talk about what might happen after the season.

There were plenty of talented players who never made it past college.

And lately, that fact had been sitting somewhere in the back of my mind.

“You hear anything about Friday?” I asked.

Jackson nodded. “Coach wants us reviewing Blackridge’s defensive rotations tomorrow.”

I made a face.

Blackridge.

Of course.

Our biggest rival had apparently decided to start the season by being just as irritating as usual.

“Wonderful,” I said.

“Try not to get into it with anybody this time.”

“I never get into it with anybody.”

Jackson stared at me.

“What?”

“You got two penalties last time we played them.”

“One was bullshit.”

“The other one?”

“Misunderstanding.”

“You shoved their center into the boards after the whistle.”

“He was being a dick.”

“He was standing there.”

“Menacingly.”

Jackson shook his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Just play hockey, Chase.”

“That’s generally the plan.”

“I’m serious. We need you on the ice, not sitting in the box because somebody gets under your skin.”

I knew he was right.

That didn’t mean I enjoyed hearing it.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll be a model citizen.”

“That’s what worries me.”

The front door opened before I could respond.

“Please tell me somebody in this house has food.”

I knew the voice before I even turned around.

And just like that, my day improved.

Which was pathetic.

I was fully aware.

“Depends,” I called. “How desperate are you?”

“I’m considering eating the granola bar I found at the bottom of my backpack, and I don’t remember buying it.”

Shawna Parker appeared in the kitchen doorway wearing jeans, white sneakers, and an oversized burgundy sweatshirt. Her long brown hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, and she’d shoved a pencil through the elastic like she’d gotten tired of dealing with it halfway through the day.

She had a canvas tote bag hanging from one shoulder and her phone in her hand.

She looked tired.

She also looked beautiful.

Neither observation was particularly new.

“Don’t eat the granola bar,” Jackson advised.

Shawna dropped her bag onto one of the kitchen chairs. “Why?”

“Because you’re not sure how old it is.”

“Thank you, Dad.”

“You’re welcome.”

She came around the island and leaned against my side for a second, wrapping an arm loosely around my waist.

“Hey.”

I slipped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed.

“Hey, Shaw.”

She smelled like vanilla and whatever shampoo she’d been using for the last three years.

I knew that because I’d spent an embarrassing amount of time with her head on my shoulder.

She pulled away and opened the refrigerator.

I watched her inspect the shelves.

Then she closed it.

Slowly.

“Do you guys live like this on purpose?”

“It’s a lifestyle choice,” I said.

“It’s concerning.”

“We have rice.”

Jackson snorted.

Shawna looked toward the pantry. “Do you?”

“Not enough to prove it.”

She shook her head.

“I swear, every time I come over here, I’m amazed you’re all still alive.”

“Love keeps us going,” Trevor called from the living room.

“Is that what we’re calling your inability to grocery shop?” Shawna called back.

“Shawna!”

“What?”

“Come tell Chase he’s being a dick.”

She glanced at me.

“What’d you do?”

“Nothing.”

Jackson laughed.

“That’s usually a lie,” Shawna said.

“I’m wounded.”

“You’ll recover.”

She reached past me for a glass.

I moved aside automatically.

That was how things worked with Shawna.

She knew where we kept the glasses, which cabinet held the decent plates, and which drawer had the takeout menus we never used because everybody ordered online.

She knew Trevor always stole people’s leftovers, that Graham hated when anyone touched his coffee, and that Jackson got noticeably quieter when he was stressed.

She’d been coming around since freshman year.

At this point, she was practically part of the furniture.

Except I was fairly certain nobody spent three years falling in love with their couch.

Unfortunately, that was exactly what I’d done with my best friend.

Not all at once.

That would’ve been easier to explain.

When I first met Shawna, she’d been a pretty girl standing in our freshman-year hockey house kitchen, looking for something to drink while I made a sandwich at one in the morning.

We’d started talking.

Somehow, the conversation had lasted almost two hours.

By the time she left, I’d gotten her number and discovered that she was funny, stubborn, surprisingly competitive, and completely unimpressed by the fact that I played hockey.

I’d liked her immediately.

As a friend.

Mostly.

Then we’d spent freshman year getting to know each other, and somewhere along the way, she’d become the person I wanted to tell everything to.

It wasn’t until sophomore year that things got complicated.

One night, she’d fallen asleep against me during a movie.

Nothing unusual.

She’d done it before.

But I’d looked down at her, warm and comfortable beneath my arm, and realized I wanted to spend a ridiculous number of ordinary nights exactly like that.

With her.

Only her.

That had been almost two years ago.

And I’d been keeping my mouth shut ever since.

“Chase?”

I blinked.

Shawna was looking at me over the rim of her water glass.

“What?”

“Did you hear anything I just said?”

“Every word.”

“What did I say?”

“That you’re incredibly impressed by my intelligence and athletic ability.”

“Interesting. Because I actually said my marketing professor might be trying to kill me.”

“Same general sentiment.”

She gave me a look.

I smiled.

“What’s going on with your professor?”

She sighed and set her glass down.

“We have this campaign proposal due next week, and my group apparently thinks ‘group project’ means I do everything while they occasionally react to my messages with thumbs-up emojis.”

Jackson winced.

“That’s brutal.”

“Thank you.”

“What kind of campaign?” I asked.

“Campus sustainability initiative. We’re supposed to develop a full promotional strategy, including target audiences, messaging, budget estimates, and a presentation.”

“Sounds like a lot.”

“It is a lot. And I wouldn’t even mind if everyone was contributing, but I’ve spent the last three days trying to get one guy to finish the audience research.”

“Can you talk to your professor?”

“I might have to. I just hate being that person.”

“The person who doesn’t want to do everybody else’s work?”

“Yes.”

“Shaw.”

“I know.”

“You’re allowed to expect people to do their jobs.”

She rubbed her forehead.

“It’s not that simple. We get graded together.”

“Which is exactly why they should be helping.”

She looked at me for a moment.

Then sighed.

“Yeah. You’re right.”

“Could you say that again? A little louder?”

“Don’t ruin it.”

I grinned.

She reached into her tote bag and pulled out her laptop.

“I’m going to email them tonight. Give them until tomorrow to send me their sections, and then I’ll talk to Professor Mitchell.”

“Good.”

“God, I hate group projects.”

“Everybody hates group projects.”

“You don’t.”

“I absolutely do.”

“You told me last semester you liked working with people.”

“I like working with competent people.”

Jackson raised his water bottle.

“Amen.”

Shawna laughed, and I felt that familiar warmth settle somewhere beneath my ribs.

It wasn’t even a particularly special laugh.

I’d heard it thousands of times.

That was the problem.

I liked everything about her.

Even the ordinary stuff.

Especially the ordinary stuff.

By six thirty, we’d ordered enough pizza to feed a small army.

Which, considering the amount Trevor ate, was probably appropriate.

Graham Mitchell finally emerged from upstairs when the delivery guy arrived, looking like he’d spent the last three hours arguing with a textbook.

“Please tell me that’s pepperoni,” he said.

“Two pepperoni, one cheese, and one supreme,” Jackson replied.

Graham nodded approvingly.

“Beautiful.”

We gathered around the kitchen island with paper plates and the kind of hunger that made conversation temporarily unnecessary.

Shawna stood beside me, scrolling through her phone while she waited for Trevor to finish distributing slices like he was personally responsible for maintaining pizza equality.

“You have three,” Jackson told him.

“I’m aware.”

“Then stop taking more.”

“I’m checking quality.”

“You’ve checked three times.”

“Consistency matters.”

Graham reached around him and grabbed a slice.

“Move.”

Trevor stepped aside.

“Jesus. Everybody’s hostile tonight.”

“Maybe because you’re standing in front of the food,” Shawna suggested.

He pointed at her.

“I liked you better when you first started hanging out here.”

“You told me I was your favorite person last weekend.”

“That was before you stole my fries.”

“You left them unattended.”

“For thirty seconds.”

“Rookie mistake.”

I slid a slice of cheese pizza onto Shawna’s plate.

She glanced at it.

“Thanks.”

“Figured I’d save you from starvation.”

“My hero.”

She nudged my hip with hers.

Jackson carried his plate to the other side of the island.

“Are you coming Friday?” he asked Shawna.

“To the game?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course. Brooke and Leah are coming too.”

“Good. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

Trevor scoffed.

“Speak for yourself. I’m scoring twice.”

“You said that last week,” Graham pointed out.

“And I was close.”

“You hit the post.”

“Twice.”

“Exactly.”

I took a bite of pizza.

“Maybe aim six inches to the left.”

Trevor looked offended.

“I’m surrounded by assholes.”

“Talented assholes,” I corrected.

Shawna smiled around her drink.

“What time’s puck drop?”

“Seven,” Jackson said. “But Coach wants us there early for meetings.”

“Okay. We’ll probably get there around six thirty.”

“Don’t sit behind the glass near the penalty box,” Trevor said.

“Why?”

“Because Chase might end up spending half the game in there.”

I threw a napkin at him.

“Can everybody stop acting like I’m a criminal?”

Jackson looked at Shawna.

“He’s already been warned.”

“About?”

“Keeping his temper under control against Blackridge.”

Shawna turned toward me.

“Again?”

“Why does everybody keep saying that?”

“Because you get annoyed every time you play them.”

“They’re annoying.”

“Chase.”

“What?”

She gave me the same look my mother used when she knew I was about to do something stupid.

It was remarkably effective.

I sighed.

“Fine. I’ll behave.”

“Good.”

“Unless somebody deserves it.”

“Chase.”

“Kidding.”

Mostly.

She shook her head, but there was a smile tugging at her mouth.

Jackson checked his phone.

“I have to call Emma after dinner.”

“Everything okay?” Shawna asked.

“Yeah. We’re trying to figure out Saturday.”

“Are you guys still going to her sister’s birthday dinner?”

“That’s the plan. Assuming Coach doesn’t decide to keep us at the rink all afternoon.”

Shawna nodded.

“Tell her I said hi.”

“Will do.”

I liked that she remembered things like that.

Not just Emma’s name, but the birthday dinner she’d mentioned when she’d stopped by the house the previous weekend.

Shawna paid attention to people.

She remembered what mattered to them.

Sometimes I wondered whether she realized how much that meant.

Graham’s phone buzzed.

He checked it, then started gathering his things.

“I’m heading to Mia’s.”

Trevor raised an eyebrow.

“Already?”

“Yeah.”

“You just got here.”

“I live here.”

“Barely.”

Graham ignored him.

“There’s pizza left if anybody wants it.”

“Trevor’s already claimed it,” Jackson said.

“Correct,” Trevor replied.

Graham looked at Shawna.

“You still coming to Mia’s thing next weekend?”

“Her birthday dinner? Yeah. Brooke and I are coming.”

“Good. She’ll be happy.”

He grabbed his keys and headed out.

A few minutes later, Jackson disappeared upstairs to call Emma.

Trevor carried his plate into the living room and turned the television back up.

And Shawna leaned against the kitchen counter beside me, finishing her pizza.

“Busy night,” she observed.

“Thrilling.”

“Living with you guys must be exhausting.”

“It’s like raising three children.”

She laughed.

“I’m pretty sure Jackson would say the same thing about you.”

“Jackson’s judgment is questionable.”

“He’s the responsible one.”

“Exactly. Suspicious.”

She set her plate down and glanced at the clock.

“Are we still doing a movie?”

“Obviously.”

“Good. I need to stop thinking about that stupid project for a couple hours.”

“Pick something terrible.”

“Why terrible?”

“Because you always pick terrible movies.”

Her mouth fell open.

“Excuse me?”

“Last week you made me watch a movie where the guy pretended to be somebody’s fiancé for Christmas.”

“And?”

“And they fell in love after knowing each other for approximately forty-eight hours.”

“It was cute.”

“It was ridiculous.”

“You cried.”

“I had something in my eye.”

“You cried when he showed up at the airport.”

“Dry air.”

“In your living room?”

“Very dry house.”

She laughed again, shaking her head.

“You’re impossible.”

“Yet here you are.”

“Unfortunately.”

I bumped her shoulder with mine.

She leaned into me for a second before stepping away to throw out her plate.

Easy.

Comfortable.

Completely unaware of what she did to me.

That was Shawna.

By eight thirty, Trevor had left to meet some friends, Jackson was upstairs finishing coursework, and the house had finally settled into something resembling peace.

I took advantage of the quiet to bring my hockey bag downstairs and hang up the equipment that needed drying.

When I came back, Shawna had claimed the corner of the couch.

Her shoes were tucked beneath the coffee table, her hair was down, and she’d pulled the blanket from the back of the couch over her legs.

She looked up when I entered.

“Took you long enough.”

“Miss me?”

“Terribly.”

I sat beside her.

She immediately lifted the blanket so I could get underneath it.

I stretched my legs out and grabbed the remote.

“What are we watching?”

“I picked three options.”

“Of course you did.”

She held up her phone.

“One romantic comedy, one thriller, and one documentary.”

“About?”

“An art theft.”

I looked at her.

“You want to watch a documentary about stolen paintings?”

“It’s apparently really interesting.”

“According to who?”

“People with taste.”

“Ouch.”

She smiled.

“I’m kidding. Mostly.”

I studied the options.

“Let’s do the thriller.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

She put her phone down and settled against me while I searched for the movie.

I didn’t think about the fact that her thigh rested against mine.

Or that her shoulder fit comfortably beneath my arm.

At least, I tried not to.

After three years, I should’ve been used to it.

In some ways, I was.

There was nothing awkward about being close to Shawna. We hugged, shared blankets, occasionally fell asleep in the same bed after late nights, and had been doing it long enough that neither of us thought much about the practical side of it.

But there was a difference between being comfortable with someone and being unaffected by them.

And I was definitely not unaffected.

“Did you call your mom back?” Shawna asked while the opening credits played.

I looked down.

“What?”

“She texted you earlier. You said you were going to call her.”

“Oh. Yeah. Forgot.”

“Chase.”

“I know.”

“You should call her tomorrow.”

“I will.”

She looked skeptical.

“Seriously.”

“Okay.”

I grabbed my phone from the coffee table and set a reminder.

“There. Happy?”

“Very.”

I showed her the screen.

She smiled.

“I’m impressed.”

“My organizational skills are legendary.”

“Your laundry’s been sitting in the dryer since Tuesday.”

“That’s unrelated.”

She laughed softly and rested her head against my shoulder.

We watched the first twenty minutes of the movie without talking much.

It was one of those thrillers where everybody behaved suspiciously, including the people who were supposedly innocent.

Shawna kept trying to guess the ending.

I kept telling her she was wrong.

Neither of us had any idea what was happening.

Eventually, she shifted and tucked her feet beneath her.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Always.”

“Are you nervous about graduating?”

I looked away from the television.

“That’s random.”

“I know. I’ve just been thinking about next year a lot.”

“Because of internships?”

“Partly.”

She adjusted the blanket.

“And because everything’s going to change. We’ve spent three years doing basically the same thing. Classes, parties, hockey games, hanging out. Then suddenly we’re supposed to know what we’re doing with our lives.”

I considered that.

“Yeah,” I admitted. “I think about it.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do.”

“You never really talk about it.”

I shrugged.

“Not much to say.”

She turned toward me.

“That’s not true.”

I looked at her.

Shawna had always been good at recognizing when I was avoiding something.

It was irritating.

Mostly because she was usually right.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess it’s weird knowing this is my last year here.”

“You’ve still got the whole season.”

“Yeah, but it’s different. Every game matters a little more. Every scout in the stands, every conversation with Coach. Everybody keeps asking what I’m doing after graduation, and I don’t exactly have an answer.”

“You want to play professionally.”

“Obviously.”

“And you’re good enough.”

“Maybe.”

She frowned.

“Chase.”

“What?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like you haven’t worked your ass off for this.”

I looked at the television, where somebody was currently running through a dark hallway for reasons that probably made sense to the screenwriter.

“Working hard doesn’t guarantee anything.”

“No,” she said. “It doesn’t. But you’re one of the best players on your team, and you’ve spent years putting yourself in a position to have a chance. That matters.”

I didn’t answer immediately.

She continued.

“And if things don’t work out exactly the way you want, you’ll figure something else out. You’re not stupid, and hockey isn’t the only thing you’re good at.”

I smiled faintly.

“High praise.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“You’ve got options, Chase. You just don’t like thinking about them because you want hockey to work.”

That was painfully accurate.

I rubbed a hand over my jaw.

“Yeah.”

She settled back against me.

“I think you’re going to be okay.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“I have excellent judgment.”

“You chose to be friends with Trevor.”

“Everybody makes mistakes.”

I laughed.

Then the room went quiet again.

I stared at the television without really seeing it.

There were things I didn’t tell Shawna.

Not many.

But enough.

She knew about the pressure I put on myself. She knew about the occasional arguments with my dad, my worries about Nina, and the fact that I was starting to realize how quickly college was ending.

She knew things about me that most people didn’t.

What she didn’t know was that when I thought about leaving Westhaven, one of the things that scared me most was leaving her.

Hockey could take me anywhere.

That was the dream.

Some team could offer me a contract in a city I’d never visited, and I’d pack my bags without hesitation.

At least, that was what I’d always assumed.

Lately, though, whenever I pictured the future, Shawna was there.

And I had no idea what to do with that.

Because she had her own plans.

She wanted to work in marketing or public relations. She talked about internships, potential jobs, and eventually moving somewhere exciting.

She wasn’t building her future around me.

Nor should she.

We were friends.

Best friends.

That was all she’d ever asked us to be.

And I had no right to expect anything different.

“Hey.”

I glanced down.

Shawna was looking at me.

“You disappeared.”

“What?”

“You got quiet.”

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Nothing interesting.”

She studied me for a moment.

Then reached up and smoothed a piece of hair away from my forehead.

“You know you can talk to me, right?”

My chest tightened.

“Yeah, Shaw. I know.”

“Good.”

She dropped her hand.

“Because I don’t want you stressing yourself out over stuff you can’t control.”

“Look who’s talking.”

She made a face.

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because my group project is genuinely going to kill me.”

I laughed.

She smiled, satisfied, and turned back toward the movie.

I watched her for another second before doing the same.

There were a hundred things I could’ve said.

That she was my favorite person.

That I didn’t know how I’d gotten so lucky to have her in my life.

That somewhere along the way, my feelings had changed, and I’d been too afraid to tell her.

Instead, I reached for the remote.

“Want me to rewind? We missed like ten minutes.”

“Yes, please.”

I rewound the movie.

Some things were easier than others.

By the time the credits rolled, Shawna was half asleep.

She’d shifted sometime during the second half of the movie, stretching out along the couch with her head resting against my chest.

One of her hands lay loosely against my stomach.

My arm was around her shoulders, and the blanket had slipped down to her waist.

I could hear Jackson moving around upstairs.

Outside, a car drove past with music playing loud enough to rattle the windows.

Otherwise, the house was quiet.

“Chase?” Shawna murmured.

“Yeah?”

“Did the husband do it?”

I smiled.

“No.”

“Who did?”

“The sister.”

She lifted her head.

“What?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s stupid.”

“You fell asleep.”

“I was resting my eyes.”

“For forty minutes.”

She frowned at the television.

“I knew it was the sister.”

“Of course you did.”

She dropped her head back against me.

A minute passed.

Then another.

I thought she’d fallen asleep again when she spoke.

“I’m glad I met you.”

I looked down.

Her eyes were closed.

“What?”

“Freshman year,” she murmured. “At that party.”

Something warm and painful moved through my chest.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I was thinking about it earlier. How weird it is that we almost didn’t meet.”

I remembered that night.

The crowded kitchen.

The sandwich I’d been making because I was starving.

Shawna standing beside the refrigerator, asking whether anybody in the house owned a clean glass.

I’d handed her one from the dishwasher.

She’d asked if it was actually clean.

I’d told her probably.

She’d laughed.

And somehow, that had been the beginning of everything.

“Pretty sure you would’ve found me eventually,” I said.

She smiled against my shirt.

“Probably.”

“I’m hard to miss.”

“Unfortunately.”

I chuckled.

She tilted her head enough to look at me.

“Seriously, though. I’m glad we’re friends.”

I swallowed.

“Me too, Shaw.”

She held my gaze for another moment.

Then smiled and settled back against me.

“Love you.”

Two words.

Nothing unusual.

We said them all the time.

After games. At the end of phone calls. When one of us was leaving for the weekend.

Shawna had never made a big deal out of it.

Neither had I.

“Love you too,” I said.

She closed her eyes.

Within minutes, her breathing slowed, and her weight settled more fully against my side.

I pulled the blanket up over her shoulders and leaned back against the couch.

I could’ve woken her.

Told her it was getting late and offered to drive her home.

She’d probably complain about being tired, gather her things, and hug me goodbye before heading out.

Instead, I stayed where I was for a little while longer.

Not because I expected anything to happen.

Nothing ever did.

That was the strange thing about loving Shawna.

Most of the time, it wasn’t particularly dramatic.

It was remembering she had a presentation on Thursday. Picking up her favorite takeout because she’d had a bad day. Saving her a seat at the diner after a game. Listening to her talk about things I didn’t always understand because they mattered to her.

It was knowing that she trusted me enough to fall asleep beside me without giving it a second thought.

And wanting, more than anything, to be worthy of that trust.

I looked down at her.

A loose strand of brown hair had fallen across her cheek.

She was completely asleep now, one hand curled lightly into the fabric of my shirt.

I rested my head against the back of the couch.

Tomorrow, we’d go back to our usual routines.

I’d have practice and class. She’d have her group project. We’d probably text throughout the day, complain about something stupid, and make plans for the weekend.

She’d be my best friend.

I’d be hers.

And I’d keep loving her quietly, the same way I had for almost two years.

Because the thought of telling her how I felt was terrifying.

But the thought of losing her was worse.

So I stayed on the couch with my arm around her, listening to the quiet sounds of the house, and let myself have another ordinary night with the girl I loved.