I lift her, spinning us in a circle that makes her laugh, the sound drawing curious glances from students passing by. When I set her down, I keep my arms around her waist, unwilling to break contact.
"I haven't decided anything yet," I clarify, needing her to understand this isn't settled. "I could still stay another year, finish my degree, play my senior season."
Her expression turns serious, those perceptive eyes studying my face. "What do you want to do?"
It's the right question—not what she wants, not what would be easier for us, but what I want. Another reason why this woman continues to surprise me in the best possible ways.
"I don't know yet," I admit. "But I want you to be part of the decision-making process. Whatever happens affects both of us now."
Something softens in her gaze, a vulnerability that matches the one I'm still learning to show her. "I want you to do what’s best for you, James. But we can talk, and we'll figure it out," she says, the simple statement carrying more weight than elaborate promises.
"Together," I agree, bending to kiss her.
She meets me halfway, her lips soft and certain against mine. The kiss deepens, neither of us caring that we're in the middle of the quad, visible to anyone passing by. Let them look. Let them see. I want the whole campus to know that Hannah Porter—brilliant, beautiful, unexpected Hannah—is mine.
When we finally break apart, both slightly breathless, I rest my forehead against hers. "I should probably mention that I officially told Coach you're my girlfriend," I murmur, enjoying the blush that spreads across her cheeks.
"Did you now?" she asks, trying and failing to look disapproving. "Making announcements without consulting me?"
"Would you prefer I use a different term? Partner? Significant other? The woman who accidentally slept with me and then decided to keep me around?"
She swats my arm, but she's laughing. "Girlfriend works just fine, thank you."
"Good, because I like the sound of it." I capture her hand, bringing it to my lips for a quick kiss. "Hannah Porter, girlfriend of James Sanderson Connolly. Has a nice ring to it."
"Better than 'Hannah Porter, the girl who mistook her boyfriend's brother for her boyfriend,'" she says dryly.
I wince dramatically. "We're never living that down, are we?"
"Probably not," she admits, squeezing my hand. "But I'm pretty okay with how things turned out."
As we walk away from the fountain, her hand in mine, the afternoon sun warm on our faces, I feel a weight lift from my shoulders that I hadn't fully acknowledged was there. Whatever comes next—whether I stay or go, whether hockey leads me to Toronto or Carolina or somewhere else entirely—I'm facing it with Hannah beside me.
It's not how I expected this season to end. It's not the path I would have chosen if someone had laid out the options in advance. But standing here now, with Hannah smiling up at me like I'm something worth choosing despite all the complications, I wouldn't change a single fucking thing.
Sometimes life's best prizes come disguised as its worst mistakes. Sometimes perfect moments emerge from imperfect circumstances. And sometimes, when you least expect it, you find exactly what you need in the last place you thought to look.
I pull Hannah closer, stealing another kiss before we continue across the quad, and silently thank whatever twist of fate brought us together—messy, backward, and absolutely perfect.
