Once I’m home, I clear my fridge out as promised and make myself a strange breakfast of protein oats, chocolate milk, and random cheese on the side, all of which are wholly inadequate foods with which to eat my feelings.
It’s unfair how goddamn easy it is to like Luke. I know I’m riding the high of a new person, but even when I take a step back and think, my brain isn’t glossing over any problems, other than the fact that I’m leaving.
I curl up on the sofa that came with the apartment and sigh. Today is going to be a long-ass day.
And it is. I end up grabbing takeout for lunch, and then I stare at the ceiling, alone with my swirling thoughts. Once my alarm goes off at six-thirty, I gather up all of my stuff, give the apartment a once-over, and place my keys on the counter.
Then I’m off. I head downstairs ten minutes early because I know that Luke would offer to park and help me with my bags. Not five minutes later, Luke pulls up and refuses to let me load anything into his car, insisting that I settle into his passenger seat.
And what’s waiting for me does me in.
He brought me a fucking sandwich.
I take a bite, and it’s the best damn sandwich I’ve ever eaten in my life. It’s stupidly good like every other thing Luke has made for me since I met him.
My eyes burn, my throat tightens, and I blame the sandwich, not Luke. Or at least I try.
During the drive, Luke somehow manages to put a positive spin on my departure, nudging the conversation toward what I missed about Sweden, what I’m excited to do when I get back, and the stats of my new team. Nothing aboutusor what happens after I walk into the terminal. I shouldn’t complain, given that Luke is doing all the heavy lifting to make sure that this is as clean of a break as we can manage.
If only it didn’t hurt this much to see him letting go in real-time.
As usual, he makes it easy to talk, and I only notice that we’ve arrived at the airport when the car comes to a stop.
And I didn’t even tell him what terminal I’m leaving from, so Luke had to have looked it up.
Maybe he does care?—
No. He can't.
Luke fishes something out of the center console. “I wanted you to have this,” he says, holding a white cardboard box in his hands. “I did some research, and I read that every year, the best hockey player in Sweden is awarded a gold puck.”
“Yup, Guldpucken.”
“I might be way out of line with this, but you’re my Swedish hockey player of the year.”
I open the box, pulling out a silver hockey puck. Turning it over, I run my fingers over the shaky engraving that Luke made of a maple leaf and my initials.
“I know hockey players are superstitious as hell, so I didn’t want to jinx it and get you a fake gold puck. Silver was the next best thing,” he says.
What the hell?
One second I think he’s cutting me loose, and then he cuts medeepby doing something sweet. Luke might have handed the puck to me with gentle, caring hands, but his parting gift still hit like a slapshot to my bruised heart.
And he shrugs like it’s no big deal. It’s ahugedeal. I can’t convince myself that he doesn’t care, not after this.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “I’m gonna miss you so much.”
“Me too. You’re a great guy, Erik.”
There’s no use dragging this out, but I can’t bring myself to leave the car yet, so I lean over and kiss him like a goddamn idiot.
His mouth accepts mine immediately and our lips brush, slow and deliberate. It isn’t deep, but my god, it still sends a rush right through me. My tongue grazes the inside of Luke’s lips with the gentlest pressure I can manage, and the sigh he lets out makes me pull back. If I keep this up, we’ll get carried away.
Neither of us says anything, so I compose myself, smooth my jacket uselessly, and purse my lips into a weak smile before leaving the car. I grab my bags and load them onto a nearby cart, pausing before turning back.
Luke rolls down the window, and I bend down to say goodbye one last time.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say. “Thanks for everything.”
