“But I’ve seen what it can be,” I whisper. “When people come up with a wrongful version of your story and run with it. They don’t care if it’s true. They only want something to whisper about over coffee or post about as if they know you.”
“And I’ve lived it more than once. And I’m still here. Still fighting for a future with you that finally feels mine.”
I hesitate to share my thoughts, even if he’ll understand them. “I really don’t want people talking about me. About you. Aboutus. Not when they find out about the pregnancy.”
His reply comes without hesitation. “Let them talk, Haisley.”
“What?”
“Let them. Nothing else but us matters in this relationship.”
I open my mouth, but the argument stalls on my tongue. “But?—“
“No.” He shakes his head, his jaw tightening. “Listen carefully. People will talk. They’ll gossip, assuming whatever they want. That’s what they do. But the only thing that matters is us and how we know the truth. That’s what I have learned from my past experiences with the press and the public. I panic about it every so often myself, but the facts don’t change.”
“True,” I admit softly.
“I’m still giving this thing between us my all. Because you and our baby deserve that.”
My chest tightens, the familiar doubts creeping back in. “But what if?—”
“No what ifs, Haisley,” he interrupts gently but firmly, leaving no room for argument. “Remember when I told you that I used to live in the what ifs. I let them control too much. I won’t do that again and you won’t either. We’re in this together. No matter what they say. No matter what happens.”
His hand rests on the table, open and waiting. When I placemine in his, he curls his fingers around mine like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
His thumb glides over the ring on my finger, and he asks, “Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Then let them talk.”
29
TOOK ME LONG ENOUGH
RASMUS
The rink is silent except for the skates cutting through the ice. The comforting sound mixes with our heavy breathing as we push and battle, neither of us willing to let the other win. Everyone else has left, but we weren’t ready to call it a day. It started with lazy shots at the net after a light practice. Then Åkerman challenged me to a one-on-one like he often did back in college, and like hell I was going to back down.
Using what little strength I have left, I skate past him, my body screaming in protest. I’ll be so sore tomorrow. Exhaustion creeps in, but I don’t care. I spot my opening and go for it?—
And then I don’t. Because fucking Åkerman hip-checks me.
Not braced for impact, I hit the ice, sprawling onto my back. The cold seeps in through my gear and my chest rises and falls with each breath. I move my limbs, checking for injuries. Nothing feels broken, so when I’ve caught my breath, I push myself up slowly.
Åkerman doesn’t say anything as he starts another play as if he didn’t send me flying. When he makes contact again, I drop mystick and gloves, and grab a fistful of his jersey, yanking him toward me.
He barely has time to react, other than let go of his stick, before I pounce. My fist is now curled around his collar, pulling him in, my other hand ready to swing.
For a split second, I actually want to hit him. He must sense it, as his eyes narrow and his body tenses, bracing for my next move.
As I look deep into the eyes of a man who used to be my closest friend, my brother in everything but blood, something inside me cracks wide open.
I don’t want to do this.
I don’t want to fight him.
I don’t want to keep carrying this resentment around. I’ve worn the anger toward him as armor, but it’s paper-thin now, tearing under the weight of everything we never said.
