Falling: Chapter 39

I can’t remember the last time I celebrated Valentine’s Day.

It always felt like such a stupid holiday to me. Especially when you’re single. No one wants to walk into Target to see Valentine’s Day-themed banners everywhere when you’ve just been broken up with. No one wants their timeline to be flooded with pictures of people in love when their idea of being in a relationship is physically repulsive.

Well, I used to think it was a stupid holiday. Now, I think the gods have blessed me with the best girlfriend in the world, who is currently sprawled out on my bed like she owns it. I’d have her in my bed every night if I could, but she only stayed over last night because I picked her up from her semi-final competition yesterday. I spent the entire time during the competition on the literal edge of my seat, watching her glide and turn on the ice. I truly don’t think I’ve seen anything more beautiful. She’s worked her ass off for these competitions, and she competes in them like it’s no big deal, coming out on top with flying colors because she’s just that fucking good.

Wren’s lying like a starfish on her stomach in her underwear and a tank top. She passed out the second we got in last night, and I ’m almost too afraid to wake her. I bet she’s exhausted from the competition, but it’s almost eleven and I’m afraid she might not function if she doesn’t wake up before twelve.

I set the breakfast tray down on my bedside table, smiling at the concoction I made. I did have to take some pointers from Evan, who scolded me in the kitchen as I prepared some pancakes, sausages, and eggs for Wren’s breakfast-in-bed surprise. The pancakes don’t look as heart-shaped as I had hoped, but they’re something. I’m new to the whole boyfriend thing, but I think breakfast in bed and some hand-picked flowers are a good start.

Did my neighbor turn on their sprinklers when I picked daisies from his garden? Yes. Yes, he did.

Did I regret it? Not one bit.

Leaning forward, I poke Wren in the cheek. “Wren, baby,” I say softly, stroking my thumb against her cheek to wake her. I don’t know what it is, but watching her sleep makes me feel weird. Overwhelmed, almost. I just keep staring at her, and it’s hard to believe that she’s real.

“What?” she grumbles, shoving her pretty face into my bed sheets.

“Are you awake?”

“What do you think?”

I laugh, pushing on her shoulder until she turns around, lying flat on her back. She opens one eye, peeking at me, and I smile at her. She closes her eyes again, but she twists her mouth to the side like she’s trying not to smile back.

She drops her arm over her face, clearly trying to hide herself from me. “Hi?”

I grin. “Hi.”

She peeks at me through her fingers. “Stop watching me sleep, you weirdo.”

“Then stop sleeping,” I say, dragging her arm from her face, and she frowns at me. I glance at my bedside table and then back at her . Her eyes widen in shock, and I press a kiss to her cheek. “Happy Valentine’s, sweet girl.”

“Oh my god,” she whispers, looking at the breakfast, then at the flowers, and then back at me. Her expression is priceless. “Miles, this is— I didn’t— It’s the fourteenth. Oh my god, it’s the fourteenth.”

I laugh, throwing my head back. “I’m glad you know what day it is.”

She frowns. “I didn’t know we were doing Valentines. I didn’t get you anything.”

I shrug. “You’ve been busy. It’s okay.”

She shakes her head violently. “No. It’s not okay. You’re my fa— real sort-of boyfriend and I⁠—”

I wink at her. “Nice save.”

“I didn’t get you anything,” she whispers, her shoulders dropping. I press a kiss to the corner of her mouth because I know she hates kissing me before she’s brushed her teeth.

“Just consider it a congratulations for winning yesterday and a pre-celebration for when you win the whole damn thing,” I say, shrugging.

“These are heart-shaped pancakes,” she argues, pointing to her breakfast.

“You really think they’re heart-shaped?”

“No, but I don’t want you to feel bad.”

“Look, I don’t want to make you feel like you have to be all lovey-dovey and coupley because it’s the fourteenth,” I say, even though I know that’s not what I want. I want to do all the embarrassing and cringey couple things with her just because we can.

“No, this is great. We can celebrate it as long as you let me get you a gift too,” she says.

“Deal.”

I should have known that when Wren meant she was getting a gift for me, she was talking more about getting a gift for herself. I knew taking her to an actual bookstore would be a good idea since I never got to actually buy her books on our first date, but I didn’t expect to be roped into buying every new rom-com that’s on sale and letting Wren pick one out specifically for me.

“Oooh, this one’s about a professional hockey player and his kid’s nanny,” she says, picking up a book and showing it to me. She flashes me the title for a second before turning it around to read the blurb and then just shoves it into the basket.

“What makes you think I’d enjoy that?” I ask as we continue walking through the shelves.

She just points at my outfit. “You. Hockey. The two things kind of go together,” she says before turning back around. “Besides, it would be good to see where your future might take you in the fictional world of the NHL.”

I grin. “Do you think I’m going to make it to the pros?”

“Miles, have you seen your stats? I only had a glimpse when I was stalking you, and I don’t know how you don’t make a bigger deal out of it. You definitely have bragging rights. You’re a really fucking good player, and I have no idea how you haven’t got signed on to anyone yet,” Wren says, shaking her head.

Honestly, I have no clue either.

The reality is my odds aren’t great.

I’ve got the stats to back it up, sure. So far, this season, I’m averaging 1.5 points per game, leading the team in assists, and my faceoff percentage is sitting at a solid 57 percent. But college hockey isn’t the NHL. There are over 4,000 NCAA hockey players, and only about 300 of us get drafted each year. Of those, an even smaller percentage make it to actually play in the NHL. Most of us end up in the minors, grinding it out in the AHL or overseas.

Even if you’re good, it’s not just about stats. It’s about timing , luck, and being in the right place at the right time. And then there’s the draft. The NHL draft is a beast of its own. You’ve got scouts watching your every move, analyzing your every shift. They’re looking for the total package—skill, work ethic, potential, and a bit of that X-factor.

Recently, I haven’t been giving anyone a reason to prove that I’m anything special, but I have enough confidence in myself and my skill that I’ll be able to pull something off. I’ve worked way too fucking hard to give up now.

“Yeah, maybe,” I say to Wren, slinging my arm over her shoulder and trying to seem more confident than I feel. “Even if I don’t, I’ll still have hockey in one way or another. And I’ll have you. I think I’ll live.”

I know saying that is suggesting that we’ll be together for years from now, but I mean it. In some way, I can see us going to hockey games together and going book shopping just for Wren to force-feed me a romance novel I don’t want to read.

I sway us to the side. “What about you?”

“What about me? I’ll be an Olympian before I’m twenty-five,” she says easily.

“Someone’s cocky.”

She pins me with a look. “Confident.”

“You could be competing for Team USA right now if you wanted,” I say. She shrugs, and I narrow my eyes at her.

She sighs, her green eyes sparkling. “I think I’ve just stopped waiting for something magical to happen for some random day when a scout is going to find me and suddenly see the potential in me. Because, like you, the chances are slim, and I’m not delusional enough to think that just because I’m close to winning this year’s championship that guarantees me entrance to the next Olympics.” She takes in a deep breath, shaking her head as if to reorganize her thoughts. “I just… I just work so hard, you know? And I just think that the more I keep working, the more it’ll pay off. And the more times that I get looked over for opportun ities, it’s just a better story to tell. And then people will realize I was right under their nose the entire time, and then I’ll have this great success story. Tell you the best part?”

“What?”

“Even if I don’t make it to the Olympics, every single moment I’ve had throughout my skating career will be worth it because I love what I do. If I get to skate for fun or compete and still write my silly books on the side, I’ll be happy.”

The smile she gives me now is pure bliss. She seems so sure of herself. So confident in every single thing that she does. What she’s saying is realistic, and I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who is so aware of both their potential and the realities of how it could play out.

“Do you think you’ll publish your books?” I ask.

She shrugs, running her finger against the spine of the book in her hands. “Trust me, I’d love to see my name on the spine of one of these books in the store, but sometimes, I just want to keep all my work to myself. Like, hoard it and just keep it hidden from the world so no one can ruin it for me. When I have a story I really want to tell, like Gigi did, then maybe I’ll consider it.”

“Has anyone ever told you how brilliant you are?” I say in complete and utter disbelief of the woman in front of me. Her cheeks flush, and she brushes her hair out of her face.

She gives me a coy smile. “Once or twice.”

I shake my head. “I’m being serious, Wren. I want to live inside your brain.”

She scoffs. “Oh, no, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“No, seriously,” she says, lowering her voice as if she doesn’t want anyone to hear. “There’s very terrible thoughts up in here. It’s just straight-up doom and gloom and self-deprecation with a sprinkle of delusion.”

“I’m sure there’s other things going on in there,” I say, laughing. She bl inks at me. “There must be something else that you think about.”

She steps closer, looking up at me with a smile. “Hm. There’s one other thing.”

I swallow when that fucking dimple pops out. “What is it?”

“You.”

If it’s possible for a person’s heart to fall right out of their chest, that’s exactly what just happened to me. The thing about Wren is that she doesn’t notice how important she is to everyone else in her life. She doesn’t know that just being around her makes me feel better. She makes me feel like I can breathe again after years of holding my breath. If I could erase every person from her life that has made her feel unimportant, I’d do it in an instant. I think I’d do anything for this girl.

Of course, I don’t know how to say that to her while she looks up at me, so I just lean down and kiss her and pray she lets me continue to prove to her that I’m the kind of person that deserves her.