It's not quite noon, but I hang up my coat and take off my boots as quickly as possible. I don't want to waste any more time being across the room from him. Sweeping him up in a hug is too romantic and close to unnecessary, but he's the one who won't let go for a long, long time. There are no tears this time, just a giggle or two from 40something men who suddenly sound—and maybe feel—like teenagers.
"How much did you snoop?" I ask as I force myself to take a step back to look at him.
"Enough to find my old hoodie, a nice picture of a bench, and all the groceries I asked you to pick up for tomorrow."
"Nice work."
"Nice place."
"It's still not home," I say, abruptly shaking it off a moment later because we're done with that conversation. "How tired are you? And how hard would it be to drag you out of here?"
"Not hard at all, but you already know that. Where are we going?"
"New York City."
His eyes go wide. I laugh. It doesn't take us long to get bundled up. Mateo borrows one of my scarves and looks better than I ever have. On the train, I pull my beanie low, but locals usually mind their own business and most tourists would rather spot a celebrity than a hockey coach. And honestly, I don't get recognized much anymore.
I also don't miss it as often as I thought I would.
It's cold, but not quite freezing. When we arrive, there's no rain to get in the way of me watching closely as Mateo gets his first look at the city. I have to move him soon, the pace here faster that what he's used to, but the crowd means I can hold his hand and lead him through it. I'm very willing to trade my stare for the contact.
We stop for pizza because it feels like the right thing to do. I tell him stories of times I played here, including our second Cup win and some of the trouble I got into afterward. He wonders aloud about coming back when we have time to explore museums and catch a Broadway show. I agree to everything easily. Then I wonder silently about where else he'd want to go if we weren't hiding from the whole damn world.
I try to show off as many of the obvious tourist sights as I can in the afternoon we have. The Empire State Building and Grand Central and Times Square and St. Patrick's and The Plaza and Central Park. As long as he's already daydreaming of a return, I imagine bringing him back during the summer to visit Chelsea and walk the Brooklyn Bridge and spend some time on Governors Island and tuck ourselves into a corner of the New York Public Library. Webarely let go of each other, and I believe in forever all over again.
Eventually, we end up at Rockefeller Center, swept up in the Christmas of it all. It's dark, and the tree is bright, and the noise is a comfort. Then I nod toward the rink where so many people are skating while my leg aches.
"Do you want to watch them or sit down?" Mateo asks softly, his gloved hand slipping past my coat to rest at my waist.
I hate that he knows, and love that he knows. I smile more than I frown. "Watch."
We wind our way past people who don't care who we are or what we're doing. They're too busy being themselves and going everywhere. It's difficult to get a decent view—and will be until some of this crowd swaps out for others—but Mateo brushes his nose against mine and takes my breath away.
"I'll be right back."
It's probably unwise to let him go, now and always, but I'm counting on him to wander off and find his way back. Again. I shift my weight onto my good leg for a while and get lost in the around and around and around below me. That happy distraction fades into another when I think about tomorrow. Mateo and I will cook together. Or he'll be cooking while I drink and observe from a distance. But we're not leaving the house, and we're not ordering in, and we've agreed that we won't exchange gifts this year. It's fine with me because I can't think of a single thing I want more than him.
I won'treallyhave him tomorrow. But also, I've really had him for eight years.
The nudge against my shoulder is distinct, even when I'm being bumped into from every angle. I turn to find Mateo's dark eyes and gorgeous grin and an ice cream cone. A fucking ice cream cone.
"You remembered?"
He shrugs. "There's no snowstorm today, but it's pretty damncold."
"And that's a frozen lake if we squint."
"Maybe you should talk Taylor into having a 48-hour Christmas party next year, just so you can have the real thing."
"Upstate?" I chuckle, swiping my tongue over both scoops at once. "He actually brought that up this morning, just to give me shit."
"Give you shit about what?"
I take a breath or two. "About whatever secret plans I'd made for Christmas this year, while being pretty fucking clear he knew I'd made them with you."
"So, Taylor—"
"Knows at least as much as Harper, yeah," I finish.