I'd expected to have as much time with Mateo as possible, but it doesn't happen that way. With so many people asking for a chance to say hello, he and I are limited to texts we could've exchanged on any other day.
As much as I can, I shift my focus to coaching. We beat the team I played for my entire career, and I'm more emotional than what I let the world see. It's been that way since I was first propped up on skates and told to smile for the camera without fear in my eyes. We celebrate in the locker room and unwind and pack our things. When everyone else heads back to the hotel, I head home. Both Harper and Mateo had texted me after the game.
Going to Lizzie's for the night. I'll find you tomorrow before I see mom
Not sure whether you'll be able to sneak away, but I'll be outside
I take a deep breath when I step into my house and lock the front door behind me, still adjusting to the idea that I don't really live here anymore. Sure, as a player I was on the road too, but only for half of each season. It's not the same now, and I'm worried about how much time I have left before this doesn't feel like home. Tonight it feels like exactly that—almost painfully so—and I hurry upstairs to change before I find another way to remind myself of what I've leftbehind.
I'm wearing track pants and a hoodie when I get to the kitchen and make some hot apple cider. With a full thermos in my hand, I open the patio door and move to the middle of my backyard, staring at the moon while I consider going back inside. It's been months, and as much as I love what I've done in that time, every single night has hurt, too. It's been months, and I want to forget about them now.
In another minute, I'm sitting next to Mateo on the bench, his blanket across our laps. I help myself to a sip of the cider, then hand it to him. "Nice jersey. Did you wear that to the game?"
He looks down at the gift I gave him over a year ago and shakes his head. His fingertips are gentle against material used to so much worse. I catch the hint of a smile just before he combs his hair back from his face. Then he takes a long pull from the thermos without asking what’s in it and finally meets my eyes in the dark.
"I did not. Your daughter is too curious and too clever," he says. "But there were a hell of a lot of Jameson Sinclair jerseys in the crowd. More than when you were the one sitting next to me. So many people were there for you tonight."
I want to say something about that, but I save it for later. "I'm sorry I didn't get to see you before this."
"I understood you were going to be busy."
"You're a higher priority thanbusy."
"Sometimes I am," Mateo agrees. "And you're here now."
"Mmmm." I accept the thermos when he passes it back to me, glad to have something to hold. There's so much for us to talk about, but nothing we need to say, and I've never minded the quiet down here. Still, while I've mostly acclimated to the colder weather, Mateo hasn't, and there's an entire house just behind us. "Not that I don't love the way our lives change every night we're out here, but it'swarm inside. Will you come with me?"
"What about Harper?"
"She's gone for the night."
"It's pretty late."
"Don't leave."
Mateo drags the blanket away and stands slowly, but he's looking at the water when he tries to tame his hair again. "I've never been."
"To my house?" I ask, confused. Even if he's talking about my bed, he's spent the night in it before.
"On the other half of this path," he says. "I've been between here and the shore. I've been in your backyard, in your kitchen, on your couch, and in your bedroom. But from here to there—it's the missing piece."
I stand too, and reach for his jaw, turning his face toward me. "It'samissing piece, yeah. Do you think that'll be enough for tonight?"
With the wind playing with his hair and my jersey covering his body, Mateo first answers with a deep breath. Then he nods, his longing and resignation things I know well. I lead the way, though I have no doubt he could move the missing piece into place on his own. The top of the path doesn't stop at the back edge of my property, skirting the side instead, and we follow the wrought-iron fence to a gate. Most people assume it's used to access the backyard from the front of the house. They're not wrong, but tonight we approach from my long-hidden sanctuary.
Ourlong-hidden sanctuary, maybe.
We could stop when we first get inside—grab something to eat in the kitchen or make ourselves comfortable in the great room before we watch a movie—but like Mateo said, it's pretty late. At least for now, neither of us will waste time playing games. The thermos and blanket get left behind. He and I go upstairs without talking about it first, and in the middle of my bedroom, I'm the one to touchmy jersey too gently. Before the moment turns dangerous, I back away from him and offer him sweatpants. Then I lock myself in the bathroom so I don't have to watch him change from one of my things to another.
He's half in bed when I return, almost unbearably comfortable in space someone as selfish as I am shouldn't want to share.
"I told her she could call me Mateo."
I cock my head. "Harper?"
"Yeah. Instead of Mr. Z—or Coach, I guess. Now that she's graduated, and if we're—I don't know. It just felt strange for her to be formal with me while we sat there and watched you."
"Watched the game, you mean."