All in on You

Chapter Thirty-Four

It's ironic that tonight's game is meaningless, and yet this afternoon's pre-game moments mean so much to me.

Okay, so maybe labelling the game as meaningless is a slap in the face to the tens of thousands of fans who dropped a few hundred dollars to watch the Saints close out their regular season at the Maille Arena. I mean, technically, the game is worth the same two points like any other. It's just that the team—and they would never admit this out loud—values these points less, because they won't change anything. Win, lose, or tie, the Saints' fortune is sealed, and it has been for a few days now. We know who our first-round opponent is, and we know we don't have home ice advantage, based on where we've finished in the standings. The fact that the Saints will be on the road for the first two games of the best-of-seven series makes us even more grateful that their last few regular season games are at home. Skipping some of the grind associated with travel before needing to go on the road again? We'll take it any day.

But that's not the only reason why I'm grateful we're in Toronto right now. It's because I can be here, in Angelo's apartment, with him, before he heads to the arena for tonight's game.

I have my laptop open on his kitchen table—I'm jealous of how his lifestyle makes a home office unnecessary—and am trying to fill out the PDF I downloaded from the school's website.

The key word: trying.

Turns out, it's hard to remember even your most basic personal information when Angelo's lips are dragging ever so slightly across your neck. Last name? Never heard of her.

"Ang," I say, growing breathless but trying to stand strong. I have work to do, damn him.

But then he opens his mouth and adds a bit of suction to the spot beneath my ear and I think fuck it. I've remembered my home address now. It's wherever Angelo Bradford is. His hands slip beneath my shirt and press gently into my lower belly. That's my weak spot. I close my laptop and turn into him, giggling.

"I'm trying to concentrate over here." With Angelo's dancing eyes and flushed cheeks, I can't even pretend to be pissed with him. "Tonight I'm going to sneak onto the bench and tease you while you're waiting for your next shift. We'll see how you like it."

"We both know I'd like that very much."

I set myself up for that one, I know. But Angelo's playful mood only further compounds my thoughts about how the impending game just feels like a formality. He's usually more focused before games—mind you, I also don't tend to be over to distract him beforehand. It's not that Angelo doesn't care about the outcome, but he understands that no one else does. For the media, fans, and team management, it's about what they do next that matters above all regular season accolades.

"You know what I'd like very much? Finishing my degree on time."

I open my laptop again. Angelo rests his head on my shoulder—adorably, I must add—and looks at my screen.

"What are you working on?"

"It's just some paperwork. I need to fill out a progress report to ensure that I'm on track to graduate."

I despise administrative things. Can't I just send a quick Hey, things are going well email and call it quits?

I'm hitting the keys hard as I type out the course codes I've taken over these past two years when Angelo asks, "What has this form done to you?"

I let out a humorless laugh. "It's annoying the crap out of me, that's what."

Angelo doesn't say anything and yet he's saying a whole lot. It's a heavy and patient silence.