Page 23 of Checking It Twice
“Bad enough.” Maddie’s expression grows serious. “She wasn’t wrong for leaving—they weren’t right for each other; anyone could see that. But the way she did it, with Luke... it broke something in him.”
I think about the careful way Mitch mentioned Hannah in the car, the controlled way he talked about her and his own feelings. The layers of hurt he keeps hidden behind that easy charm.
“He doesn’t talk about it much,” I say.
“He wouldn’t. Mitchell’s always been the one who takes care of everyone else. Probably why he fell so hard for you.”
“What do you mean?”
Maddie grins. “You take care of him back. I saw the way you handled Blake today at the tree farm. And just now, when Mom was interrogating you about your family—you didn’t make excuses or try to prettify it. You were just honest. That’s exactly what he needs.”
Heat creeps up my neck. If only she knew how much of this was performance, how carefully constructed this whole weekend is—practically curated from A to Z.
“I should probably check on him,” I say, needing to escape before I say something I’ll regret.
“Clare?” Maddie catches my arm as I start to leave. “Whatever happened before with other hockey players—Mitchell’s not that guy. He’s one of the good ones.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
I find Mitch in the hallway, carrying our bags upstairs. He’s taken off his sweater, leaving him in just a dark T-shirt that clings to his shoulders in ways that should be illegal.
“Mom’s got us set up in my old room,” he says, avoiding my eyes. “I can sleep on the couch if you’re not comfortable—”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “We’re supposed to be dating. Separate beds would be weird.”
He nods, but there’s tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before. “Right. For the performance.”
We reach the top of the stairs, and he leads me down a hallway lined with family photos, hockey trophies, and report cards pinned to a large board with thumbtacks. The archaeological evidence of a childhood filled with love and attention.
His room is exactly what I expected—twin bed, hockey posters, a desk covered with trophies and medals. It’s frozen in time from when he left for college, like a shrine to the boy he used to be.
Did I mention there’s only one bed?
A very small bed.
“Fuck,” Mitch mutters, setting our bags down. “I forgot how tiny this thing was.”
I stare at the narrow mattress that probably seemed spacious when he was younger. Now, with six-foot-three of professional athlete trying to figure out sleeping arrangements, it looks like a child’s bed.
“You know what?” he says, running a hand through his hair. “The couch is looking better and better.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We can share.”
The words slip out before I can think them through. Mitch goes very still.
“Clare—”
“We’re adults,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “It’s just sleeping.”
He looks at me for a long moment, and I can practically see him weighing options, calculating risks.
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
I’m not sure at all, but the alternative is him sleeping on a couch and his family asking questions we can’t answer.
“I should...” He gestures vaguely toward his bag. “I need to change.”
