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Thursday, May 6, 2032
El Segundo, California
Vincent Hanna is the last man out of the locker room, a fact he only registers as he’s pulling the door shut behind him. A quick glance at his watch tells him today has officially become tomorrow; the late hour should spur him out of the practice facility, but he’s in no hurry. He figures Neil, who said he was going home hours ago, is probably still awake. His smile widens as he pictures Neil on the couch watching tape, his expression totally focused, maybe even wearing one of Vincent’s bigger hoodies. Vincent checks his watch again. Their apartment’s only forty-five minutes away; at this hour, he can probably make it closer to thirty.
He bends slightly to unzip his duffel bag and grab his water bottle, ignoring the tiny twinge in his knees. The instant his fingers grip the plastic, a bolt of pain shoots through his knuckles. He winces, then instinctively looks around to make sure nobody saw it. Which makes no sense, given how empty the entire building is, but he’s never at his most logical past midnight.
“Fuck,” Vincent murmurs, tentatively flexing his hand. “I’m too old for this shit.”
And too young to be talking to myself, he thinks. He chalks it up to being alone for the past few hours, pummeling the gym’s boxing bag to vent the frustrations of last night’s playoff defeat. Bare-knuckled, too, because he’d selfishly wanted to really feel it, and there were no younger guys around to silently accuse him of being a poor role model. He’d spent a long time in the locker room shower afterwards, luxuriating in the warm spray and the guilty pleasure-pain of his own sore body. Neil will call him an idiot when he finds out, and he will be right, but he’ll also understand. Vincent flexes his hand again. He curls his fingers into a tight fist, his nails digging into his palm. He squirts more water into his mouth with his other hand, grabs his duffel, and keeps moving.
A little over twenty-four hours ago, the Kings had taken a 5-1 beating to the Kraken, a spectacular collapse that had commentators and fans alike wondering how this Kings team made the playoffs in the first place. Privately, Vincent had wondered the same. The Kraken now lead the series 2-1 and are well-poised to take it in 5. More concerning to Vincent, though, is his own state of affairs. The team’s not even halfway through Round 2, and exhaustion is already pulling at him like quicksand, reminding him this gets harder every year and he’s not getting any younger. His reflection appears in the various plaques and photos lining the walls, his eye bags darker than they were in second rounds of playoff series past. It’s been seven years since the first Cup, five years since the second. It feels longer.
The ache in his knuckles has become a dull throb by the time he enters the rink and realizes he is not, in fact, the last one out. He hears it before he sees it— the scrape of a single pair of skates, the heavy breathing of prolonged exertion, the clatter of the puck falling to the ice after hitting the back of the net. Vincent shakes his head in disbelief, his surprise rapidly becoming I shoulda known. Of course Neil’s still here long after everyone else has left, repeating the same drills over and over again like a penitent reciting Hail Marys. And there is, to Vincent’s mind, something mournfully religious about the scene. Only one row of overheads is on, right above the net Neil’s shooting into. Vincent sees profundity in the singular illuminated strip of white, gleaming like a licked tooth. He sees it in the perfect stillness of the rest of the rink, the walls and boards and bleachers draped in shadow. He sees it in the lonely man of faith skating in and out of darkness; five Our Fathers and five full-speed coast-to-coast laps. Every priest and pro athlete worth his salt knows that faith must be joined by good works. Trailing in a second round playoff series means Neil’s faith might well be shaky, which in turn means all he has to fall back on is the work.
Vincent walks around the boards until he spots Neil’s bag on one of the benches. He drops his own duffel next to it, then lowers himself onto the bench. As his eyes adjust, he realizes Neil’s skating a grueling drill, though he doesn’t recognize the shooting routine he’s tacked onto it. When the sound of the puck striking the goalpost rings out for the third time in under a minute, he starts to think Neil must be hitting the post on purpose. Which makes no sense, unless—
“Neil!”
Vincent doesn’t see him startle, but he figures it from the loud thwack! of the puck slamming into the boards behind the net. Neil turns slowly, trying to ascertain his location for a few seconds before his eyes lock onto him. Vincent watches Neil skate towards him. He’s in his practice gear, complete with a helmet even though he’s the only person on the ice and clearly has been for some time. A few strands of hair poke out from under it, sticking to his sweaty forehead. His cheeks are flushed. Vincent notices that the cut under Neil’s left eye— acquired during the last game of the regular season— is healing nicely. He’s ready for the familiar pang of affection that hits him whenever he looks at Neil, but it hits him just the same as Neil skates right up to the boards and says:
“You said you were going home.”
Vincent shrugs. He’d told Neil he was going home after just a few more minutes in the gym, Neil told him he was going home after just a few more minutes on the ice, and here they both are.
“I was in the gym,” Vincent reports. “Lost track of time.”
“Lifting?”
“Boxing.”
Neil removes his gloves and rests them on the door to the bench, now closed. He holds out one hand, his stick secure in the crook of his elbow. When Vincent places his hand in Neil’s palm, Neil lifts it, inspecting. Neil’s skin is warm, his palm sweaty. Vincent glances down to see the just barely visible reddish discoloration on his own knuckles. He glances up in time to see Neil frown.
“You didn’t wrap ‘em?” Neil asks.
He sounds genuinely concerned. Vincent huffs indignantly, fighting the urge to smile.
“That’s rich, coming from the guy skating suicides at midnight,” Vincent parries. “What, you trying to tear something before the Kraken have the chance to tear it for you?”
He thinks he sees irritation flicker across Neil’s face, but he’s not sure. Lit only from behind, the lines of Neil’s face are severe. Vincent waits as patiently as he can, even though he’d love to tell him to pack up right now so they can go home, because Neil’s a stubborn sonofabitch and Vincent’s learned gentle coaxing is sometimes the only way.
“I am not—” Neil pauses, glances away, visibly calms himself— “I am being careful.”
Vincent resists the urge to roll his eyes. He can’t help but be awestruck by this man, ruefully impressed by his ironclad will and his uncanny ability to make even his most dangerous idiosyncrasies seem reasonable. Like how he’ll try to spin tonight’s masochism on just needing more practice, Vincent thinks, struck by a sudden stab of guilt for not thinking to check the rink, or at least send a text. He should’ve heard the repeated ringing-out of puck-on-goalposts and recognized it as Neil forcing the disappointment of a missed shot to reverberate through him. Neil is not superstitious the way most NHL players are, but he’s unfailingly rigid in his self-discipline, and functionally, Vincent knows, there is very little difference.
“Why didn’t you go home earlier?” Vincent asks. “When you said you would.”
Neil shrugs. Vincent notices how tired he looks. Not just a few recent nights of too little sleep, but a deeper, more defeated sort of tiredness, visible in the slump of his shoulders and the hard set of his jaw. Neil would never admit it, but Vincent suspects the series is wearing on him, too, in ways the playoffs didn’t used to.
“More work to do.”
They’re both speaking quietly, even though they don’t have to. It would feel wrong to speak any louder, like shattering the rink’s heavy hush would shatter the windows and the ice along with it.
“I know I’m not supposed to box without tape,” Vincent says. “I know I’ll regret it tomorrow morning. I do it anyway. I have to.”
Neil shifts his weight. The look in his eyes is complicated, almost pained. Vincent flexes his hands in his pockets. It hurts; he forces himself to fully experience the discomfort. He watches Neil’s grip tighten on his stick, a seemingly-unconscious bit of mirroring that makes Vincent’s chest feel tight.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Neil says.
“And I wish you wouldn’t do this.”
“Practice?”
“Punish yourself for something that wasn’t your fault.”
“Watch the lowlights,” Neil replies, his voice clipped. “I was sloppy.”
Vincent leans forward, removing his hands from his pockets to grip the boards even though it sends spasms of pain through his knuckles. Neil draws back instinctively, his thumb repeatedly rubbing the line where his grip tape meets his stick’s smooth carbon fiber the way a small child might clutch a comfort blanket. The sweat on his face and neck has mostly dried, which cannot be pleasant, but he doesn’t show it. He’s totally focused on Vincent, his stare piercing as he waits for Vincent to corral his thoughts into a reply.
“We were all sloppy!” Vincent exclaims. “I’m not arguing that! I’m just asking you to ask yourself, seriously ask yourself, is what you’re doing actually helpful to anybody? Or does it just make you feel better because it makes you feel bad and you feel like you should feel bad?”
Neil glances over his shoulder at the net like he’d much rather be firing pucks into the crossbar until his ears ring and his head aches. Vincent’s fully prepared for him to skate off and leave him to sit on the bench while they both wait to see whose stubbornness will prevail. But he doesn’t. Neil stays right where he is, one hand on his stick and the other hanging limply at his side.
“Neil,” Vincent tries, “there will be other games. There will be other runs.”
And then Neil’s face does something very strange, contorting into an expression unlike any Vincent’s ever seen. Vincent, an expert in torturing himself with worst-case scenarios, feels it in his gut like the blunt impact of a d-man’s lowered shoulder. He knows what Neil’s going to say even before he shakes his head and says—
“No.”
“No what?” Vincent asks, before his reeling brain can stop his mouth from opening.
“There won’t be other runs,” Neil says simply. “This is it.”
The world seems to close in. Vincent is suddenly acutely aware of the two of them standing alone, their breathing audible in the otherwise-empty rink, casting twin silhouettes slantwise from the baleful fluorescents overhead. His brain is firing on all cylinders, sparking desperately like it’s just been stuck with a cattle prod. Rationality and knee-jerk emotion spar viciously in his head; the knowledge that thirty-five is not an unreasonable retirement age bludgeoned by the completely irrational desire to play hockey with this man forever.
“Oh,” Vincent quietly replies, dumbstruck. “How long…?”
“I decided when we made the playoffs,” Neil replies, his voice equally soft. “But I’ve been thinking about it for longer.”
Vincent thinks back to that night, trying not to let his disorientation show. The night they’d made the playoffs, he hadn’t noticed anything in Neil’s demeanor indicating such a monumental decision was being made, which he knows means Neil was working hard to hide it. Vincent could kick himself for not paying enough attention to see through the facade, for ignoring Neil’s face in order to better curl into his side, for choosing to bask in the sweetness of another chance to chase greatness with the love of his life instead of checking whether he felt the same. Neil had been quiet on the drive home, Vincent remembers, but he’d just figured he was tired and taking his usual time to process yet another championship quest.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Vincent asks.
It comes out plaintive, dangerously close to whiny. He can’t help it. From the way Neil glances at his skates, then towards the net, then to a spot somewhere over Vincent’s left shoulder, Vincent gathers it’s a question he’s asked himself many times.
“I didn’t want it to be a distraction.”
Vincent exhales forcefully, his lips splitting in an incredulous grin. He probably really believes it, too, he thinks. Neil is still having trouble meeting his eyes. Vincent isn’t going to call him on it. As unmoored as he feels, he imagines it must be magnitudes worse for Neil.
“A distraction,” Vincent repeats. “You’ve been planning the end of your career all this time, and you didn’t tell me because you didn’t want it to be a distraction. I don’t know whether to be amazed or insulted or what. A distraction. Are you kidding me?”
“Does it look as if I am kidding you.”
“Oh, come on! This is a big fucking deal, Neil! You’re talking about the rest of your life! The rest of our lives!”
“I know,” Neil says simply.
Vincent feels the wind go out of his sails. It’s impossible as ever for him to be angry with Neil. He’s sufficiently self-aware to know he was never really angry, just hurt and confused and scared stiff by a disclosure he hadn’t expected in the slightest.
“Sorry,” Vincent replies, letting loose a short, semi-hysterical sound somewhere adjacent to a laugh. “Sorry, it’s just— fuck, I don’t know. I don’t know.”
Neil nods. His expression remains stony, but Vincent detects emotion simmering under the surface, only evidenced by the occasional flash of Neil’s eyes. Vincent’s still struggling to breathe under the crushing reality of this is the last season we play together when Neil asks:
“You remember what you said to me on the airplane, the first time we really talked?”
Vincent’s eyebrows knit in confusion. Of course he remembers that fateful flight, the conversation that changed everything, but he doesn’t want to guess. Or, more honestly, he doesn’t want to guess incorrectly.
“Tell me.”
“‘All I am is what I’m going after,’” Neil says. “You were talking about your personal life. Or lack thereof. I understood what you meant. You have to put the Cup before everything if you want to win it— I believed that. I lived that. But it’s different now.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes, you do.”
Fuck, Vincent thinks, because he does. It almost takes his breath away: Neil McCauley, known as a hockey robot since his first season in the league, would give up hockey for him. Is currently choosing to give up hockey for him. He swallows hard, willing himself to stay upright. He forces himself to meet Neil’s gaze. There’s sadness in his warm brown eyes, but a plea, too. Neil needs him to understand, Vincent realizes. Needs his understanding and his support. Vincent wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of Neil thinking he might deny him, but doesn’t, because the fact that Neil even once thought such a thing was possible is not funny at all.
“I get it,” Vincent tells him. “I do, baby, I really do. And you know I’m behind you one hundred percent no matter what you wanna do, always will be. But you still got a year on your contract. You’re still playing good hockey. We’re a playoff team, probably will be for at least the next two seasons. You don’t wanna wait?”
Neil inhales through his nose, his lips twitching ever-so-slightly as he thinks. It evokes a terrible fondness in Vincent, just one of a million tiny little things Neil does to keep Vincent falling head over heels for him every day since the day they shook hands in the locker room of this very building. He watches Neil crouch to place his stick flat on the ice, no doubt trying to avoid the noisy clatter of letting it fall. When he comes back up, there’s a determined set to his mouth.
“I am thirty-five years old,” Neil says, every word measured. “I can still play good hockey, not great hockey. I can feel myself starting to slow down, making dumb fucking mistakes on the ice ‘cause I am just not as good as I used to be. I never wanted to be one of those guys who fades outta the league, minutes dropping between months on LTIR. I know I can’t play forever. I gotta decide I’m done before the league decides for me.”
It suddenly occurs to Vincent how absurd it is for them to be having this conversation like this— at this hour, in this place, Vincent in sweats and Neil in his practice gear— but it makes sense, in its own way. Vincent’s eyes roam the lit side of the rink, the larger-than-life pictures of him and his teammates. On the other side of the rink, shrouded in darkness, is a scoreboard, championship banners, rectangles with nameplates and numbers serving as abstractions of real jerseys belonging to the franchise’s titans. His name will be there, Vincent realizes. Neil McCauley will be the last player to ever wear #19 for the L.A. Kings. Vincent will see Neil’s surname and number every time he practices here without him. He does not even begin to know how the thought makes him feel.
“Now you’re not just what you’re going after,” Vincent surmises. “Or maybe, what you’re going after is no longer just a championship.”
Neil nods. Just a championship, Vincent thinks amazedly, fully aware of how ludicrous the phrase would’ve been to him seven years ago. Like the Cup is just anything. It’s still slightly ludicrous, but he understands what Neil means. Realistically, he’s known for a while that neither one of them would play professionally past the age of forty. He just hadn’t thought it would come to an end so soon. He tries not to feel bitter about it. After a few seconds’ half-hearted attempt, he admits defeat and just tries not to let Neil see how bitter he feels about it.
“After the first run,” Neil says, like he can’t stop until he’s aired every secret festering inside him. “After I moved into your apartment. That’s when I started thinking maybe there is more to it than getting my name on the Cup again.”
“Like what?” Vincent asks, almost frightened of the answer.
Neil’s longest pause yet, so still and quiet Vincent can feel his skin crawling as he waits for him to speak. After I moved into your apartment, Vincent repeats in his head, his mind scrambling, trying to run the numbers. Almost seven years ago, when they got serious, when Vincent stopped thinking of Neil as a boyfriend and started assuming they’d be spending the rest of their lives together, that’s when Neil got thinking about hanging up his skates. Vincent’s in no state to process the immensity of the realization, but it turns out it doesn’t matter, because right then, Neil opens his mouth and says—
“I thought maybe at some point you would like to get married.”
Vincent gapes at him. His hands curl over the boards, gripping tightly for fear of falling through the floor. A high-pitched whine fills his head, the metallic ping! of a puck striking the goalpost elongated and warped into TV static. He can feel his heartbeat pounding like he’s on a breakaway, threatening to crack his ribs wide open. It takes everything he has not to physically tremble from the sheer force of the joy flooding through him. So many aspects of this are unlikely, bizarre, absurd. He’s imagined Neil popping the question before, but they’ve always been idle and indulgent fantasies, corny yarns spun to kill time on long drives. Never once has he pictured this happening at one in the morning in the team’s empty practice facility. But why the fuck not? Vincent wonders wildly. It’s only logical, really, to such a degree where Vincent suddenly can’t imagine it any other way. It’s fitting, even. Perfect.
“Neil,” Vincent whispers weakly, floundering for a few excruciating seconds before managing to ask: “Are you proposing to me?”
Neil blinks, like he hadn’t realized what he was saying until he’d said it. He seems to retreat into himself, bracing like he expects Vincent to take a swing at him. Vincent’s pulse is thundering through him, stomach churning in a way not dissimilar to how he feels lining up for the first game of the season. He is completely overwhelmed by affection for this beautiful, wonderful man. For the first time, it occurs to him consciously what he’d known, deep down, all along: it doesn’t matter whether Neil retires in five years or at the end of this run or right this fucking second. All that matters is Neil staying with him, and that was already a given.
“I didn’t get you a ring, yet,” Neil mumbles. “But. Yes.”
Very much unlike him, to plunge into something like this headfirst. Very much like Vincent, to accidentally-on-purpose force him into it. Vincent reaches up with shaking fingers and undoes the clasp of Neil’s helmet. He’s careful as he removes it from his head, taking a moment to privately enjoy the erratic spikes of sweaty hair. He turns to place the helmet on the bench, a shameless excuse to recover himself before turning back to meet Neil’s eyes. He sees fear, there, fear and embarrassment and self-recrimination, but also a desperate hope and an affection so potent, Vincent’s knees threaten to give out.
“You got me two rings already,” Vincent points out, his voice still slightly shaky. “I don’t mind waiting for a third. But you gotta ask me properly.”
Neil nods, looking like he’s trying to convince himself Vincent is telling the truth and trying to gather the strength to grant his request all at once. He’s flushed, sweaty, and visibly tired. His sweat-damp practice jersey is rumpled, the fabric bunching awkwardly over one of his hips, revealing a sliver of black protective gear underneath. He’s still got a few pieces of hair stuck to his forehead. His hands are balled in loose fists at his side like he doesn’t know what to do with them when they’re not holding a hockey stick. He needs a shave. Vincent couldn’t tear his eyes away if he tried.
“Will you marry me?” Neil asks.
“Yeah,” Vincent breathes, too eager to drag the moment out even though a part of him wants to make it last forever. “God, yeah, of course I’ll marry you. It would make me the happiest fucking man who ever lived, baby, and don’t let anybody tell you otherwise. ”
Neil tosses off a shrug, his quick glance away failing to hide the rising flush on his cheeks and the slight upward curl of his lips. Vincent gives him a few seconds’ grace before launching himself over the boards and into his arms, laughing when Neil stumbles backwards under his weight. He laughs even harder when Neil leans backwards just so as his arms come up around Vincent’s lower back, holding him against his chest like he’ll never let him go. Vincent can feel Neil laughing, too, both of them trying to bring their mouths together even though they’re both too giddy to get their lips into kissing shape. When he licks into Neil’s mouth, he tastes red Gatorade, which makes him smile even wider. Neil’s lips part slightly, letting him in, and Vincent does his best to drown in him.
Vincent kisses him between grins he’s too happy to suppress, his hands rising to Neil’s cheeks. His entire body feels wondrously light, sparklers bursting in his chest as he realizes— over and over again, like he can’t make it stick because it’s just too good to be true— he’s going to spend the rest of his life with Neil. Neil kisses with equal aplomb; Vincent finds his triumphant confidence to be one hell of a turn on. He has no idea how long he spends with his legs wrapped around Neil’s waist and his elbows on Neil’s shoulder pads, breathing him in and letting Neil do the same. There’s a reverence to every kiss, like they’re both beginning to understand what exactly they’ve just gotten themselves into. Vincent can feel them drift with every shift Neil makes to accommodate his bulk, every squirm of Vincent’s in attempt to touch more of Neil.
“Holy shit,” Vincent says, closing his eyes as he rests his forehead against Neil’s. “We’re gonna get married.”
Neil hums his agreement before ducking his head to take Vincent’s lips with his own once again. His arms are secure around Vincent’s lower back. Vincent does his best to burrow into him without toppling them both, kissing the underside of Neil’s jaw and smirking when he feels Neil’s breathing stutter. He can’t help but chuckle when Neil drops his head and rests his hair against Vincent’s cheek, a slow-motion and unspeakably gentle head-butt Vincent finds hopelessly endearing. It also tells him Neil’s found a sort of happily-overwhelmed plateau, taking a moment to process the same bliss rolling through Vincent. He decides he’s got to say something now, because if he doesn’t, he’s liable to stay kissing Neil on this sheet of ice forever.
“Time to go home,” Vincent says quietly, his lips brushing Neil’s stubbled cheek. “As much as this is nice. ‘Cause it could be nicer, and we gotta get some sleep before tomorrow night.”
He doesn’t lift his head to see what he knows is Neil’s disappointed expression, but he feels him nod. He feels Neil’s chest rising and falling with every breath as he skates them back towards the bench. He’s still pressing kisses to the upturned corners of Neil’s mouth as Neil gently deposits him atop the boards. He remains in the open V of Vincent’s legs, his hands slowly caressing Vincent’s flanks. Vincent directs Neil’s hands to his hips, where Neil lets them linger for a few seconds before he slides them under his hoodie and t-shirt. Vincent gazes up at him with unconcealed adoration, kicking his heels against the boards and resisting the urge to haul Neil into yet another kiss. For a few long moments, they just stand there, catching their breath as twin grins spread over their faces. Neil’s hands gently caress Vincent’s hips. Vincent can feel them trembling slightly, but he won’t embarrass him by pointing it out. Instead, he slides his own hands over Neil’s shoulders, occasionally rubbing his thumbs up his neck.
“What do you think?” Vincent asks. “Vincent McCauley? Neil Hanna? Some kind of hyphenated situation that’ll give the jersey companies headaches?”
“Whatever you want,” Neil replies, his eyes twinkling and his lips settling in the crooked little smile Vincent’s adored ever since he first saw it, and Vincent knows he means it.
“You gonna ask Chris to be your best man?”
Neil drops his head, his shoulders shaking. It takes Vincent a second to realize he’s laughing.
“What?” Vincent demands.
“One step at a time,” Neil says, but the words are muffled by Vincent’s neck as Neil leans in and dips his head to kiss it.
Vincent lets him for a little while, floating in the familiar warmth and pressure of Neil’s lips. Neil’s hair brushes against his beard. Vincent rubs his cheek against it, Neil’s dark strands still sweat-damp and smelling of shampoo. His hands trace absentminded circles over Neil’s jersey, no intention other than feeling as much of Neil as he possibly can. When Neil finally pulls back, he doesn’t say anything, just stares at Vincent like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Vincent gets it. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Neil this happy, and he’s seen him win two Cups. He can’t help but try to conjure what Neil will look like waiting for him at the altar, devastatingly gorgeous in a tuxedo, those big brown eyes of his fixed on Vincent like he’s the only thing worth looking at in the entire world.
“So that’s it, then,” Vincent says, unable to prevent the sadness from seeping into his voice. “One last ride, and that’s it.”
“You’ll have more when I’m gone.”
“One last ride for your NHL career as a player,” Vincent amends. “Jesus, don’t make it sound like you’re gonna die, or something.”
“For my NHL career as a player,” Neil agrees. “And then we get married.”
“Talk about a fuckin’ distraction!”
Neil’s gaze drops to the ice; Vincent’s stomach sinks like a stone. He reaches for Neil’s jersey and hauls him in, ignoring the ache in his knuckles as he grips a fistful of white fabric. He only drops it when Neil’s close enough for him to reach up and cup Neil’s face with both hands, caressing his stubbled cheeks and sharp jaw like he’s trying to memorize the sensations. He can feel Neil relax under the touch. One last ride for them together on the ice, but only on the ice. Vincent’s mind is already racing at breakneck pace, contemplating possibilities that have never been open to them before. Retirement has been a dirty word since he played his first NHL game, but he thinks that if it’s just shorthand for the rest of his life with Neil, he really ought to revise his impression of the term.
“I’m kidding,” Vincent murmurs, as gently as he can. “God, baby, you think knowing this is your last playoffs is gonna do anything other than make me play the best fucking hockey I’ve ever played? You shoulda told me sooner for that reason alone!”
Neil doesn’t quite look ready for jokes, but he’s softening, Vincent can tell. He lifts Neil’s left hand to his mouth, kissing his pulse point, the center of his palm, his fingertips, the knuckle where a wedding ring will soon be. Neil’s first wedding ring, Vincent’s third. Third time’s the charm, Vincent thinks, a little wry but mostly just hopeful. He’s never been good at being a husband before, but he figures if there was ever someone who could make him good at it, it’s Neil. After all, Neil’s made him good at everything else.
“It’s okay, baby,” Vincent says, because it really is. “Now c’mon, let’s go home.”