Page 55 of Playing Her Game

I run my fingers through her hair, listening.

“I don't want to see it broken apart and sold off to the highest bidder. I don't want someone looking at our fields and calculating how many data centers they could squeeze onto them, or deciding the trees are worth more cut down than standing. I know the world changes. I know land costs money to maintain, and sentiment doesn't pay the bills. But there has to be a way to preserve something without turning it into a museum piece or letting someone destroy it because they can make more money another way.”

Her voice is firmer now. This isn't some passing concern. She has thought about it, probably more than she's willing to admit.

“I want it to remain productive. Cared for. I want the people who work it to be treated well. I want it to mean something beyond what it's worth on paper. Maybe that means finding ways to protect it legally, or changing how it's managed, or building something that can support itself without sacrificing what makes it special. I don't know yet. But I want to be the one making those decisions, rather than letting someone else make them for me.”

“And thirty years from now?”

“Hopefully, I've figured out how to do all of that without making myself miserable in the process.” She smiles faintly. “I'd like to think I've done something worthwhile. That I've seen enough of the world to understand it a little better, that I've helped people where I could, and that I've kept the land intact for whoever comes after me.”

“Whoever comes after you?”

“It’s just me and someone has to think about what happens next. I have to be sure I know whoever I leave it to would protect it.” She pauses, her gaze dropping to where my hand rests against her waist. “I don't know what my future looks like in that respect, so I'm not going to pretend I have an answer. But I'd want them to understand that what they inherit comes with responsibilities. You don't get to take the beautiful parts and ignore everything that comes with them.”

I nod, thinking about what she said, but she isn't finished.

“And seventy years from now, assuming I get that long, I want to look back and know I actually lived.” She looks up at me again, and there's a small, almost self-conscious smile on her face. “That's probably not as exciting as your house full of children, and dogs, and the adventures you’ll share.”

“You forgot the chickens. They'll be entertaining little bastards.”

She laughs, resting her forehead against my chest.

I press my lips to her hair, considering that. She talks about the land as if it's a living thing she's been entrusted with, something that deserves more than a signature on a deed. I know Aunt Larysa understands that kind of responsibility, and me, I’m just grinding on the ice to make sure there’s always a place to go when you need it. My parents gave me a life I never would have had otherwise, and everything I've done since has been to show them I am grateful.

“Sounds like you've got a plan, fancy.”

“Pieces of one.” Her voice softens. “I'm still figuring out the rest.”

“That's all right. You've got a lifetime.”

She doesn't answer, and when I look down, she's watching me with an expression I can't quite read. There's something behind it, something she's keeping to herself, but I don't ask. She's told me more than I expected tonight, and I'm not going to turn that into another question she has to answer.

The quiet is interrupted by not just one, but a chain of clucks, yes, clucks, the sound a chicken makes.

“If I just imagined those things into reality, I’m thinking you better close your eyes so you don’t see⁠—”

“Relax, it’s my phone,” she laughs, getting up. “Don’t worry, your future wife isn’t going to appear and go ballistic because her hockey hottie has a puck bunny on the side.”

“My future wife would know better,” I say, watching her round ass sashay to the kitchen and grab her phone off the counter where I just watched my future wife touch the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen. “Cheating is not in my playbook.”

“You’ve never cheated?” she asks.

“Never have, never will. You?”

“I mean, if you consider I was fake engaged to my best friend and we had a don’t ask, don’t tell policy with an understanding if we did ever get married, we’d be non-sexual.”

“Jesus.” I shake my head.

She crosses her arms. “How many long-term relationships have you had?”

“What do you consider long-term?” I ask.

“A year?”

“None.”

“Six months?” She counters.