“Don't care.” I start grabbing jackets and shoes, literally tossing them at people. “Here's your stuff. Out. Go celebrate somewhere else for five minutes.”
“Are you serious right now?” Logan asks, but he's grinning. “We just won the Stanley Cup and you're kicking us out of our own locker room?”
“Yes. Out. All of you.” I grab someone's suit jacket and throw it. “You too, Cole. Captain or not, you're leaving.”
Cole catches the jacket, looking between me and Avery. Understanding dawns on his face. “Five minutes,” he says to the guys. “Let's give Nova his moment.”
There's grumbling, but they file out. Some are still in towels, all of them laughing and making jokes about me being pussy-whipped.
The door closes, and then it's just us.
Avery, me, and the Stanley Cup.
“You kicked your entire team out,” she says, and I can't tell if she's angry or amused.
“I needed to talk to you.” I step closer. “Really talk. Not through text or phone calls or in public.”
A wary expression comes over her features.
“Please.” I run my hand through my damp hair. “I fucked up in Tampa. I know I did. I got scared of losing myself, scared of being someone I wasn't, and I reverted to the only version of me I knew how to be.”
“I know.”
“But I was wrong. That night taught me something.” I'm talking faster now, desperate to get it all out. “The praise, the fans saying they were glad the old Nova was back, it meant nothing. Actually worse than nothing. It felt empty. Fake.”
Her expression is unreadable, so I just keep going.
“You were right about everything. Public adoration isn't real. Those people don't know me. I've been so desperate for that approval my whole life that I kept performing even when it was destroying me.”
Her mask finally cracks a little, her eyes softening. “Oh, Liam.”
“I don't need their validation anymore, Avery. I need yours. I needyou.” My voice breaks. “I love you. Not the publicist who makes me look good, not the woman who helps manage my image. I loveyou. The real you. The one who challenges me and calls me out and makes me want to be better, not for the cameras, but for myself. For us.”
Tears are streaming down her face now. “You broke my heart.”
“I know. And I'm so fucking sorry.” I close the distance between us, taking her hands in mine. “I can't promise I won't make mistakes. I can't promise I'll always know who I am or what I'm doing. But I can promise that I'm done living for otherpeople's approval. I’m done being anyone other than exactly who I am.”
“And who is that?” she asks in a shaky voice.
“I'm still figuring it out. But whoever I am, whoever I'm becoming, I want to do it with you. I want to wake up in the morning and make you breakfast. I want to argue about whether the puppies should sleep in our bed. I want all of it. All of you. Forever.”
She's fully crying now, and I'm probably crying too, and neither of us cares.
“Tonight, when I scored that goal, when we won the Cup, my first thought wasn't about hockey or the championship or any of it. It was I wish Avery were here to see this.” I bring her hands to my lips. “Nothing means anything if I can't share it with you.”
Before she can respond, there's a knock on the door.
“Nova,” Cole calls out. “Press conference. Now. They're waiting.”
“Five more minutes,” I shout back.
“We don't have five minutes. The media is getting restless.”
I look at Avery, torn. “I have to go.”
“I know.” She pulls her hands away. “Go.”
“Come with me.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “Please.”
