"You did try to make me leave the rink." I put my fork down. "You were pulling my arm. You were screaming my name. You did everything right, Mollie."
"But if I hadn't told you about Savard in the first place, you wouldn't have even known who he was."
"And those little girls he was coaching would still be alone with him every day. You telling me wasn't the problem. Me throwing three punches when you specifically asked me to stop was… not my best moment."
"Alex." She takes my injured hand and cradles it in hers. “This is such a fucking mess.”
"This ismymess. The first punch was instinct. The second and third were choices I made because I wanted to hurt him. You were right there trying to stop me, but I didn't stop. That's on me. Not you."
She's quiet for a second, looking down at my splinted hand. Then she carefully releases it, scoots out of the booth, and burrows into my side. She wraps herarms around my neck, burying her face against my chest.
"For what it's worth," she murmurs into my shirt, “it was extremely romantic in a fucked-up, toxic masculinity sort of way. I won’t lie and say I didn’t get a tiny bit turned on at the sight of you beating the snot out of him."
I laugh. Actually laugh, the first real one in four days. Something loosens in my chest that's been locked tight since I watched Beck walk out of the rink. "Glad my potential felony assault charge is hitting the right romantic notes for you."
"I’m a red-blooded woman, after all." She kisses my neck and sits back, her eyes bright. “If I didn’t like alpha male bullshit, I wouldn’t be dating you.”
“When you’re right, you’re right.” I can’t stop grinning.
Someday, I think,this feisty little redhead is gonna be my wife.The thought fills me with an intense male satisfaction that’s hard to tamp down.
We're settling back into the food when three women materialize at the end of our booth. Mid-twenties, dressed up, phones out. One of them leans in with a smile that I've seen on approximately ten thousand faces over the course of my career.
"Oh my god, you're Alex Thorne, right? Can we get a photo?"
"Sorry, ladies." I don't even hesitate. "I'm here with my girlfriend and we need some privacy."
All three pairs of eyes swivel to Mollie. She gives them a small wave with her fork still in her hand. Theyapologize, giggle, and retreat to their table in a huddle of whispered excitement.
Mollie stares at me across the booth. "You just said girlfriend. In public. To strangers."
"That's what you are."
"I know, but you just..." She shakes her head. Then she leans across the table and kisses me, her hand on my jaw, soft and deliberate. I cup her face with my good hand and kiss her back, and for a second the diner disappears.
When she pulls back, her cheeks are pink. "My boyfriend."
"That's me." I wink, just because I know that it will fluster her. It does, and I’m glad.
She grins and goes back to her eggs. I watch her eat for a minute, my chest tight with something that I'm not sure I can name. "Mollie."
"Mm." She glances up, her mouth full.
I word my question carefully. "If I get fired from the team, are you still going to want me?"
Her fork stops midway to her mouth. She sets it down and looks at me with an expression that borders on offended. "Are you serious right now?"
"Dead serious."
"Alex, I like you despite your fame. Not because of it. I fell for the guy who makes me coffee, walks Gordie in the rain, and reinforces doorframes without being asked." She narrows her eyes. "I can't believe you'd even ask me that."
I shrug. "Maybe I needed to hear it."
"Alex, you could get fired tomorrow and I'd still be sitting across from you in this shitty diner, eating these incredible hash browns." She points her fork at me. "Don't insult me by asking again."
I smile. “Okay, Molls.”
My phone buzzes on the table. I glance down and my stomach tightens.
