Sable was in the family area with Devon, who had her. She’d be fine.
Dane: I’m right outside the locker room. Take all the time you need. No rush.
Dane: Also, I’m crying. Just so you know.
I picked up my bag and headed for the door.
The corridoroutside the locker room was the usual post-game tangle.
Dane was standing against the wall at the far end of the family area with Morgan, Sully, Courtney, and Devon, all of them still in their Copperheads jerseys. Courtney’s foam finger was slightly bent from what I suspected had been enthusiastic use. Sable was sitting at Dane’s feet, pressed against his shin, her tail moving steadily because she had located one of her people and was content. She was supposed to be with Devon, but Dane could never resist looking after her when he could.
He saw me before I was halfway across the room and pushed off the wall.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
“You scored a goal and got an assist in a Game Seven.”
“I did.”
“Of the Cup Final.”
“Also correct.”
He exhaled, a long, slow breath that I recognized as the one he used when he was trying to hold himself together. “Chip.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m so—” He stopped. Started again. “I’m so proud of you. Tonight I was watching you out there, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the gym. About forty-two steps. About you telling me forty-two steps in the middle of all that smoke, and I thought—” He stopped again.
“It was forty-three,” I said.
He blinked. “What?”
“The steps. It was forty-three. Cornish Iron is three feet wider in the cardio aisle than a standard commercial gym layout. I knew that. I knew it while I was saying forty-two.” I looked at him. “I gave you the number I had memorized from a template because it was the only one I could access in that moment. I wasrunning on backup.” I paused. “I have thought about that a lot. That you carried me out on a number I knew was wrong and I couldn’t fix it in time.”
He was very still.
“Chip.”
“I know. I know it didn’t matter.”
“It got us out.”
“It got us out,” I agreed. “But I wanted you to know the real one. Forty-three.”
He looked at me for a long moment, and his eyes were doing the thing they did when he was feeling something he hadn’t found words for yet.
“Forty-three,” he said.
“Yes.”
He kissed me.
It was a long one, soft at the start, then not soft, then soft again at the end, and I put one hand on his chest and felt his heartbeat through the jersey fabric, fast and strong.
He pulled back half an inch. His thumb moved once across my cheekbone.
