Half a second of complete silence.
Then Fitch clears his throat. The team is quiet immediately. Fitch clearing his throat has the same effect as a fire alarm. "Two things," he says. He holds up one finger. "Nash has captain back, effective immediately. He earned it." He pauses. Looks at Rhys. Looks at me. Looks at our joined hands. Sighs from somewhere deep. "And for the love of everything I hold dear—" He points at both of us. "No kissing on my ice."
The team erupts.
KISS. KISS. KISS.
Fitch pinches the bridge of his nose. "I want you to know," he says to nobody in particular, "that I had a peaceful life before any of you."
I look at Rhys.
He looks at me.
His eyes are bright and he looks — he looks like the person I have been terrified of wanting for the better part of a year. I spent months pretending he didn’t get under my skin. Thenhe touched me and ruined the lie I kept telling myself. Kept pushing till I finally cracked open. He’s loud and annoying and completely, entirely himself. Standing on the ice in the early morning light holding my hand in front of everyone and not letting go.
“Well,” he says. "The people have spoken."
"The people can go fuck themselves," I say.
"Nash."
"They can."
"Jamie."
I kiss him. The noise that follows could probably be heard from the parking lot. I don't care. His free hand finds my jaw and he kisses me back and behind us twenty guys are absolutely losing their shit and it lands — the thing I have been locking away and managing and burying since I was old enough to know — just sitting in my chest, completely mine.
Not hidden.
Not managed.
Just mine.
When we pull apart Rhys is grinning so wide it looks like it hurts. "You're going to have to do that again," he says. "For the people in the back."
"I'm your Captain," I say. "Show some respect."
"My boyfriend," he says. "Who I am going to embarrass on this ice every single day for the rest of the season."
"Callahan—"
"Starting now." He lets go of my hand and skates away backward, arms spread wide, grinning at the whole team. "Let's go, Ice Queens!" The cheer that answers him is immediate and loud and genuine.
I stand at center ice.
Watch him go.
Feel the cold air and the bright lights and the sound of twenty people who know. Who know and don't care and are already moving on and asking for drills and complaining about the hour and being exactly, precisely the team I've been trying to build all season without knowing that this — this one thing — was the thing holding us back.
Not the plays.
Not the conditioning.
Me.
Standing still when I should have moved.
I pick up my stick.
