One more game.
Game 6. Cup Final. The Reapers on our ice. Sixty minutes. Whatever comes after.
His arm is around me. The word is on the page in front of us, written twice, in my handwriting, and he still hasn’t looked at it and he doesn’t need to.
I close my eyes, tomorrow night Jax Mercer is going to fight for the Stanley Cup. And I am going to be there. Not as a journalist. Not watching it.
Just there.
Holding on.
Chapter thirty-four
Jax
She’sinthekitchenwhen I come out.
Wearing my hoodie.
The gray one she stole three weeks ago and hasn’t given back. The one I haven’t asked for, because watching her wear it is way better than having it.
She has coffee in one hand, her camera bag by the door, and Brick doing his supervisory loop between her feet like the morning requires his approval before it’s allowed to continue.
It all looks too normal.
That’s the thing that gets me.
Not the Cup Final. Not the arena waiting for me. Not the fact that in a few hours, everything I’ve spent four seasons working toward could either come together or fall apart.
Her.
In my kitchen.
Looking like she’s always going to be here.
I stare a second longer.
“Damn.” I hook a finger through the sleeve of the hoodie and give it a small tug. “You look good in that.”
She goes red the way she always goes red — like she didn’t see it coming even though I say it every time.
“Go win the Cup, Mercer.”
Something in my chest goes quiet.
The good kind.
The kind that’s been getting louder for months.
“Yeah.” That’s certain. I pick up my gear bag. “Nova.”
“Yeah?”
“Keep the hoodie.”
She’s still red when I walk out.
The whole drive to the arena, I’m already thinking about coming home.
