Page 176 of Ash and his Dragon

Not instead of the huge moments, because I wanted those too, but around them. I wanted mornings and arguments and burnt bacon, his French muttering when I annoyed him and the way he watched every bruise as though my body had personally betrayed him. I wanted the boring parts and the ridiculous ones, and I wanted enough years of them that one day we would look back on Game Seven and argue about whether it had really lasted seventy-seven minutes and forty-three seconds.

Although Max would probably still know.

My phone was sitting on the kitchen island where he must have rescued it from the bedroom floor, and when the screen lit again, the number of notifications waiting for me was ridiculous enough that I finally picked it up.

Max’s attention immediately shifted from breakfast to me. “You don’t have to look.”

I knew exactly what he meant. “You think I’m scared?”

“No,” he said, although his gaze dropped briefly toward the phone. “Maybe a little.”

A week ago, he would have been right, but I unlocked the screen and found the first message was from Dante. It contained a photograph taken seconds after the goal, with Max’s hands on me and my face tilted toward his while the scoreboard behind us showed 4-3 and the players and crowd blurred into the background.

Underneath the photograph, Dante had written:

Good morning, Mrs. Renaud.

I snorted, and when Max asked what was so funny, I turned the phone toward him.

He stared at the message before his expression darkened. “I will kill him.”

“Not before the Conference Final.”

“After.”

“That seems reasonable.”

Another message appeared while I was still smiling.

TAZ: Tell your boyfriend I saved the game.

Dante responded almost immediately.

DANTE: Nobody cares about your save anymore. They kissed.

Then Taz again.