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A grin pulls at my lips as I run my thumb along the brave pout of her lips. “I know you will,” I agree, kissing the spot I just touched.
“I love you, D’Artagnan.”
She makes me melt. “I love you too, baby doll. I’ll text you.”
Our lips meet once more for a quick kiss before I let her go, even though I’d rather not. She stands in only my shirt, Vols socks on her feet, as she watches me gather my things. I look back at her, and she forces herself to smile for me. “Till next time, D’Artagnan.”
I give her a pointed look. “Last time you said that, I waited three months for you.”
“That will never happen again,” she promises as another tear falls. I almost go to wipe it away, but I know I’ll never leave. I think she knows it too, because she wipes it away quickly. “I’ll be here, the one waiting.”
My heart catches in my chest, and nothing could have prepared me for the crushing love that hits me like a wave in the ocean. I welcome it, though. I crave it, just like I crave her. “Sooner rather than later, eh?”
She nods, swallowing as I turn. I can’t look back as I go out the door, but before I even get to Owen’s truck, my phone sounds with a notification. I throw my bag into the back and notice the notification is on Instagram.
I get in the truck, and Owen asks, “Tennessee okay?”
“Yeah, she’s good,” I say as I click it to see that I’ve been tagged in a status.
Tennessee’s status.
I open it to see her at the arena, looking fucking delectable in my jersey as she stands in front of the ice, making a heart with her hands. While the photo has my heart swelling, it’s the caption that does me in.
I met somebody with blue eyes, who opens my door, and he makes me feel so damn loved. He isn’t from where I am, but he sure feels like home to me. And he definitely has me doing things I’ve never imagined doing.
In Tennessee, they may call it a sin, and I still want the Nashville Assassins to win, but I’m wearing red and black for him. Rootin’ for the IceCats. —Inspired by the lyrics by Megan Moroney but changed up for my #11, my heart, my soul. (Sorry, Daddy!)
I swallow past the lump in my throat and quickly type the only words I can even think at the moment.
I love you.
Chapter Thirty
Dart
I line up for the face-off, my eye on the puck as the ref has the Blackhawk player move back a bit since he’s a cheating bastard. “Back up. I’m not your momma’s tit,” I call to him around my mouth guard.
“Fuck you. I’ll be looking for your mom after this, Miklas.”
I laugh as the ref tries to get our attention, but I ignore him, calling to the dumbass, “Listen, I don’t need another stepdaddy.” I win the puck, throwing it back to Kirby, who skates with ease, carrying the puck as we forwards rush the goal. Kirby skates backward, moving the puck back and forth as he looks for an opening, but their defense is on it. He takes the shot, hoping for something, but it’s blocked before it gets to the net. I fight a player for it before poking it out from underneath another player, and the puck flies to the boards, where luckily, Owen rushes for it. Once it’s on his stick, he sends it up the boards, and it hits Chandler’s blade, but he passes it quickly to Sawyer, who takes the shot, going wide. Kirby reaches out, catching the puck on his blade before it goes over the blue line.
While I’m thankful for another chance, I can’t breathe and need the change, but I get back into position, watching as Chandler and Kirby pass it back and forth, trying to draw someone toward them so we can get a clean shot. I skate back, fighting a defenseman and trying to block the goalie so that the puck can get past him. The defenseman doesn’t let me get close and keeps knocking me in my side as we fight for the position. He wants me to move, but I want us to score, so I hold my own. I jab my elbow into the defenseman as Kirby lines up, faking the shot and passing it right to Owen.
I push into the dude, trying my best to be a distraction, but when Owen slaps his blade into the puck, it’s not at the goalie, it’s at me. We’ve practiced this a ton of times, and this is going to be sick if we pull it off. With my eyes on the puck, even though it’s going at speeds unknown, I lift my stick, barely making sure not to go above the crossbar, and deflect the puck into the back of the net.
