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“That’s right, cap!” Shane shouts from where he’s still stripping off his pads.
Aaron shrugs. “I thought it would be Lars. He’s more of a people person.”
That makes everyone erupt into laughter—improbably enough, even Lars himself.
“Don’t worry about it, Captain,” Lars says to Walsh as he strolls to the shower, “you don’t need to worry about me stealing your spot. It’s all yours.”
Before hitting the shower myself, I open my locker to check my texts. I have tons, from my parents, my sister, my hometown friends. The group chat we have with the old Hot Shots players is absolutely blowing up, hundreds of unread messages as the guys reacted to the whole game while we were out there on the ice.
I’ll spend some time going through it later, but I look through the last couple messages to see them freaking out in celebration and sending their congratulations.
The message that makes me smile most, though, is from Phoebe.I knew you could do it, followed by a heart emoji.
I can’t fucking wait to see her.
I hurry up as I shower and get dressed, wanting nothing more than to rush out of the locker room, find my girl, wrap my arms around her, lift her in the air, and press my lips to hers.
Fuck, the thought of that sends excitement coursing through my blood even more than winning the game did tonight.
A couple months ago, that realization might’ve scared me a little. But not anymore. I’m head over heels for Phoebe Sinclair, and that’s never going to change. She’s mine, I’m hers, forever. Period. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
She’s waiting for me outside the locker room, and I do exactly what I imagined doing.
I dip my back to wrap my arms around her waist, then straighten myself to lift her high in the air. She squeals in delight as I spin her around, before silencing her by closing my lips over hers in a kiss.
I don’t know what my professional career holds. There might be dozens of championship wins like this in my future. Maybe just one. Maybe none.
But no matter what, this—finding Phoebe after a game, holding her in my arms, kissing her like she’s mine because she is—this is something I know I can rely on. For the rest of my life. And it’s better than any championship win could ever be, in college or in the pros.
“In a good mood?” she asks with a teasing grin when I pull my lips back.
“Yep. Because you’re in my arms.”
She laughs, rolling her eyes. “So sappy. I’m sure your championship win has nothing to do with your good mood.”
I tilt my head thoughtfully. “Maybe a little.”
The other guys pile out of the locker room soon after me. We’re all going out to celebrate, but really? I can’t wait to get back to the hotel with Phoebe and have her to myself in our room.
Winning the greatest prize in college hockey is pretty great. But knowing I’ve won the heart of the girl who I was made to love?
Way better.
* * *
PHOEBE
My hand is snug in Hunter’s as we glide around the ice.
It’s the day after the Hot Shots won the championship. Hunter pulled some strings to get us time alone on the rink where the championship game was held, in Chicago.
“How about a race?” Hunter says in a low, mischievous voice.
I laugh. “I don’t think so. I’ll be forced to push you over or trip you to win, and you don’t need a broken arm to derail the start of your professional career.”
“Let’s try something else, then,” Hunter says, excitement bubbling in his voice.
“What?”
