An arm is thrown around my shoulders, and a kiss dropped to the crown of my head. “Knew what?”
“That you were a little munch.”
“Well, I’m not little, but yes, I am a munch. And someone”—he drags me into his body—“is my favorite flavor.”
“I can’t decide if I want to go pout in the corner, gag, or swoon,” Meave says.
I spin in Cooper’s arms, loop mine around his neck. My fingers tango with the ends of his damp hair. “Earned your nickname tonight.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Two goals, one assist, and one power play kill. New Most Goals In One Season record holder.”
“I could get used to this praise thing.”
“Oh, yeah?” I parrot his words and tone. Pressing onto my tip toes, I hover my mouth next to his ear. “Need me to tell you how good of a boy you are, Superstar?”
He swallows, lips smack. “Maybe.” My hunky superstar blushes. The color fades. “About what I said on the ice?—”
“Carmichael!” his coach hollers.
He turns us, arm wound around my shoulders and chest. Cooper’s chin rests on the top of my head.
Coach Mathieson is standing with three men—two in suits and one in a pair of worn jeans, a vintage 1996 Atlanta Olympics shirt, a leather jacket, and a hat pulled snug enough to hide his face.
“What’s up?”
“I have some people who would like to meet you. Come here.” Coach raises a dark brow, then adds, “Please.”
“Does he ever say please?” I ask.
“No,” Cooper chuckles out. “You good for a minute?”
“Go, Superstar. I’m not going anywhere.”
I watch through the crowd, peaking around people’s shoulders to see what is happening. Lipreading would be a great skill to have right now. I can’t make out anything.
They shake hands, exchange smiles, and what I’m going to assume are congratulations. The men in suits appeared serious, but now that they are talking to him, they’ve lightened up. Cooper’s body language is animated. Whatever is transpiring, he’s excited.
Another five minutes pass before he returns. Most of the people in the hallway have left.
Cooper saunters over to me, mouth curled with the faintest of smiles. Eyes twinkling against the fluorescent lights reflecting off the white brick walls.
I tip my chin up.
“That was Chicago.” He stops in front of me. Wipes a hand over his forehead, bumps his hat. “The rumor trade…it was me. They traded my draft rights. Chicago has them. Chicago wants me.”
I think I know, but I ask, wanting to hear him say it. “What does this mean?”
“I’m playing for Chicago after graduation.” His hand is massaging the facial hair on his jaw, brown eyes blinking in disbelief.
I throw my arms around his neck and hug him into me. Tears prickling, working to escape. “You’re playing for Chicago,” I repeat. His dream team.
“They want me.” It’s said into my shoulder, a dampness seeping into my clothes.
“Cooper, you are incredible.” He finally hugs me, squeezing me senseless, my feet pop off the ground. “I’m so proud of you. You did it.”
It’s a whisper, as if he thinks the is a dream and doesn’t want to wake up. “I did it.”
