“I don’t.”
He frowns.
“Because then who knows where your life might’ve taken you,” I explain. “Maybe you would’ve stayed in the city. Maybe you wouldn’t have ever gotten that call from Coach Maver.” His eyes shine as he listens to me, hanging on my words. “And then maybe we never would’ve met. And I don’t like the possible universe where that’s the case.”
“Me neither,” he murmurs, leaning down for a kiss. My body comes alive with it, blood singing and heart skipping. The city is bustling below, but up here, it feels like it’s just the two of us as the wind lightly blows through my hair.
When we pull apart, I say, “It’s nice to be here with you.” And I don’t just mean at the party, here in New York City. We’re finally free of the labels that kept us apart, that made us feel like our love was wrong and needed to be kept secret.
Luke kisses the top of my head as he tightens his hold around me. “It’s good to be here with you too, baby.”
EPILOGUE
Luke
Ten Years Later
“Great game, Coach.” Coach Raves shakes my hand. My former and still current coach of the New York Flash. “See you still don’t have any qualms about having your guys toss mine into the boards.”
I chuckle and shake my head. “All is fair in love and hockey.”
He claps me on the back and steps back toward his team’s vacant bench. “See you in a few months when we have home advantage.”
“You’ll need it.”
He flips me off over his shoulder, and I grab my jacket, tablet, and take off toward the locker room. A few of my players are still filing off the bench with excited chatter between them. Another win in our belt for the season.
As I walk down the tunnel of our home rink, I hear a high-pitched, excited cheer up ahead and spot a bouncing five-year-old decked out in Colorado Mountaineer gear, high-fiving each of the players as they file into the locker room.
“Sick hit!” he chirps at Kantor, one of our top defensemen. “I was hoping that guy would wanna fight you.”
Kantor taps his gloves against my son’s extended fist and shakes his head. “Wasn’t feeling a fight tonight, kiddo. Maybe next time.”
“Promise?”
“Killian,” I call out when I see him giving Kantor puppy-dog eyes. “You can’t make my players promise they’ll take penalties for your entertainment.”
“Daddy!” he squeals and bounds over to me, his favorite light-up sneakers streaking against the black carpet. I crouch down as he throws himself into my arms, and I pick him up. “You won!”
“We did.” I smile and carry him back down the hall. “Did you have fun watching the game with Grandma?”
He nods emphatically, knocking some of his dark brown hair into his eyes. “But she didn’t want anyone to fight.”
I chuckle at his obsession with hockey fights. It’s grown more in recent months and something my wife isn’t all too pleased about. He’s been itching to drop gloves in his own pee-wee league, and we’ve had to have many talks with him that just because he sees the big boys fight, doesn’t mean that he needs to.
And plus, goalies don’t drop their gloves.
“Grandma’s right,” my favorite voice calls out, and I turn to see my wife striding toward us with her mom at her side. “Not every game needs to end in a fight, right?”
Killian sags in my arms. “Right.” I ruffle his hair and set him down. He immediately takes off into the locker room, where I’m sure he’s going to go find Kantor once again.
With my arms now free, I can properly greet my wife. I snake my hand around her back, beneath her navy-blue blazer, and pull her in for a quick kiss.
We’ve seen each other all day, but I can’t exactly kiss my assistant coach while we’re out behind the bench during games. As the first couple to coach on the same NHL team, we try to make sure we keep it professional. And for Lennon’s sake being one of the only female coaches in the league, I would never want it to undermine what she’s worked so hard to achieve.
And to think she once thought she’d spend her life behind a desk, running numbers and doing taxes.
“Good call on switching up the special teams tonight when they pulled Rodroski,” I tell her when we break apart.
