“Wow.” He had no clue what the Norris Trophy was, bless his heart, but he was being a good hockey boyfriend.
“Yeah, so he’s looking to get out of St. Louis. I think the Vipers are going to bring him to New York as a permanent replacement for Lemanski.” Small bits of flotsam floated on the top of my shake. “Which is totally a killer move if they can swing it with the cap situation they have. He’s a legend.”
“But still, that’s shitty. You’ve been working so hard and playing so well.”
“Yeah well, that’s hockey.” I sighed before taking another sip of what was a pretty chalky damn drink if I did say so myself. I did not like this new powder that I’d bought. “So, just to let you know what may happen. They might swap me and some other less than stellar players flat out for Milchan or, and this is what I hope happens, they send me back down.”
There was a long pause as he sorted that info out. “So you think it’s either St. Louis or Rochester. But they may keep you to play with this Milchan, right?”
“Nah, not enough in the cap to finagle that. They’ll ship me somewhere, bet your tasty ass on it, and I hope it’s back to you.”
“I hope so too. I miss you. I hate that they’re treating you players like possessions.”
“That’s pretty much what we are.” My phone vibrated with a call. I scrolled it up and saw Gallows’ name come up. Okay, yeah, this was a call from the GM. “Hey, the GM is ringing me up. At seven-ten in the morning. I need to take this.”
“Yes, please take it. Call me when you know something. I love you. Everything will work out.”
“Love you too.” I ended one call to take the other. Mike was gracious, wired on coffee I was sure, so he was passing along his praise way too quickly. Understanding all his preliminary toe-dancing about my improvement in all areas as well as my dedication to the organization didn’t need to be understood, I knew where the head pats were leading. When he informed me that I was being shipped back to Rochester for more development, I thanked him. And I mean, I thanked him sincerely, something he seemed to be shocked about but took in stride.
When we said our goodbyes, I took a moment to knock back my shake, grimace, and then, whisper goodbye to Manhattan. Then, I called my man.
He answered on the first ring. Hell, maybe it was a half ring. That amused me.
“Walker,” he whispered as if we were discussing war plans on a secret line. “What did the GM say? I’m crossing my eyes and toes and fingers.”
“Hope you have room in your bathroom for my toothbrush again,” I told him. “I’m coming home.”
Home. Yep, that was the proper word. They say home is where the heart is, and mine was in Rochester with a certain world’s best teacher.
Epilogue
FINN
Eight months later, November
Our housewarming had quickly turnedinto a full-on Copperheads party. Walker and I had deliberately invested his NHL money from before he was sent down the first time into this sprawling place near Rochester for moments just like this. A perfect balance of privacy and community. My commute to school was an easy forty-five minutes, close enough for comfort, yet far enough to avoid awkward encounters with parents in the grocery store aisles. The house was everything we’d dreamed, spacious enough for Walker to host the entire team comfortably and for me to finally have my own art studio tucked into the attic, complete with wide windows overlooking a lake. The studio quickly became my sanctuary, a place of light, color, and quiet.
Tonight, though, was anything but quiet. The house buzzed with laughter and chatter, teammates spilling from the kitchen into the living room and even out onto the back porch. Walker stood by the kitchen island, relaxed and smiling, the new captain of the Copperheads. The leadership suited him, and confidenceradiated from him as he helped build the team into something truly special.
The art guys—Chip, Taft, Arnaud, and Bob—were scattered throughout the crowd. Harper and Connor had long since disappeared somewhere, and their easy love warmed something deep in my chest. Family mingled with friends, blurring into a single vibrant picture of the life we’d built together.
A sudden eruption of noise from the garden drew everyone’s attention, and Walker and I crossed to the window. Through the sliding glass doors, I spotted Bob waving his hands wildly at Arnaud, who was both amused and indignant. Their argument had started inside, innocently enough with chirping, when Bob jokingly called Arnaud a sieve in their last game, an insult no goalie could tolerate. Arnaud’s response was a quick and pointed stream of French I couldn’t follow, which launched Bob into orbit, and they headed outside to talk, and now what the hell was going on?
“Anyone catch what he said?” Walker asked, slipping his arm around my waist as we watched the unfolding drama.
“No idea,” I replied. “But Bob looks ready to explode.”
“Bob always looks ready to explode.” Taft sighed, coming up beside us with a fresh beer in his hand.
Chip joined us. “Did you know that statistically, team arguments result in a 4.3 percent decrease in pass accuracy during games? Last season, Miller and Andrews argued about sock thickness for thirty-seven minutes, and the team’s subsequent game accuracy dropped by exactly that amount. I documented it.”
We all stared at Chip, who blinked at us steadily. “What?”
“Standard deviation of 0.5 percent,” Chip added.
“Wow, 4.3 percent?” Walker frowned. He took having the C on his chest very seriously. “I need to fix this.”
“How do you plan on fixing that?” Taft snorted and waved at the two men under the patio heater, Bob shoving Arnaud and our flexible goalie ducking under his arm. Bob was apoplectic, Arnaud was grinning, and they were wrestling like a couple of kids.
