I could say no, play it off, bite my tongue and bury the question, but instead I breathe out, soft. “…Do you ever think about it?”
His brows tick. “Think about what?”
I hesitate before whispering, “Who’ll say it first,” and he lets that smirk curl deeper as his hand trails down, his thumb dragging slow across my jaw while his gaze stays locked on me. Then he leans in, his mouth brushing my temple as he murmurs, “I already say it every time I call you mine.”
I don’t reply because I can’t; I’m too busy melting, my throat locking and my eyes burning while I pretend it’s the pressure from takeoff. I bury my face in his chest, and he doesn’t stop stroking my hair.
The soft rumble of the engines pulls at me like a lullaby, until his voice cuts through the haze, low and close to my ear. “Wake up, pup. We’re home.”
I blink blearily against his shoulder, everything slow and warm and safe. I don’t remember falling asleep. I remember his hand in my hair and the way his thumb stroked behind my ear until the world faded out. Now the lights of Ravensburg blur outside the tiny window, streaked gold and wet from the rain. I groan into his chest and immediately regret it. “Two minutes,” I mumble. “You woke me up for the two-minute warning?”
His lips graze my temple. “Figured you’d want time to fix your brat face before the team sees you drooling on me.”
“I don’t drool,” I grumble, swiping at my chin anyway.
He just smirks. Doesn’t let me up until the wheels kiss the runway and the cabin lights flicker back to life, bathing us all insterile orange. The groans start immediately. Cole’s fake snoring morphs into actual whining, Tyler yawns so wide I think his jaw might unhinge, and Shane’s slapping his cheeks to keep from falling asleep again.
“God, this plane is cursed,” Cole mutters loud enough for the whole front row to hear. “I need pizza. I need bagels. I need carbs.”
“You need silence,” Viktor grunts from two rows ahead.
“YOU need a hug!” Cole chirps, smacking him on the back of the head as he passes. Viktor doesn’t even flinch. I think his soul left mid-flight.
I haul my gear bag onto my shoulder with a groan. My knee twinges, reminding me it still hates me, but I don’t care. We won. We fucking won.
Four games, done, which means it’s finally break time—no Wranglers, no bus rides, no violent assholes slamming me knee-first into the boards. Just home, bed, and Damian.
I’m still in zombie mode when we shuffle off the plane and out into the night, a gaggle of half-dead hockey players clunking through arrivals like the world’s angriest migration. Coach appeared somehow just before landing, cigar stub in hand. He’s probably been sleeping in the overhead bin.
Outside, the team bus looms like salvation in the drizzle, its headlights glowing soft in the dark, casting pale gold across the wet pavement. I shiver once, hoodie pulled tighter around me, still not fully awake, and then his hand finds mine again.
I glance up at him through sleep-blurred lashes, and his mouth quirks in that subtle way that says everything without needing to speak, but he doesn’t say a word.
And then the airport doors hiss open. Instantly, I’m blinded—flashes firing in every direction, screams bursting through the air, and something wild hits the floor near my foot. Glitter? Candy? What the hell—“Mercer!! KADE!!”
A wall of fans slams into my senses like a puck to the brain. They're lined up behind the barrier, all screaming, waving signs, throwing things—throwing things, oh my God. And one of them has a poster board with the kiss. Our kiss. From the end of Game 4. Center ice. Tongues. Helmets half-off. Damian’s hand in my hair.
My soul detaches from my body. “Fuck.”
“They printed the damn kiss,” Cole yells over the noise, cackling. “Holy shit, curls, you're famous!”
I’m too stunned to respond because now someone’s throwing gummy bears, actual candy, raining down like a sugar apocalypse, and then a kid, breaks through the chaos with giant eyes and hands me a goddamn lollipop. Bright red, heart-shaped and wrapped in a bow. I blink down at it. “Uhhh—thanks?”
She beams. “You’re my favorite. You skate so fast!”
Cole melts. “Look at you, fan-favorite already.”
Mats winks at a girl holding a sign that says BREAK MY HEART #12. “Careful,” he purrs, “I only break bones.” The girl swoons.
Viktor makes a noise in Russian that probably means fuck this, grabs Cole by the back of the hoodie, and starts dragging him bodily toward the bus. “Let go, my public needs me!” Cole shrieks, flailing. He’s three seconds from making a TikTok with Shane’s helmet as a crown and Tyler as his bodyguard.
“Your public’s loud,” Viktor mutters. “And insane.”
Behind them, Shane’s posing with a group of girls, holding up a peace sign and his helmet at the same time. One of them presses a phone into his hand and whispers something. He grins. Bastard.
“God, this is…” I start.
“A circus?” Damian offers beside me, one hand on my shoulder.
