I hold my breath.
Time stops.
It goes in.
Noise detonates in the arena—the fans screaming, banging their fists on the glass, the goal horn blaring, fireworks going off from the roof. The guys spill onto the ice, surrounding Miller, Owens, and Streicher. Their expressions are disbelief, shock, and pure elation.
“We won,” Jordan says at my side, tears streaming down her face. “Tate, we won.”
I’m stunned speechless, gaze roaming the arena, at Jeff lifting Bea into the air and Holly screaming, jumping up and down. Every day since I won, all those years ago, I’ve thought about this.
And now it’s real.
My gaze returns home, to Jordan. God, she’s beautiful. It’s chaos around us—fans are throwing jerseys and flowers and signs on the ice while the players celebrate. Volkov’s out therewith them, hugging Walker hard. It all blurs to the background, though.
All I see is her.
My eyes drop to her mouth. I need to kiss her. “I know you probably don’t want to give the media more to talk about but?—”
“Tate, the Vancouver Storm just won the Stanley Cup. Fuck it.” She grabs me and hauls my mouth to hers. I laugh against her, kissing her back hard.
CHAPTER 95
JORDAN
After winning the Stanley Cup,the Vancouver Storm celebrates at the Filthy Flamingo.
Everyone is here—the players, partners, team staff, parents, and the friends—high on life, taking pictures and reliving moments from the game. Filling the space with love and laughter. The photo of Rory holding the Cup above his head, grinning ear to ear, is making the rounds on the internet. The players’ families have joined them here and the small bar is more crowded than ever. I’ve tacked up at least a dozen new Polaroids.
My mom would love this. Maybe the good old days never end. Maybe they just change.
“I love this place,” Bea tells me cheerfully, drinking a Shirley Temple at the counter.
“Me, too.” I snap a Polaroid of her. My mom would love her, too.
The manager I hired as a temporary solution happily agreed to stay permanently, but tonight, I can’t help but step behind the bar. It’s different this time, though. I’m here because I want to be. Not because I think this is the only place I belong. Not because I want to keep distance between myself and the people I love.
The Grand Finaleis the special cocktail of the evening, with gin, vermouth, and to my horror, blue curaçao. An intense, bittersweet drink to match the team colors.
“Am I allowed to be here?” Bea asks me and Tate.
“Definitely not.” I gesture around. “Take a good look, Bee, because this is the last time you’re going to see the inside of this place until you’re nineteen.” The legal drinking age in British Columbia.
Tate raises his eyebrows at me with a teasing look. “Sounding like a stern parent, there.”
“Ew, you’re right.” I make a face at Bea. “How about some coffee? Candy? Want to get tattoos?”
She giggles. “My dad got a tattoo today.”
I give her a surprised look. “What?”
She nods. “He did. This morning.”
I look to Tate but instead of laughing, he just looks—oh. Patiently amused, with that steady smile. Maybe a little bashful.
“You got another tattoo?”
My hopeful little heart lifts.
