Winter and I spent so many years on different pages while we chased our dreams. And I’m a lucky guy to have a second chance to make up for what we missed.
I count my blessings that we were given the opportunity to reconnect. I never forgot the blue-eyed girl who helped me wash away the stain of loss, but I also never thought I’d be able to welcome her back into my life. Then, fate stepped in and put Winter right at my front door. And, despite my guarded heart, I let her in.
And like it’s always been with Winter, she gave me far more than I expected anyone could. She always has.
To give my heart to Winter, and to share a future together forever, is the best—and easiest—decision I ever made.
ANOTHER EPILOGUE
Emerson
I race through the crowded hockey arena, my camera slung over my shoulder as I follow the moving puck with my gaze. As the Montana Wild Kings take control of the puck and cross the blue line, I freeze in the aisle about ten rows from the ice.
“Hey! Take a seat!” someone yells from behind me.
Without taking my eyes off the game, I crouch down on the aisle steps and watch as Montana’s first-line left-winger and the opposing defenseman bang up against the boards. I’m so close I can hear the players cursing each other out as they fight for the puck. And then—
Crash!
The boards shake as a third player barrels into the fray. He pokes at the puck with his stick, effortlessly dislodging it from the Florida defender and taking off down the ice.
“There he is!” the woman says from the seat next to where I’m standing.
I inhale a sharp breath. Yes, there he is.
Max Storm.
I haven’t seen him in over a decade, and my hands are shaking so much I clench them into fists.
He’s no longer the boy I crushed on as a teenager. He’s a man now. One thing hasn’t changed, though—I’m still the girl on the sidelines cheering him on while he shines so bright the whole arena can’t take their eyes off of him.
“The rumor is Storm won’t let any woman touch him,” my nosy neighbor shout whispers.
“He must not date then,” her friend says.
“I went on a date with him,” a third female says confidently.
I unclench my fists and dig my nails into my jeans, using every ounce of willpower not to turn and look over at them.
“Did he let you touch him?” the first woman asks.
Long pause.
I’m dying.
“No,” she finally says in a sullen tone. “All he wanted to do was take me as his date to a required charity event. He wouldn’t even let me put out afterward. I mean, who does that? Look at me!”
Okay, now I sneak a peek.
Yeah, she’s pretty. Blonde, tanned, despite it being winter. And she’s confident. She knows she’s attractive, and she wears that knowledge all over her fake-bronzed face.
I turn back to the ice.
Max may not let anyone touch him now, but he wasn’t always that way.
He was my first kiss.
And my first heartbreak.
