Coach waves her off. “The point is”—he looks at me, softer now—”tonight was something special. You did that. You earned this. And we’re damn proud of you.”
Pride blooms warm and bright in my chest.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “All of you.”
Professor Foster gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “We’ll let you two celebrate. You deserve a moment.”
They're already heading toward the exit, and suddenly it's just Scotty and me in the hallway. The air between us feels charged, electric.
“Come with me,” he says, his voice low and rough.
He laces our fingers together and pulls me a few steps down the hall until we’re tucked behind a column, out of sight. The noise of the arena feels distant, the fluorescent lights softer, everything narrowed down to just him.
“Scotty…” I breathe.
His hands settle on my waist. His eyes are bright, almost wild with pride, and it hits me that he’s been holding this in since the second I stepped off the ice.
“Laura,” he says, breathless in a way I’ve never heard from him, “you just booked yourself a gig. A real one. An actual anthem spot for the Crushers. Do you understand how insane that is?”
I blink up at him, still reeling. “I… I guess.”
“No.” He shakes his head, grinning like he’s about to lift me off the ground. “Not ‘I guess.’ You did that. You stood in front of five thousand people, blew the roof off this place, and now they want you back every game.” His hands slide up to cradle my jaw, his thumb sweeping across my cheek. “You earned this, Princess.”
Emotion rises in my throat, thick and warm, almost unreal. “I didn’t think—”
“Yeah,” he interrupts softly, “I know. But look where you are now.” His smile deepens, softer, more certain. “Look what you just made happen.”
He leans his forehead to mine, his voice dropping to something low and reverent. “I am so damn proud of you.”
Emotion burns behind my eyes, hot and overwhelming. “I never thought this could happen,” I whisper. “Not for me.”
His smile curves, soft and certain, eyes warm like he’s been waiting years to prove me wrong.
“Inconceivable!”
Epilogue
2 Months Later
Laura’s phone won’t stop buzzing.
Two months as Covey's official anthem singer, and she's got agents, producers, and half the sports media in the state calling her, but right now, with her warm and soft body pressed against mine in nothing but my jersey, I don't give a fuck who wants her attention.
She's all mine for the next hour.
Her warm, soft body shifts when I slide my fingers along the inside of her thigh, and even though her eyes are closed, her legs part for me, letting me know exactly what she wants.
I push the jersey higher, exposing more skin just as she gives me this sleepy, needy little sound that goes straight to my already hard dick.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
“You should probably check that,” I murmur against her neck, dragging my lips across her throat as I draw lazy circles with my fingers at the top of her thighs.
Do I want her to get it? No, of course not. What with our busy schedules, the only time I get to see her is at my games when she’s getting ready to sing or inour English literature class when we argue over every main character we’ve ever read.
Selfishly, I miss the days when we were sneaking around in the rink.
“I don’t care,” she whispers, purposely shifting her hips back into me, grinding her perfect ass into me. “I want you.”
