“You were right,” I interrupt. “I was running. Just like him. Trying to control everything instead of trusting. But I’m done running. I’m done hiding. I’m done pretending.”
“Good. Because I’m done hiding too.” She grins. Touches my face. “I love you, Brody Kane.”
“I love you too.” I’m grinning like an idiot. “Also, is that glitter on your jersey?”
“Yes. I made Jessa help me bedazzle it. It took four hours and six containers of craft glitter.”
“It’s perfect.”
“It’s hideous.”
“It’s perfectly hideous.” I kiss her forehead, her nose, her cheeks.
“You smell,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
“I just played three periods of hockey?—”
“Shower. Then meet me at Ironclad. Jessa’s gonna drive me.” She grins. “I need a giant chocolate chip cookie and a late-night latte. And you. Not necessarily in that order.”
“I’ll be there.”
“You better.” She picks up the fallen ox horns, puts them back on her head. Crooked and ridiculous and perfect.
I kiss her one more time—quick, sweet—then climb back over the boards.
My teammates are waiting, all of them grinning like idiots.
Conrad skates over first. “Sheesh. I guess absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
Derek follows, shaking his head. “Thirty days and you climb into the stands. Could’ve just texted her, Kane.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I’m grinning so hard my face hurts.
“Fair point.” Derek claps me on the shoulder. “Welcome back, buddy.”
Coach Jacobsen is waiting at the bench, arms crossed, trying to look stern. “Kane. My office. Tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“But good game.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Best I’ve seen you play all season.”
Conrad appears at my elbow. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I’m still grinning. Can’t stop. “I’m really good.”
We skate toward the tunnel. My teammates are still ribbing me, still laughing, still making jokes about climbing into stands and midnight and glitter.
I don’t care.
For the first time in my entire life, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Not performing. Not pretending. Not hiding behind charm or control or fear.
Just being.
And in about thirty minutes, I’ll be at Ironclad Desserts with the woman I love, eating cookies and drinking terrible coffee and figuring out how to build a life together.
No contracts. No performances. No rules.
