Just us.
Finally.
epilogue
CHLOE
Three hours ago,I was a reasonably anonymous (outside the hockey world) event planner with a failing business and a broken heart. Now I’m “Glitter Jersey Girl,” and there are already memes.
I checked Instagram while waiting for Brody at Ironclad. Someone created a GIF of me waving my GO BIG 7 sign with the caption: “When you’re extra but he’s worth it.” It has 47,000 likes.
I showed it to Brody as he slid into the booth. He almost smacked his face on the table, doubling over in laughter.
“You’re never living this down,” he said, wiping his eyes.
“Neither are you. Someone made a clip of you climbing over the boards with theMission: Impossibletheme song.”
“How many views?”
“Two million.”
“Bam. That’s how it’s done.”
And now we’re at Ironclad Desserts—the place where this whole ridiculous, beautiful, complicated mess sort of started.
Or restarted.
The place smells like butter and cinnamon and happiness. Vintage lights cast warm shadows across the brick walls. A couple at a nearby table keeps glancing over, whispering, probably wondering if we’re who they think we are.
Spoiler: We are.
Brody sits across from me, freshly showered, wearing jeans and a sports coat (of course), hair still slightly damp. He smells like soap and aftershave. Fresh, clean. Like a new start.
“You have glitter on your face,” he says, reaching across the table.
“I have glitter everywhere. I’m pretty sure there’s glitter in places glitter should never be.”
He grins. “Yeah, you’re not bringing that jersey in the car with you. I’m not getting glitter in the seats.”
“What? I’m keeping it forever. I’m gonna wear it to every game.” I’m grinning too. Can’t stop.
Marcie approaches our table. “Chloe!” She’s beaming. “Girl, I saw you on the Jumbotron tonight. That was incredible!”
My face heats. “You watched the game?”
“Everyone watched the game. We had it on the TV behind the bar. The whole place erupted when he climbed into the stands.” She looks at Brody, still grinning. “You’re definitely an upgrade from the sketchbook. No offense to the sketchbook.”
“None taken,” I manage.
“The usual?” Marcie asks.
“You know what? Surprise me.”
Marcie grins. “You got it.”
The college kids two tables over are definitely filming us again.
“We can leave?—”
