Then Heidi explodes, sharp and gleefully beside me. “Fuck yes!”
I blink at her, stunned. “I—”
“You did it,” she breathes. “Carina, youdidit.”
Her arms wrap tight around both Ivy and me, and something inside me finally gives. I hold onto her like a lifeline as the adrenaline collapses and the tears come fast, hot, soundless. Ivy stirs with a sleepy little grunt, but doesn’t cry.
“I thought—I really thought—” I choke out, trying to breathe, to collect myself.
But Heidi just holds on tighter. “Iknewthey’d see it. You did nothing wrong except fall in love with that man. And you’re too damn good. You’ve always been too good.”
I press a kiss to Ivy’s head, her soft fuzz damp with the heat of my skin. Her little hand is curled between us, warm and oblivious, tucked over my heart.
“Hey,” I whisper, voice cracking. “You hear that? Your mom’s still a surgeon.”
She doesn’t answer, of course, but Heidi does. “Hell yes, she is.”
I let out a wet, shaky laugh, then swipe at my face with the back of my hand. “I need to text Reid.”
Heidi snorts, reaching into my bag and handing me my phone like it’s a mission-critical tool. “Babe, if you don’t, I will. That man has even texted me to promise I’ll send him updates.”
Ivy lets out a very small, very unimpressed fart.
“See?” Heidi beams. “Even she agrees.”
I type the message with trembling fingers, then stare at it for a long moment before pressing send.
Me:It’s over. Cleared and no record. I’m still a surgeon
I don’t expect a reply; he’s mid-game. But I still picture the moment he’ll see it—gloves off, sweat dripping, scowl in place. And underneath it all, that quiet way he looks at me like I’m the most important thing in the world.
My throat aches at the thought, and I pull Ivy tighter, burying my face in her hair. Heidi wraps her arm around me again as we make our way back to the parking lot.
Outside, the day is still cold and gray, but inside, everything is light.
Reid:I’m so fucking proud of you.
Reid:Ivy’s got a badass for a mom.
Reid:And I’ve got a fucking legend as the love of my life.
Chapter thirty-eight
That’s the last one, old friend
Reid
The third period hasn’t even started yet, but I’m already drenched. Sweat beads at the nape of my neck, trickles down between my shoulder blades, and soaks the edges of my gear.
It’s loud out there. I can feel it rumbling through the walls—the crowd, the chaos, the storm we built. The whole fucking season comes down to the next twenty minutes.
Storm: 2.
Dragons: 2.
Game seven of the Stanley Cup Final.
I adjust my catcher’s glove, flex my fingers once, then twice, letting the leather creak and breathe around my palm. The freshembroidery presses against the webbing just enough to anchor me.
