Together, with the team around us like a shield, we skated toward the tunnel. Toward the locker room. Toward whatever came next.
The pain in my leg was still there. The shoulder still ached. My body was wrecked and would need weeks to recover.
But I'd never felt stronger.
Because I'd scored the penalty shot. I'd kissed Grant in front of the world. I'd told the truth without apology.
And whatever came next—the media circus, the league investigation, the scrutiny—we'd face it together.
Grant's hand stayed in mine the entire way to the locker room.
We'd survived.
And I'd done it as myself. Completely. Unapologetically. Free.
Finally.
COASTLINE
JACE
One month later
“This one's too small.”
Grant closed the apartment listing on his phone and nodded. “Agreed. Next?”
We were sitting in his truck in a coffee shop parking lot, scrolling through rental listings like normal people. Like a couple. It still felt surreal.
One month ago, the world had watched us kiss at center ice. One month ago, June had been fielding death threats and interview requests in equal measure. One month ago, I'd been convinced this would destroy everything.
Now we were apartment hunting.
“What about this one?” I turned my phone toward him. “Two bedroom, close to the arena, allows dogs.”
“We don't have a dog.”
“We could get a dog.”
Grant looked at me, eyebrow raised. “You want a dog?”
“I don't know. Maybe?” I scrolled through the photos. “It just feels like the kind of thing people do when they move in together. Get a dog. Be domestic.”
His mouth twitched. “We can table the dog conversation for after we find a place to live.”
“Fine.” I kept scrolling. “But I'm not ruling it out.”
The past month had been a blur. The league had launched an immediate investigation—interviews with the team, review of my playing time and ice assignments, examination of every decision Grant had made since taking the job. June had coordinated our statements. Paul had oscillated between damage control and opportunism. The media had dissected every moment of our relationship they could find evidence of.
And then, two weeks ago, the league had released their findings.
No evidence of favoritism or misconduct. Coach Sutherland maintained professional standards in all on-ice decisions. Player Hartley's ice time and roster placement were consistent with performance metrics. The relationship, while unconventional, did not compromise the integrity of team operations.
Grant had been cleared. Fully. The organization had released a statement supporting him, and Paul—opportunistic bastard that he was—had spun it as the Wolves being “progressive leaders in professional sports.”
Ticket sales had spiked. Sponsorships had increased. Turns out, being on the right side of history was good for business.
But more than that, we were free. Free to be public. Free to be together without hiding. Free to do normal couple shit like argue about apartments and whether we needed two bathrooms or if one was fine.
