Shocked, and potentially not in a good way.
“What do you say?” I asked softly, my heart beating rapidly as worry gripped me. I may have just made a very grave error in judgment.
All at once, Sebastian's mouth curled into a wide smile, his amber eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ve been in love with you since I was twenty-one years old,” he said finally. “So yes. Absolutely yes. It’s always been yes.”
EPILOGUE
TAYLOR
Three Years Later
The arena was packedto the rafters, the majority of the crowd rocking our teal and white, the rest in the red and black of the Boston Minuteman.
We were protecting a 3-2 lead with six minutes left in the third when their right winger came down the boards hard, looking to make something happen. I read the way he dropped his shoulder and the slight hesitation before he committed to the outside edge, and stepped up to meet him, driving him into the glass with enough force that it rattled. The Boston fans sitting there erupted, booing me and telling me to get fucked.
I grinned and gave them a little wave before skating off.
Thirty seconds later, I stripped the puck off their center at the blue line, and the roar that went up was immediate.
“T-Mo!”
Six years with the Marauders and I still wasn’t used to it.
I pushed up ice and found Rhys cutting hard up the left side. When he’d signed with the team three years ago, I worried my career was over. Now, we were one of the strongest defensive pairings in the division, skating like we’d been paired our wholecareers. He knew where I’d be before I got there. I knew the same about him.
I fed him the puck, and he walked it to the circle, roofing it over the goalie’s glove faster than the man could react.
Our fans exploded.
I got to Rhys first, crashing into him hard. He laughed and shoved me off.
“Little soft on the pass,” he chirped.
“You still scored,” I pointed out.
“Barely.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
Bell slammed into us from behind, shouting, “I fucking love this team!” as Cally and Ports piled on.
Back in the locker room, fresh off a 4-2 win, Ports was riding a boxer-clad Cally’s back, smacking his flank like he was a horse, as they shot around the room hooting and hollering. Bell was holding court in the center, gesticulating broadly as he gave his play-by-play breakdown of how we’d smoked the best team in the division. I watched Rhys—a man who, for the first year I knew him, scowled more than he smiled—try and fail to keep a straight face.
“Drinks at The Upside Down!” Bell called out. “First round’s on me.”
“Yes!” Ports shouted, hopping off Cally’s back and draping his arm over his shoulder.
“You coming?” Rhys asked.
“Can’t,” I said, shaking my head. “Sebastian’s plane landed an hour ago.”
Bell sauntered over. “You’re no fun anymore.”
“I amextremelyfun. I’m just fun at home now.” I waggled my eyebrows, and Rhys made a faux gagging noise.
I bumped his shoulder with mine. “If Si wasn’t in Pittsburgh for that wedding, you’d be rushing out alongside me.”
“True,” he smirked, grabbing his keys and wallet from his stall and calling out to Cally, who’d finally put on some clothes. That guy was naked more often than not. “Come on, boys. Let’s get you fed before you start drinking.”
