Mills doesn’t look like a billionaire who needs worship.He looks like someone who understands exactly what this team means to the city—and refuses to be the guy who ruins it.
He claps once.“Hell of a win.We’re headed to the playoffs.”
The guys erupt, loud and proud, pounding sticks and lockers.
Mills’s gaze finds me, then Cally.A small nod.Approval, measured.
Then he says, casual, as if he’s talking about travel schedules, “Quick reminder.We treat everyone here like professionals.You protect your teammates on the ice and outside.”
His eyes slide to Cally—giving him the floor.
Cally clears his throat.
And I feel it in my gut before he even speaks: this is not about hockey.
“You might hear some noise about my private life,” Cally says, voice calm, but his shoulders tighten, and I know him well enough to recognize what he’s doing—choosing honesty over letting someone else control the story.“My family likes to ...air things out when they want leverage.When they want to fuck with whoever steps out of line.”
He pauses.
Then he looks at me.
“So yeah,” he says, and his voice steadies on the edge of something real, “I’m dating Alberto ‘Monty’ Wade.We’re in a relationship with the best woman in the world.”Another beat.“We’re not here to bring bad press to a franchise that’s welcomed us.We’re here to win.And to live our lives.”
There’s a second where the room is silent—not judging, not laughing, just absorbing.
Santos is the first one to move.He steps in and pats Cally’s shoulder.“You’re safe here,” he says simply.“Need anything, you tell us.”
A couple guys nod.Someone mutters, “Hell yeah,” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Santos smirks.“I’ll give you my husband’s number.Our PR is pretty good at handling ...problems.”His grin turns wicked.“And deleting digital footprints.”
A laugh breaks through the tension.
Mills looks at me again—direct, not cold—and I feel seen in a way I didn’t expect from a man who signs checks.
“This organization has your backs,” he says.“Do your jobs, take care of each other, and let us handle the rest.”
Then he turns to the room.“Good win.Get some rest.Tomorrow we fly home.”
He leaves.
The noise returns—louder now, like everyone needed permission to exhale.
But Cally’s words stick to my skin.
And then, because Cally has never been built for subtlety, he grabs my jersey and kisses me.
Hard.
His mouth is hot, insistent, triumphant—like he’s still on that breakaway and he’s decided he’s not missing.
Someone whoops.Someone laughs.Someone starts chanting something obscene.
Cally breaks the kiss just long enough to press his forehead to mine, eyes bright, voice low.
“Good game, babe,” he murmurs.“Let’s shower and get out of here.”
My heart is kicking like it wants to crawl out of my ribcage.
