Like she wasn’t already claimed.
Like she wasn’t already mine.
The possessiveness that had surged through me when I’d skated over to the boards wasn’t something I’d experienced before. I’d spent my entire adult life avoiding exactly this feeling—this desperate, clawing need to mark my territory. To make sure everyone knew who she belonged to.
Because that kind of feeling was dangerous. That kind of feeling led to broken promises and shattered hearts and becoming exactly the kind of man I’d sworn I’d never be.
But watching another guy lean into her space, watching him smile at her like he had a chance—something had snapped inside me. And instead of running from that feeling, I’d embraced it.
Yes, the fuck I am. Now get the fuck away from my girl.
The words had come out before I could stop them, and the moment they’d left my mouth, I’d felt something shift in my chest. Like a lock clicking open on a door I’d kept barricaded for years and it had finally swung wide open.
Foster skated over, grinning like an idiot, and clapped me on the shoulder. “Hell of a game, Farrell.”
“Thanks, man.” But I was already moving toward the locker room, my legs carrying me faster than they had all night.
“Where’s the fire?” Gordy called after me.
I didn’t answer and didn’t have time to explain. I just needed to get to her, which meant getting out of this gear.
In the locker room, I stripped faster than I ever had in my life, not bothering with the usual post-game ritual of savoring the win.
“Dude, slow down,” Foster said, watching me yank a clean shirt over my head as the rest of the team filtered in. “The party’s not going anywhere.”
“Not going to the party.”
He raised an eyebrow, then understanding dawned. “Ah. Going to find a certain someone?”
I didn’t answer. Just shoved my feet into my shoes and headed for the door.
Drew was across the room, still in his pads, talking to Coach. Our eyes met for just a second. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away and didn’t glare. I’d take it as another win.
I pushed through the locker room door and into thecorridor where families and friends always gathered after games. The crowd was thick with people, and there, hovering at the edge of it all, was Ava.
She was standing with Sam, Abby, and Harper, that lush lip of hers trapped between her teeth. When her gaze landed on me, she froze.
I didn’t hesitate or give myself time to second-guess.
I walked straight to her, cupped her face in my hands, and kissed her.
Not a gentle kiss or a tentative kiss. It was a claiming kiss—the kind that left no room for doubt or interpretation. The kind that saidyou’re mineandI’m yoursandI’m done pretending otherwise.
Her hands fisted in my shirt as she melted against me, and I heard cheers from the people around us. Let them watch. Let them all watch. I was done hiding.
When I finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard. Her eyes were wide, searching my face like she was looking for the catch. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips swollen and she’d never looked more beautiful.
“You’re wearing my backup jersey for all future games,” I said, my voice rough. “Just FYI.”
She blinked. “What?”
“My jersey. Number twenty-seven. I’ll bring it to you before the next game.” I traced my thumb along her cheekbone, unable to stop touching her even for a second. “Apparently I’m a jealous bastard, because I can’t stand seeing other guys hit on you when you’re taken.”
“Am I?” she asked quietly. “Taken?”
I leaned my forehead against hers, close enough that my next words were just for her.
“Yes, you’re taken. I love you, Ava.”
