“From a possession law argument.”
“You said a true thing to a stranger who wasn’t going to remember it.” The corner of his mouth. “I remembered it.”
My face goes red. I look at the city. He watches me look at the city and doesn’t say anything about my face and that’s him too — knowing when to let something just sit there.
“Damn,” he says.
I look at him. “What.”
“You look good.”
“We just won the Stanley Cup.”
“I know.”
“You’re still—”
“Yeah,” he says. “Still.”
I shake my head. He takes my hand. The city is loud and bright and completely alive around us and we are walking through Canyon Bay celebrating something we were part of and I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Not watching it.
In it.
What happens after I’ll keep mostly to myself. I will say this. At some point his shirt was gone, and my hand found the griffin on his right arm.
Guardian. Power. Courage. Protection.
The first time he told me what it meant, the word hit wrong for half a second. Griffin. One name my body still knew how to brace against.
But this was not that.
This griffin lived on Jax Mercer’s skin. Wings and claws and quiet violence, yes, but not the kind that corners. Not the kind that takes. Not the kind that feeds you a lie and lets you carry the damage. This one guarded. This one stayed.
And when my fingers found the compass on his shoulder, I remembered what he’d said.
Keeps me pointed.
I used to think direction meant leaving before anyone could make it hurt. Then Jax Mercer looked at me like coming homewas the only place either of us had been heading all along. His house. His kitchen.
The Cup on the counter. His hands on me like the whole night has narrowed to this room, this breath, this thing between us that has been building one look, one almost, one impossible choice at a time, and finally has nowhere left to hide.
I’ll say this, the man plays hockey the way he does everything else — like he’s already read the play, like he knows exactly where it’s going, like he has all the time in the world and intends to use it.
It was the best night of my life.
By morning, that photograph will be on every sports outlet in the country.
I will never say I’m sorry.
Neither will he.
My phone buzzes at 3:14.
We’re at his place, half-asleep, my hand on his chest. It’s on his side of the bed, so he reaches for it before I do.
Reads it.
