"Hey," she whispers back.
I press a kiss to the top of her head. "We did it."
"We did," she says, her hand resting on my chest, right over my heart. "You're going to the Championship, Gio."
"I'm going to the show," I correct her. "I'm going pro."
I feel her smile against my skin. "I know. You're going to be amazing."
"Only because you're there."
She lifts her head, looking me in the eye. "I'm always going to be there, Gio. You're stuck with me."
"Good," I say, tightening my hold on her. "Because I'm never letting you go."
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, shattering the quiet. I ignore it at first, but it buzzes again, insistent.
I reach over, squinting at the screen.Unknown Number.
I frown, swiping to answer.
"Hello?"
"Gio! It's Marcus."
My agent. The sound of his voice—high, excited—brings me back to reality instantly.
"Marcus? What's up?"
"Don't ask me how I got this number, just listen to me." He's talking fast, words tumbling over each other. "I just got off the phone with the scouts. The GMs. Everyone. That game tonight? It changed everything. You're a lock."
My heart stumbles. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying the Blackhawks are interested. The Devils. The fucking Kings, Gio. They're projecting you as a first-rounder. A guaranteed first-rounder. You're going to the show."
I stare at the ceiling, the words washing over me.First-rounder. Guaranteed. The show.
It's what I've dreamed of since I was six years old, lacing up skates that were too big for my feet. It's what my father wanted. It's what I fought for.
But the only thing I can think about is the woman lying next to me.
"Gio? You there?"
"Yeah," I say, my voice steady. "I'm here."
"Say it. Tell me you hear me."
"I hear you, Marcus. I'm going pro."
"Damn right you are. Get some rest, kid. We've got a lot of work to do."
He hangs up.
I lower the phone, staring at the black screen.
"What is it?" Zoë asks, propping herself up on her elbow.
I look at her, really look at her. Her hair is messy, her lips are swollen, and she's never looked more beautiful.
