Page 115 of Arctic Titans of Northwood U: Volume 3

Griffin stepped out onto the ice. The sound of his blades hitting the surface carried through the speakers, sharp and definitive. He looked straight ahead, eyes locked on mine. The camera swung slightly, catching the stunned faces of players and coaches, before Griffin raised the phone again.

“I love you, Andrei Sokolov,” he said, voice steady, echoing through the rink and across a thousand screens. “You’re my favorite part of the day, my calm in the noise, my reason to wake up. You make me braver than I’ve ever been. And I’m done hiding. So here it is. I love you.”

The silence that followed was complete, an entire arena holding its breath.

I was silent, too. Drowned in the quiet.

Then the crowd erupted.

The sound was tidal, crashing, unstoppable. Players slammed sticks on the boards. Fans screamed. Phones flashed from every section.

At first, I couldn’t move a finger. My body felt suspended in heat and disbelief. Then my teammates shoved me gently forward, yelling my name, and pushing me toward Griffin.

I skated out to meet him.

Griffin lowered the phone, still live, and smiled. It was a devastatingly nervous smile, relieved, glowing under the lights. When I reached him, I dropped my stick and my helmet, and for the first time in my life, I wrapped my arms around someone I loved in front of everyone.

The crowd didn’t fade. The world didn’t end. The only thing that mattered was the warmth pressed against me and the truth that no longer had to be hidden.

I whispered against Griffin’s ear, “You really are insane.”

“Clinically, my love,” Griffin said. His quiet laugh brushed my neck. “Took you long enough to figure that out.”

I smiled, eyes burning, heart hammering against my rib cage. “I love you, too, Griff. Always have.”

The crowd roared again, drowning out everything but the sound of the two of us.

When Griffin pressed his lips against mine, the cheers rose so high that the roof of the rink trembled. Moments later, Griffin and I weren’t alone in the spotlight. Arctic Titans crowded around us, a team of brothers who stood by one another without conditions and without questions. They formed a wall of protection, letting Griffin’s kiss last a while longer.

Tears streamed down my face as my ears hurt.

Griffin pulled back and looked at me, his eyes glimmering with tears, his dimples large and beautiful when he smiled. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

I shook my head. “You haven’t.” I held on to him, held on to his jersey like I would be drowned in the crowd if I let go. “You’ve made me happy, Griff. Happier than I’ve ever been.”

“Forgive me,” he said, pulling me closer into his arms.

“Griffin,” I said. “There has never been anything to forgive. Not a thing. And I’ll spend my life proving it.”

“Then I will spend mine making you happy,” he said.

He kissed me again. The noise in the rink lifted us up first, and then our teammates did, quite literally. They pulled us apart, lifting us high up for the swarming cameras to capture the moment.

And I didn’t mind it. Because we weren’t playing anymore. We weren’t pretending. We were just ourselves at last.

Finally, finally free.

EPILOGUE

Eight Months Later

The Thinker was buzzing with activity outside our somber little bubble. We joined the tables for all the Arctic Titans and their plus-ones. Andrei sat next to me, comfortable under the arm I draped over his shoulders. It would soon be a year since the first stories appeared on a fan fiction website, before the first Griffdrei edits began trending.

Now, we sat in a crowded bar with our team, celebrating Phoenix’s departure and mourning it at the same time.

Jaxon leaned into Phoenix’s side, whispering something that made our captain smile in that private way reserved for moments no one else was meant to see. They’d be heading to Chicago together next week. Phoenix had signed with the Blackhawks, a dream realized earlier than any of us had expected. The scouts had been circling since midseason, and Phoenix’s performance in the playoffs had sealed it. Now, he was turning pro at barely twenty-two, leaving us behind but moving toward everything he’d worked for.

“Speech,” Mason called out, banging his fist on the table with cheerful aggression. “Come on, Captain. Give us something to cry about.”