Page 179

Cally stared the older man down for a long beat. Then he pulled out a chair, and sat, angling his knees toward him.

“I know this situation isn’t ideal, and we’ve created a shitstorm for you. You invested in me when you had every reason to bolt, and I appreciate that this situation puts you in a difficult position.”

Voss gave him a slow, beatific nod as if to say, “yes we did” and “thank you for acknowledging it” as Cally’s dad pushed off the window ledge and strolled closer, his hands sliding into his front pockets.

I stepped behind Cally’s chair, resting my hands along the top. He might be a commodity to this organization, but he was my husband, and I would always have his back—literally and figuratively. We were a united front, and the sooner Voss understood that, the better.

“I also know that wasn’t out of the goodness of your heart,” he continued. “You’re in the hockey business, and I’m a commodity. Now, you expect that commodity to come good. You brought me here with the expectation that I could turn this team around, and I haven’t been⁠—”

Voss opened his mouth, but Cally held up his hand, cutting off whatever he’d been about to say. “No. Let me finish.”

I moved my hands from the back of the chair onto Cally’s shoulders. Beneath my palms, his body was vibrating. I squeezed tight. I’m here. I’ve got you. No matter what happens, we’re in this together.

He dropped his head back, glancing up at me as if he’d heard the message I’d sent down through his body, then tipped his head forward again. When he started speaking, his voice had lost some of its wobble.

“I haven’t been able to do that because I’ve been fucking terrified. Every single day, I live with the knowledge that who I am could ruin me. And then I fell in love with a man—my teammate, no less—which means I could ruin him, now, too.”

He reached up, resting his hand over mine, his ring on clear display lest anyone forget what had brought us here.

“But a week ago, I realized I don’t want to be afraid anymore.” He lifted his chin lifted proudly. “If people want to call me a fag and say I shouldn’t be allowed to play the sport I’ve given my whole life to? Fuck them. They want to burn our jerseys or cancel season tickets? Let them.

“This is my guarantee to you, right here, right now—for every one of them, two more fans will line up to buy our jerseys and take their place in those seats. Queer fans will rally around this team unlike anything you’ve ever seen in the NHL. You take a stand and show the world you support us—truly—and we’ll deliver the wins you so desperately want on a silver fucking platter. No.” He shook his head hard, his hand falling away from mine to rest on the table top in front of him. “Not a platter—a goddamn Cup.”

I’d listened to Cally give long, rambling speeches on just about every random topic you could think of, and I’d been endlessly charmed and fascinated each time. But I’d never heard him speak this long or this passionately, about something so clearly important to him that he was willing to risk everything for it.

I wasn’t sure I’d ever loved anyone more than I loved this man at this exact moment.

“That’s … quite the speech,” Voss said slowly, glancing around as if to take stock of the temperature in the room.

For the first time since Cally started speaking, I allowed myself to do the same—starting with his dad.

Tears tracked freely down Robert Callahan’s face as he turned to face our GM. “You won’t get a better offer than that from anyone. So what’s it going to be?”

EPILOGUE

CALLY

Several Seasons Later

Their blue-liner sent a panicked dump down the ice, and the whistle blew. Hendricks called our line, and I launched myself over the wall. The landing sent a jolt of pain straight to the massive purple bruise wrapping my torso, and I hissed as my skates bit into chewed-up ice. Mikey vaulted over directly behind me, his glove tapping the back of my hip before we split.

This was it—game seven of the Stanley Cup finals, at home, the score tied at two apiece.

For years, Bell had carried this team on his back, but today, Mikey and I were going to deliver—just like I’d promised Voss back in that conference room all those years ago.

Mikey glanced over at me and our eyes locked, a whole silent conversation taking place in the space between one heartbeat and the next. This is ours. We leave it all out here. I love you. Then he sank low into his stance, choked down on his shaft, and set his blade in position.

The linesman dropped the puck, and Mikey tied up their center’s stick, taking a vicious cross-check to the ribs in the process. He leaned his weight into the guy, kicked the puck back to Anderson, and exploded forward.

“Go!” Mikey barked.

I dug my edges into the ice and took off.

Thirty seconds left.

Anderson worked it around to Dawes on the far wall, and Dawes snapped a tape-to-tape stretch pass across the ice to hit me in stride at their line. Their D-man stepped up to close the gap, but I lowered my shoulder, put the puck on my backhand, and drove straight through his chest. The hit rattled my teeth, but my legs kept churning, dragging him three strides before he slid off. The puck spilled free toward the wall. I lunged, scooped it off the boards, absorbing a slash to my wrists the ref was never going to call, and chipped it out into the neutral zone.

Twenty seconds.