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"Ty. Come on.” He gestures for us to head down the hallway. "Cameron tells me you haven't seen the plans yet."

Her forehead crinkles with confusion. “Plans?”

Ty glances at me. I shrug. He smiles.

We turn a corner, and Charles Sutton, the Fury’s owner, stands outside a conference room, adjusting his suit jacket. "Ms. Beckett." He shakes her hand. "Outstanding season. The Uprising made us all proud this year.”

"Thank you, Mr. Sutton."

"Shall we?" He opens the conference room door. Inside, the architect gal is arranging papers and a 3-D model of my best idea yet. Briar tilts her head, trying to read the description of a super-enhanced version of the booth where I watched the final with Deen.

"What is this?"

"A sensory-friendly space for the arena,” Ty says. "Cameron approached me after the final about building a permanent version of the solution we improvised for Delphine. A place where guests with sensory sensitivities can attend events in comfort. Both Fury and Uprising home games, as well as any concerts or performances that might be held here.”

"We've been discussing this for years," Sutton adds. "Cameron offered to fund the build-out, which accelerated our timeline considerably."

Briar's hand finds mine under the table. She squeezes. Her nails press into my skin.

"The paperwork is ready," Ty says, sliding a folder across the table. "We just need Cameron's signature, and then we'll announce it at the joint press conference next week."

I open the folder and show Briar the final contract for The Beckett Box. Briar’s voice is barely audible as she reads aloud, “dedicated to all fans who experience the world a little differently.” She makes a sound, and tears begin to slide down her face.

"Cameron." Her voice is barely there. "You named it after us."

"I named it after DD.” I take the pen Ty offers. "Your sister showed me what was missing. This should have existed all along."

I sign the papers. Ty shakes my hand. Sutton shakes my hand. Briar leaps into my lap, testing the leather chair's springs as she peppers my face with a thousand kisses. “Thank you," she whispers. "Thank you."

* * *

Later that evening, we sit on her couch, planning. Briar has her feet in my lap while Puck snuggles into her lap like he’s a nice cat and not a total menace. I run a thumb along the arch of her foot, and she finally says, "I know this isn't fixed.” Her foot twitches, ticklish under my touch. “Our patterns… the stuff Odin talks about. I am still going to feel like I’m on watch. And you’re probably still going to fix all the problems.”

“Yeah.” I gesture toward the paperwork on her coffee table. “Some problems are easy to fix, and that feels really good.”

Briar nods. “It takes time, right? But I want to do the work. With you.” She smiles, and I lean forward, settling behind her as the big spoon. She rolls to face me. “I want to be the person who calls you on your shit, and I want you to call me on mine. And I really want to be boring with you, except when we’re in that shower together.”

I look at her. Briar Beckett, league champion, Olympic gold medalist, the toughest woman I've ever met. "I want that too," I say. “Especially the shower part.” I waggle my eyebrows, and she laughs.

Puck knocks something over in the kitchen with a metallic clang, and he yowls. Briar whispers, “Your cat is an evil dictator.”

“He’s our chaos gremlin, for sure.” I kiss her long and slow, like we have our whole lives ahead of us. Because we do. The sun sets while we make out on her couch, and we eventually relocate to her bed, where she agrees to let me pay for movers to get us settled into the bigger house. “I love you,” I tell her, sucking her earlobe between my teeth.

“I love you more.” She kisses me, her off-season nails digging into my chest, a pleasant sting.

“We can debate that later,” I tell her, holding nothing back as I show her exactly how much I need her, now and always.

Briar

The Uprising have taken over Gianna’s Meatball Joint, and she has welcomed us with a custom ball: The Uprising, of course. “I used rye whiskey in the sauce,” she says, shrugging into the jersey we gifted her after we all signed it.

Ducky starts to talk about the history of the Whiskey Rebellion in Pittsburgh, but she stops when she tastes the meaty perfection Gianna offers, standing with her hands on her hips, smiling down at us as we sit at the wooden tables.

Ducky swallows her bite, then closes her eyes. "Gianna. Marry me."

“Maybe if I’m still single when I’m thirty.” Gianna winks, then turns on her heel, heading back to the kitchen. "Pace yourself. There's more coming."

Ducky, Tate, and I inhale custom meatballs and debate whether Tate’s new tattoo looks more like a phoenix or a chicken. This is my ideal off-season. Not foam-rolling alone in my townhouse. Not orbiting Deen's group home within a six-block radius. This — meatballs with my teammates, settling in with my live-in boyfriend, simple pleasures.