Page 129 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Sarah shoves her snout between Jason’s legs like she’s decided emotional support duty is her job now, and he rewards her with absentminded scratches. Lucian’s already laying out plans for a backyard basketball showdown that will inevitably end with someone in a lawn chair splint.
Hailey’s parading baby Luna around like a quarterback showing off a winning pass. Killion and Kade are arguing—loudly—over who gets dibs on terrorizing Jason at the next family barbecue.
And Jason?
Jason just sits there, grinning at the mayhem like he’s finally—finally—exactly where he belongs.
With me.
With all of us.
He’ll become a Crawford soon, but I’ll also be a Tate. We’ll be one—we’ll be home.
Epilogue
Jason
The thingno one tells you about life changing is that it doesn’t crash like a demolition crew. It sneaks up on you, quiet and patient.
One minute, you’re sitting in a too-small apartment, eating limp pad Thai out of a crumpled carton, wondering if this—hockey, adrenaline, noise—is all there’s ever going to be. The next, you’re watching the woman you love shove her laptop off the coffee table because, apparently, deadlines can wait, but kissing you can’t.
Scottie’s in the kitchen now, barefoot, hair twisted into a bun that’s barely holding on, humming some half-forgotten song while she ransacks the fridge. I’m sprawled on the couch, still half-dressed from practice, sneakers abandoned somewhere, my gear bag slumped by the door like a defeated warrior. It’s a mess. It’s imperfect. It’s home. Ours.
Almost a year since she barged back into my life wearing tiny boots and carrying enough emotional baggage to fill a cargo plane. Nearly a year since I decided I wasn’t going to let her slip through my fingers again. Since then, we’ve somehow built something real—something that didn’t exist before, not even in the vague, hopeful spaces I used to avoid thinking about.
The Vipers made the playoffs. I didn’t just survive the season—I came back meaner, faster, with something to fucking prove. Scottie rebuilt the California clinic from the ground up, expanded into two new cities, and is already scheming about a third. Between road games and board meetings, bad hotel coffee, and missed flights, we stitched a life together somewhere in the middle of a thousand tiny, almost-missed chances. It’s loud and complicated and stupidly good.
We finally made it official six months ago—no more “crashing” or “just until I find a better lease.” We stopped pretending it was temporary. Now, her skincare products have taken over the bathroom shelves. My gear has conquered half the front closet.
We, of course, fight sometimes. Silly shit, like whose turn it is to grocery shop, or who left the heater on and turned the place into a goddamn sauna. But it’s never anything that feels like an ending. If anything, it feels like breathing. It feels like something I didn’t even know how to want until I had it.
Scottie wanders back into the living room, balancing two beers and a plate piled with leftover pasta. She plops down beside me, thigh pressing against mine, warm and familiar, andhands me one without looking. I take it, my fingers brushing hers, watching her out of the corner of my eye while the room falls into that soft, late-afternoon haze.
Fuck, she’s beautiful. Not the glossy, photoshopped kind of beautiful. The real kind. Wrecked and barefoot, her smile a little crooked, her skin flushed from the heat of the kitchen. Beautiful in a way that knocks the air right out of me and makes me wonder how the hell I ever thought life before her was enough.
She catches me staring and snorts, rolling her eyes in that way that somehow makes her even hotter. “What now?” she asks, all mock annoyance, even though I can see the corners of her mouth fighting a smile.
I shrug, playing it cool even though my heart’s trying to beat its way out of my chest. “Just thinking,” I say, taking a sip of beer like that’ll somehow keep me from doing something stupid, like proposing right here with marinara sauce on my shirt.
“Always dangerous,” she deadpans, bumping her shoulder into mine.
“Yeah, well,” I murmur, letting my fingers drift lazily along the back of her hand. “Was thinking maybe next year, we could make some bigger changes.”
She freezes, beer halfway to her mouth. Her eyes lock onto mine—sharp, curious, and just a little guarded. She’s waiting, practically vibrating with it. I don’t say the word. Not tonight. Not yet. But it’s there, thick between us—future and forever wrapped together so tightly there’s no peeling them apart anymore.
Scottie watches me for a long moment, like she’s sorting through every broken and rebuilt piece of me she knows by heart. Then she smiles. Small, private, a little wicked, the kind of smile that’s wrecked me more times than I can count. “You’re already it for me,” she says, voice low, rough around the edges,like maybe she’s feeling it too—the shift, the click, the impossible certainty of this thing we’ve built.
The words gut me in the best way, punching straight through whatever leftover walls I used to hide behind. I lean in and kiss her, slow and sure, savoring the taste of beer and pasta and her, soaking in the way she melts into me without hesitation. No fear. No second-guessing. Just this. Her. Us. Always.
The world smells like ocean salt, sunshine, and whatever sunscreen Scottie’s wearing that makes my brain short-circuit whenever I get within three feet of her. She’s sitting at the edge of the dock, legs dangling over the side, flipping through some travel magazine like she hasn’t already seen every picture a thousand times. The sun’s hitting her shoulders, lighting her up like a fucking dream, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
I should probably say something. Do it the way I planned—words, ring, down-on-one-knee bullshit. But honestly? I’m not good at waiting anymore. Not with her. Not with us.
So I shove my hands into the pockets of my board shorts, rock back on my heels, and say, way too casually, “Thinking about our next big move?”
Scottie glances over her shoulder, giving me a lazy smile that has no right hitting me as hard as it does. “Was thinking we should take a trip,” she says, waving the magazine. “Somewhere warm. Preferably with bottomless margaritas.”
“You planning to kidnap me?” I tease, dropping down beside her. “Tie me to a beach chair and feed me tequila?”
