Page 104 of Pucking One Night Stand
My hand slips into my jacket pocket. The ring’s still there.
Okay, here we go again.
I hold it out between us. No speech. No buildup. I’m done with the dramatic bullshit.
“Cassy, will you marry me?”
I hold my breath. Not from nerves, not really. It’s everything, the game, making out like teenagers in a locker room, then carrying her half-conscious up the driveway like some idiot in a romance movie. It’s been a long damn night.
She turns to me, mouth curled up, eyes soft. And she kisses me. Light and warm. Her voice brushes against my jaw. “Yes.”
I’ve faced off against monsters in skates, taken checks that cracked ribs, dropped gloves with guys twice my weight, but nothing, nothing compares to how my heart damn near stopped when she whispered that word.
I slide the ring onto her finger. It’s a perfect fit, and I press a kiss to her knuckles, something in me finally quieting down. “I love you, future Mrs. Mitchell.”
She smirks, her eyes full of fire, and tucks herself even tighter against me. “You know what, Mitchell? I love you, too.”
The end!
Epilogue - Seven Years Later
Cassy
If you’d told me seven years ago that I’d be sitting here actually crying over my father in public…I probably would’ve laughed in your face and poured another glass of wine. But here we are.
The Club Lexus at the Aces’ Silver State Arena doesn’t look like itself tonight. It’s been transformed. Everything’s draped in black and gold like we’re at some luxury coronation.
Huge banners hang from the walls, each one marking another milestone of my father’s twenty-two-year legacy with the Las Vegas Aces.
They’ve got him mid-shout on one, mid-fist-pump on another. There’s even one where he’s grinning, which had to be a miracle to catch on camera because that man scowled through most of my childhood.
Golden accents glow from above, warm lighting reflecting off polished tables and glittering wine glasses. The scent of seared steak and garlic-butter shrimp blends with the bite of whiskey being poured at the bar.
Most of the guests have designated seats, big-name execs, current players, and VIP sponsors who donated just enough to feel important.
Mikey and Calam, along with the rest of the media, linger near the press zone, some perched with tablets and mics, others gossiping by the wall like it’s high school prom for sports journalism.
Then there’s the arena staff, dressed up for once, drinking like we don’t all have emails to answer in the morning.
My Dad, Coach McCallum, King of the Ice, Destroyer of Refs, and Official Terrifier of Men, is seated right up front. At the VIP table.
Blake’s beside him. He’s assistant Coach now, which still feels weird to say out loud. He’s got that unreadable thing going on, like he’s watching everything but reacting to nothing.
Dad isn’t speaking much either. Just nodding along to whoever’s trying to talk to him. All that booming swagger he’s known for? Gone. What’s left is... a little lost, if I’m honest.
He glances over at me.
It hits like a puck to the chest. A lump appears in my throat. I swallow hard. He takes a sip of whatever’s in that crystal glass, his eyes roaming the space around him.
The faces. The history. The weight of it all is pressing in on him from every direction. And the guests know it. There’s this hum in the air, anticipation is strung tight across the room.
Riley leans toward me, still going off about vacation time. “I’m not asking to be off for a month, I just want three days in Cabo. Three!”
Valerie lifts her wine glass, unimpressed. “You picked the week of preseason interviews. Again.”
“It’s the cheapest time to go!” Riley hisses.
I tune them out and scan the room.
