Page 24 of Pucked Mountain Man
He swallows hard. “You made me realize that even if I never play another game, I’ll be okay. That I’m still me. But life is better with you. You make me laugh when I want to brood. You make me hope when I want to give up. You make me believe there’s more to me than stats and scars. And I love you. I love you so much it makes every excuse I had look pathetic.”
The building erupts. People are clapping, whistling, chanting. The jumbotron flashes his face, mine, the wordsMake her say yes!in obnoxious block letters.
I’m crying, mascara running, heart pounding.
I take the mic back with trembling fingers. “Grady Jones, you’re an idiot.” The crowd laughs. I laugh, watery. “But you’re my idiot. And I love you too. So much.”
His grin is a miracle. He cups my face in both hands right there on the ice, the crowd counting down like it’s New Year’s.
And then he kisses me.
It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s everything we’ve been holding back and everything we almost lost. His brace squeaks, the crowd roars, Thatcher pretends to gag on the bench, and I couldn’t care less.
Because for the first time, it’s not a secret. It’s not borrowed time. It’s us.
It’s real.
EPILOGUE
GRADY
Adrenaline flow through my veins. So strong, I can taste it in the back of my mouth.
It’s been months since my the injury. Months since I thought I’d never feel the burn of ice under my blades again.
But this afternoon, with the blessing of my coaches and trainers, I laced up, stepped out on the ice, and proved I still have something left to give.
One slow lap turned into two. Then drills. Then shots fired hard into the net, my stick cracking with the rhythm I thought I’d lost. The knee held. My lungs burned. And when the final whistle blew at practice, the boys slapped my helmet, hollered my name, grinned like idiots.
Grady Jones is back.
I’m still sweating when I coast to the bench, peel off my helmet, and there she is. Stevie. Waiting at the tunnel with her hair loose and her smile wider than the damn rink.
The sight of her nearly buckles me worse than the injury ever did.
“Rockstar,” I breathe.
She laughs, running a hand over my damp hair, not caring that I probably smell like a locker room. “You did it.”
“Couldn’t have without you,” I say, and I mean every word.
She pulls me down by the collar and kisses me—quick but enough to set the guys behind me howling.
“Get a room!” one of them yells. Another wolf-whistles.
Thatcher jogs by, stick slung over his shoulders, smirk firmly in place. “Don’t distract him too much before the playoffs, sis. We need him functional.”
Stevie rolls her eyes. I flip Thatcher off behind her back. He just grins wider.
“I gotta shower,” I murmur against her hair. “Then I’m taking you to your gig.”
Her eyes light up. She’s been booking steady shows at local clubs, her songs finally spilling out of notebooks and onto stages. Watching her step into the spotlight makes me prouder than any stat sheet ever did.
But before she can lead me off, the weight in my pocket reminds me why I asked her here tonight. Why I couldn’t wait another second.
“Actually,” I say, stopping her. My heart kicks like I’m facing a penalty shot in overtime. “I was gonna wait till later. Candlelight, music, the whole nine yards.”
She tilts her head. “Grady?”
