Page 144 of Revolve
“I mean it. But thank you.” She says it with her nose scrunched up.
“Anything for you.” I bring the blanket over both of us, wrapping my arms around her. When I bury my head in the crook of her neck, I let myself breathe in her cherry scent.
And this, right here, it’s home.
EPILOGUE
SIERRA
Seven Years Later
“CLOSE THE BLINDS!”I hiss when the bright morning light assaults my tired eyes.
Dylan doesn’t heed my words. Instead, he rips away the comforter I’m using to shield myself. The cool morning air hits my skin, making me gasp, just before he covers me with all six feet four inches of his warm body.
“Rise and shine, princess,” he murmurs into my hair in that deep, rumbly voice.
The only reason he’s revived that nickname after years is because the massive TV on our bedroom wall is paused mid-movie, stuck on thatARE YOU STILL WATCHING?screen. We got home from a long flight yesterday, and Dylan’s genius plan to beat jet lag was to stay up until our regular bedtime. That meant watching four movies in a row—one of them beingTangled.
When he pulls back, I can’t help but notice he hasn’t changed a bit since college. He’s still got that wavy hockey player hair; that boyish glint in his eyes; and the massive, muscular body I’ve onlyseen grow with time. Sometimes, when we’re at the gym, I just stare while he works out in those tiny shorts and forget to do my own reps. Though the heart rate monitor on my fitness watch would beg to differ.
Now, with his hair mussed and his glasses on, he’s standing shirtless in only a pair of boxers, and, of course, both our gold medals hang from his neck.
I thought winning the Grand Prix a few months back was our peak. But then came the Olympics. We became Olympic gold medalists together. When we stepped onto the top of the podium, getting our medals and flowers, he turned to me and planted the gentlest kiss in my hair. Then he took off his medal and slipped it around my neck.
“They both belong to you,” he whispered. Cameras clicked, and that photo caused a frenzy.
Dylan had already been a fan favorite, especially after someone posted footage of him playing in a beer league game in Toronto one Thanksgiving weekend. Fans dug up his old college hockey clips and paired them with our skating videos. Suddenly, we had a whole new crowd watching us.
A few of them I was ready to threaten with a rusty skate blade if they looked at my boyfriend for too long. He was mine, I knew that. But I needed everyone else to know it too. What really sent me over the edge, though, was a girl at our Desert Ice USFS Open in Vegas holding a sign that read,MARRY ME.
Dylan reaped the benefits of my irritation—jealousy, as he called it—because when we got back to our hotel room, I said, “You know, if you really loved me, I’d have a ring on my finger right now.”
An hour later, we were married by an Elvis minister in a chapel off the Strip, with matching smiley-face tattoos on our ring fingers. Dylan also got my name tattooed over his heart, the same place I rest my hand before each performance. He didn’t hesitate. It was like he’d just been patiently waiting for me to catch up. Like he always does.
“How’s your head?” he asks, pressing his hand to my forehead.
As much as it sucks getting sick after a competition, I don’t mind letting my husband nurse me back to health. He won’t say it, but he loves it too. It’s the only time I let him take care of everything without protest.
“Pounding.”
“Come here, baby,” he whispers, hauling me into his big arms. He leaves light kisses in my hair, cooing that I’ll be okay, and that he’s got me. I feel the faint brush of yarn against my cheek—his makeshift ring. He bought me a real one to wear off the ice, delicate and gold, but I’d knit his as a joke until I could buy him one. Just a loop of black yarn, spiraled neat and small. He looked at it like it was made of diamonds. He still does.
I run the pads of my thumbs below his eyes. “Where’d you go earlier? You weren’t in bed.”
“To check on something,” he says vaguely. Dylan’s been hiding something since we got home. Everyone’s coming over today to see our renovated house, and I was planning on cornering Kian, so he’d tell me.
Three years ago, after months of traveling for competitions, we wanted a home base. The tiny apartment we rented after I graduated college wasn’t cutting it. But we both knew we didn’t want to leave Connecticut. Our families are here. Our friends. The memories.
So, when his mom casually mentioned there was aFOR SALEsign on their old house, we sent in an offer the very next day. The family who lived there hadn’t painted over anything. Dylan’s, Kian’s, and Ada’s heights are still marked on the bathroom door frame. As I stood there admiring the sweet memories a little Dylan must’ve made in this house, he threw me over his shoulder and carried me to his childhood bedroom to christen it. Pretty sure we christened every room before we even had furniture.
“You’re being awfully secretive. I swear, if you bought that sports car to match Aiden and Kian—”
“I didn’t. But we can discuss that another day,” he says, and I narrowmy eyes. “I want to show you something, but you’re going to have to get dressed.”
“Where are we going?”
“Let me worry about that.”
