Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Parker
Bowen walked through the apartment door, and the sight of him landed like a blow. The deep, haggard lines etched into his forehead made him look older, as though the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders and refused to let go. The purple bags beneath his eyes were stark against his skin, rivaling the size of the bulging duffel in his hand.
My heart splintered as I took in his state. We’d spoken briefly after the game, but nothing in his demeanor had hinted at just how much the loss had taken out of him. It wasn’t just a game—it was his life, his passion, and to see him like this, so defeated, hurt me in ways I couldn’t even begin to describe.
The moment he cleared the doorway, his duffel and suitcase hit the floor with a heavy thud, as if they were as exhausted as he was. Without thinking, I crossed the room in quick strides and wrapped my arms around his waist, pulling him close. I needed him to feel my support, to know that no matter what, I was here for him.
He patted my back, the gesture awkward, almost hesitant. “You’re here,” he said, his voice rough, tinged with disbelief.
“Of course I’m here,” I assured him, laying my cheek against his chest. “Where else would I be?”
A low growl vibrated against my cheek. “I thought maybe your father—” He paused, the words seeming to catch in his throat. “I thought maybe your father had called you and?—”
I pulled back slightly, enough to look up at him, frowning at the anxiety etched in his expression. “And what?”
His shoulders slumped. “We need to talk.”
The seriousness in his tone sent a chill skittering down my spine, and I tried to lighten the mood with a weak smile. “That sounds ominous,” I teased, but the joke fell flat.
He took my hand and led me to the sofa. “Sit.”
I raised an eyebrow at his commanding tone.
“Please,” he added.
I sank into the cushions, my heart pounding with fear and uncertainty. Bowen began pacing in front of me, his hand repeatedly scrubbing through his hair, leaving it mussed. Every step he took, every pass of his hand through his hair, heightened the tension in the room.
“What is it?” I asked, barely above a whisper, my stomach churning with dread.
He stopped pacing and turned to face me, but his gaze avoided mine. “Your…your parents came to see me last night.”
My breath caught in my throat, a rush of cold fear washing over me. Knowing my father, it hadn’t been a social call. “What did they say?” I gritted out.
Bowen hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “Your father offered my mother a job.”
I cocked my head to the side, waiting for the trap I knew was coming.
“If I broke up with you.” The words hung between us.
The air seemed to thicken, the room closing in around me. I couldn’t believe they were doing this to me—no, to us. I knew Bowen wanted a better job for his mother, and my dad’s offer would have been lucrative—and a tempting bribe. Through numb lips, I forced myself to ask, “What was your answer?”
His gaze snapped to mine, surprise flickering in his eyes as if he hadn’t expected the question. “I told him no.” He narrowed his eyes, his gaze searching my face. “Isn’t that the answer you wanted me to give him?”
I exploded off the couch and barreled into him, knocking him back a step. His arms came up to catch me, and I clung to him. “Yes.” I leaned back just enough to look up at him, giving him a soft smile. I rose on my toes and pressed a kiss to his lips.
What started as a gentle, reassuring kiss quickly deepened, the emotions swirling between us too intense to contain. His arms tightened around me, pulling me closer as the kiss became a fervent declaration of our…affection…for each other. The world faded away, and I forgot all about my father.
We spent the night affirming our…connection. By morning, I lay beside Bowen, my head resting on his chest, his heart beating beneath my ear. I was more deeply in love with Bowen than ever.
I had to find the right time to tell him how I felt. I didn’t want him to think I was professing my love in response to my father’s manipulation. I wanted him to believe my sincerity. There could be no doubt in his mind.
I formed a plan.
I arrived early, and the arena was only half full. But the buzz of the crowd struck me like lightning as I descended the stairs, the electricity thrilling. This was it: the last game of the Stanley Cup Finals. If the Blazers won tonight, they would raise the Cup on home ice. The thought sent a shiver down my spine.
I kept my eyes fixed on my feet, each step down the arena stairs measured and cautious so I wouldn’t trip. At my side, Darlene—Bowen’s mother—moved with an effortless grace, almost floating down the steps. The excitement of being in San Jose radiated from her. She’d been looking forward to this moment, and her joy was contagious, warming me despite the nerves that twisted tight in my stomach.
My heart pounded, each beat echoing in my ears as I clutched the three signs I’d had printed at Staples. My hands trembled, the paper crumpling under my nervous grip. When we reached our row, I froze. A couple blocked our way. My gaze swept from their Louboutin heels and polished wingtips, both incongruous and impeccable in this sea of jerseys and sneakers, up to the all-access passes that hung from their necks.
But their faces hit me like a splash of cold water. Recognition jolted through me, and I gasped, the sound caught somewhere between disbelief and frustration. “Mom!” I managed, voice tight with astonishment. Then I ground out, “Father.” The word tasted sour on my tongue, a reminder of everything I’d run from.
I frowned and tilted my head, confusion battling with an old, well-worn resentment. “What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to make sense of it. At a hockey game, of all places?
“Parker…” My father wavered, unusually hesitant. For a man who routinely faced down entire boards of hostile executives without flinching, he looked strangely vulnerable, his gaze softer than I remembered. “Your mother has convinced me that you should be able to make your own decisions.” He cleared his throat, the sound strained. “I won’t interfere in your choices, and I wish you and Bowen the best.”
My mother offered me a gentle wink, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. The warmth in her eyes was the closest thing to an apology I’d receive.
My mouth dropped open, astonishment hollowing out my lungs. Was this real? After years of friction and disapproval, had my father taken a step toward acceptance?
Then he turned to Darlene, extending a pristine business card with his usual confident nature. “Mrs. Monroe,” he said, more formal now, “I’d like to offer you a job in the marketing department of one of our subsidiaries. Please call the number on the card to arrange an interview. They’re expecting to hear from you.”
Darlene blinked, her eyes wide as she took the card in trembling hands, clutching it to her chest. Her voice wobbled. “Th-thank you, Mr. Brevos. I will.”
Father nodded, short and sharp. “We’ll be watching the game from the owner’s suite.”
The owner’s suite. Of course. But he’d come to reconcile with me, to bridge the divide between us for the first time. My breath froze in my throat.
“Good luck to the Blazers.”
He’d chosen sides, and he’d chosen the Blazers over Boston.
I watched them go, my gaze following their retreat up the stairs, my mouth still slightly agape. “Did that really just happen?” My mind reeled, caught between the disbelief of their presence here and the quiet thrill of my father’s unexpected blessing. It was as if the foundation of everything I’d known had shifted, leaving me unsteady, unsure.
Darlene’s fingers found my arm, her grip warm and reassuring as she leaned in, her smile lighting up her face. “It really did. I’m happy for you,” she whispered.
I mentally shook my head, bringing me back to myself. We filed down the row to our seats, and the WAGs greeted me with warm smiles, tight hugs, and congratulations at my reconciliation with my father. They’d had front row seats, watching as my family took a step closer to me.
Their excitement made the butterflies in my stomach flutter even more. I had asked them to arrive early for support, knowing I’d need every bit of it. My stomach churned with anxiety and anticipation.
The arena’s house lights cast a glow over the ice, The Stanley Cup Finals emblazoned at center ice, a stark reminder of what was at stake. As the team skated onto the rink for warm-ups, the sounds of blades slicing across the ice, sticks clacking against pucks, and the murmur of the crowd created a symphony of enthusiasm for the game to come. The speakers in the rafters blared hard rock, the bass throbbing through my chest.
I handed the first sign to Whitney, seated to my right. She took one look at it and laughed, her eyes sparkling with approval. “Perfect!” she said. On my left, Darlene took the third sign in the row, examining it before breaking into a wide grin.
I inhaled deeply, trying to calm my nerves, but the tremble in my hands wouldn’t go away. My eyes darted to the ice, where Bowen was in the middle of drills. He looked so focused, so in control, and I silently cheered when he effortlessly whacked a puck past Hudson. A soft groan escaped Whitney, and I suppressed a smile at her expense.
The music transitioned, and the opening strands of Taylor Swift’s “Love Story” drifted through the arena. A small, excited eep escaped from a girlfriend behind me. My stomach flipped as Bowen paused on the ice, sliding to a halt in a snow shower. Even from this distance, I could see the confusion on his face as he scanned our row.
My heart raced, and I swallowed hard. “Here we go,” I said just loud enough for the women on both sides of me to hear. Whitney, Darlene, and I stood in unison, holding up our signs. Whitney’s read, “It’s a love story.” Mine, the most nerve-wracking, simply said, “I love you.” Darlene’s poster completed the trio with, “Baby, just say, ‘Yes.’”
For a moment, time seemed to freeze. Bowen stood, motionless, his gaze locked on our signs. The rest of the team had stopped, too, their warm-up routine forgotten as they watched the drama unfold. My heart tripped over itself, fear gripping me. Had I made a mistake? What if I had just humiliated him in front of his teammates, in front of the entire arena?
Then, Bowen’s lips twitched, and I held my breath. Slowly, he skated over to the boards near the bench, as close to me as he could get. His gaze never wavered, and in that moment, the rest of the world faded away. It was just him and me, the weight of my confession hanging in the air between us.
His lips moved, and though I couldn’t hear him over the music, I saw the word clearly: “Yes.” My heart soared as he placed his gloved hand over his heart, his eyes softening as he held my gaze. Then he mouthed the words I’d hoped I’d hear. “I love you.”
A broad smile spread across my face, and tears prickled at the corners of my eyes. The WAGs and Darlene erupted in cheers around me. I threw Bowen a kiss, my chest swelling with so much joy it felt like it might burst. His lips quirked up, then he turned back to the ice, the last notes of the song fading as he rejoined the warm-ups.
The game hadn’t even started, but I’d already won. My heart felt light and free. No matter what happened on the ice tonight, I had just scored a victory that belonged to us alone.