29. Jinx
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Jinx
Okay.
So I’ve just pulled the single most dramatic move of my life in front of a sold-out stadium, three incredibly hot hockey players, and approximately ten thousand strangers with camera phones.
And somehow? I’m not having a panic attack.
I’m… calm. Steady. Electrified, sure, but in a good way. Like someone plugged me directly into a romcom and hit play on the big kiss.
The arena smells like beer, popcorn, and about twenty years of sweat-soaked plastic seating, and I’m standing here in the middle of it all like I belong.
The crowd is losing its mind. People are chanting my name. Like, full-blown stadium chant, “JINX! JINX! JINX!”
A stranger just fist bumped me. Someone else threw a foam finger at my feet like it’s a Hunger Games tribute, and I’ve just volunteered as girlfriend.
And on the jumbotron?
Yep. That’s my face. Grinning like a maniac, probably blotchy from crying, and way too excited to care. I look like I just got proposed to and won a puppy. Which, honestly, tracks.
And you know what?
It feels right.
Before I can even blink, Ally and Kenzie come barreling toward me like two caffeinated stage moms at a toddler beauty pageant.
Ally’s got her twins on her hips like tiny emotional support mascots, and Kenzie’s pushing the triplets’ stroller, which now has a glittery Marauders flag zip-tied to the handle like a parade float.
Kenzie’s eyes are wild with glee. “You legend. You just hijacked the entire championship and turned it into a damn romcom. Icon behavior.”
Ally throws one arm around me, careful not to crush the still-damp sign trembling slightly in my hands. “It was so you, Jinx. Wild, heartfelt, and just the right amount of chaos. The trifecta.”
Before I can answer, a piercing squawk cuts through the noise.
And then…
Oh my god.
Strutting through the aisle like he owns the place, feathers gleaming and head bobbing with swagger, comes Mac the Macaw—mascot, menace, and undisputed drama king of the Minneapolis Marauders.
His pirate hat is slightly askew. His tail feathers are catching the light like a walking glitter bomb.
He’s doing this exaggerated tiptoe strut like he’s sneaking up on someone, but he’s in a twenty-pound foam costume, so it’s more like interpretive jazz waddle.
The second he spots me, Mac makes a beeline and dramatically throws himself into my arms like a swooning Shakespearean heroine.
Kenzie loses it. “He’s blessing the romance. You’ve been Mac approved!”
Mac pulls a heart-shaped prop out of his vest—where was he hiding that?—and holds it above his head like he’s officiating a wedding. The crowd screams.
“Are you kidding me?” I whisper, laughing so hard I nearly drop the sign. “I just got proposed to by a bird.”
Ally wipes a tear, absolutely unbothered. “Minneapolis tradition. You go big or you go home.”
I’m not going home.
Because down on the ice, three guys are still watching me like I hung the damn moon. Their faces are lit up with disbelief and wonder and something way, way bigger than adrenaline.
And I think…
No. I know…
This is just the beginning.
“So, how do you feel after all of that?” Kenzie asks as Mac trundles off.
“Weird.” I laugh, but it catches in my throat. “It just… it felt like the only way to do it, you know? Like I spent all that time running and being scared and trying to protect myself, and now… I’m done hiding.”
Ally gives me a look. The big-sister-that-knows-things look. “They’re not the only ones who changed, huh?”
“Nope.” I grin, but there’s definitely a tremble in it. “Turns out getting pregnant, losing your mind, and then missing your boys so hard your bones ache? That’ll do it.”
Kenzie snorts. “Honestly, I get it.”
Ally grins, then leans in closer, voice dropping. “Coach told me yesterday—off the record, obviously—that your position’s still open. He’s having trouble finding anyone who can read those boneheaded goons like you could. His words, not mine.”
My heart lurches a little. I didn’t expect that. I mean, I hoped, maybe in that quiet, impossible way, but hearing it?
“I thought they’d moved on.” My voice is small, like it doesn’t quite belong in my throat. “Like I was just… a blip.”
“Nope,” Ally says firmly. “You’re not replaceable, Jinx. Not in that locker room. Not in their lives.”
I bite my lip. “I’ve heard back from a couple of schools,” I admit, not really sure why it feels like a confession. “Good programs. Stuff I’ve always said I’d do.”
Kenzie shrugs. “You could. Or you could stay here. Doesn’t have to be forever. Doesn’t have to be anything yet. But what do you want?”
I don’t answer right away. I’m watching Thomas now, skating a little crooked, just enough that anyone else might miss it. But I don’t. I can tell he’s still favoring that ankle he sprained last month.
And Rowan, he’s still pulling up on that right side. Subtle, sure. But I know every inch of those boys, and they’re not at one hundred percent.
I could fix that.
I want to fix that.
“I might just need to talk to him,” I say.
Kenzie winks. “More signs?”
“Less glitter this time,” I say, already turning back to the ice.
The other women wave and melt into the crowd, and suddenly it’s just me and twenty thousand people screaming their faces off. I watch the last minutes of the third period unfold, nerves scraping at the inside of my ribs.
It’s tied.
4-4
One minute left on the clock.
And the other team is hungry. They’ve been getting dirtier by the shift, cheap shots, slashes behind the play, heavy hits that ride just below the penalty threshold.
Bruno takes a hit so hard that it sends his helmet spinning across the ice. Thomas stumbles into the boards and bounces back up like a damn pogo stick. Rowan…
God, Rowan is a wall, but even walls crack. He’s soaked in sweat, glove twitching, eyes locked in with laser precision.
Thirty seconds.
We get the puck. A lucky bounce off the boards, and it’s in our zone.
Bruno digs it out, flips it to Liam, who dodges a check and throws it up the ice to Thomas. And Thomas—beautiful, reckless, fast-as-hell Thomas—takes off like a shot. He’s flying, legs pumping, stick dancing.
The crowd rises as one.
Ten seconds.
Thomas fakes a pass. The defender bites.
He cuts left.
He shoots.
And for a split second, just one perfect, suspended second, everything stops.
The puck hits the top right corner of the net.
Goal horn.
Buzzer.
Pandemonium.
I scream so loud it scratches my throat raw. I throw both arms in the air, sign forgotten, glitter be damned.
On the ice, the boys explode, helmets flying, gloves flung, Rowan tearing out of the crease and slamming into them in a tangle of pads and limbs and joy.
It’s chaos. It’s gorgeous.
It’s earned.
They huddle, screaming, laughing, maybe crying. And I cry too, but I’m still smiling. Because this is what I came back for. Not just a game. Not just a win.
Them.
I race down the concrete hallway like I’m late for a concert, dodging beer carts and staff and one toddler in a tutu, until I get to the locker room door.
The sounds of victory spill out. Shouting, stomping, someone blasting “We Are the Champions” like it’s a religious hymn.
My heart’s pounding. But not from nerves this time.
I lean in and knock once on the metal door, then push it open just a crack and stick my head in.
“Hey,” I call, voice a little breathless. “Can I come in?”
There’s a half-second of silence, and then total chaos.
“Jinx!” someone yells, and the whole damn team erupts.
Cheers, howls, hollers, the thud of someone smacking the bench like it owes them money. A helmet flies past the doorway. I duck instinctively, laughing as the roar crescendos into something unhinged and beautiful.
“Get your butt in here, you legend!” Reggie MacDonald is the first to reach me, all red hair and swagger, yanking me into a bear hug that smells like sweat, beer, and pure joy. “You picked the best bloody men on earth. You’re smarter than you look.”
“Thanks, I think,” I wheeze, still half laughing as I stumble inside.
“Damn right,” Ambrose Ward calls from across the room, towel around his neck, grinning like a man who just ran a marathon and won a war. “I’ve seen plenty of grand gestures, but that? That was championship-level commitment.”
“And fashion,” Braden Gallagher says, lounging dramatically against the bench with his gear half off and a streak of eye black smudged under one freckled cheek. “The lettering on that sign was… avant-garde.”
I snort. “You try painting letters with a lizard on your brush.”
“Respect,” Beck Robinson growls, pounding a fist to his chest.
Adan throws me a Gatorade like it’s champagne. “To the girl who brought the drama and the heart. We owe you big.”
I grin, flushed and glowing and completely overwhelmed, but in the best way. Jack is there, my brother, who rolls his eyes and tries to act unimpressed. “God, could you be more you?”
“You love it,” I shoot back.
“Yeah,” he mutters, pulling me into a hug.
A few of the other guys wolf whistle.
“Oh my god,” I groan. “I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Erik Novak says with a wink.
Tyler and Nick Porter walk by in tandem, clapping me on the shoulders like bouncers at a nightclub. “We knew you were cool,” Tyler says.
“But this?” Nick finishes. “This was epic.”
Even Brooks Bailey, the elder statesman of the locker room, gives me a nod like I’ve passed some sort of sacred test. “Good call, kid. You picked men who would crawl across broken glass for you. That’s rare.”
Then there’s Rowan.
Still in half his pads, his hair a damp mess, his mouth soft and unsure like he still doesn’t believe this is real. He pushes through the crowd and cups my face in those massive hands of his like I’m fragile and fierce all at once.
“You came back,” he whispers.
I blink up at him, grinning. “I was never really gone. Just… confused. And stubborn.”
“God, I missed you,” he breathes, and when he kisses me, everything else falls away.
The cheers fade. The steam from the showers. The slamming lockers. Even Bruno and Thomas are somewhere behind us, arguing about who gets the last protein bar.
It’s just him. Just me. Just this.
And then Thomas dives in from the side and hugs me like a golden retriever missile.
“My turn,” he announces. “You glorious, brilliant, punk-ass miracle of a woman. You came back! Also, please help fix my ankle. It’s doing that weird clicky thing again.”
I wheeze-laugh, completely squashed between them both now, as Bruno just folds his arms behind them and raises one eyebrow.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. His eyes are burning with warmth and something a little shy. A little raw.
He steps forward, slower, steadier, and touches my shoulder. “Welcome home,” he says.
And just like that, I am.
This locker room smells like hell and victory and wet dog, but it feels like heaven. Like home. Like the three best mistakes I ever made, and the rightest choice I’ve ever followed all at once.
I lean into them. Into the chaos. Into the boys.
“I missed you idiots so much,” I murmur.
And Thomas grins. “We missed you more.”
I hug them all like I’m never letting go.
Rowan’s arms wrap tight around my waist, Bruno’s hand settles on the back of my neck like he’s grounding me, and Thomas hooks his chin over my shoulder and sways us gently like we’re slow dancing at the weirdest afterparty ever.
We’re a tangle of sweaty gear and half-dried hair and mismatched hearts that somehow beat in sync now.
“So,” Thomas murmurs, his voice low and hopeful, “did you really mean it? The sign? You actually want to go on a date with us?”
Rowan’s eyes flick to mine, searching. Bruno’s thumb brushes against the curve of my jaw like he’s memorizing it.
I snort, blinking fast because I will not cry again. “I mean, considering I got knocked up before we ever went on one? I think it’s long overdue.”
Thomas barks out a laugh. Rowan chuckles under his breath. Bruno just smiles that rare, small smile that feels like a sunbeam slicing through storm clouds.
“We’ll make it good,” Rowan promises. “The date. We’ll plan something epic. Maybe?—”
“No horses,” I interrupt, pointing at him.
“Or chickens,” Thomas adds, mock somber.
“Agreed,” I say, pretending to write it into a contract in the air.
There’s a pause, and then Rowan asks the question I know has been sitting behind all their eyes since I walked in.
“You gonna stay?”
God, that word. Stay .
My stomach flips. Not in fear this time, but in the dizzy way you feel at the top of a rollercoaster.
“I think,” I say slowly, brushing a hand over Rowan’s chest, then Bruno’s arm, then looping my fingers through Thomas’s, “you shouldn’t get too far ahead of yourselves. But…”
They all lean in a little.
“…I might be convinced if things go well.”
Thomas grins like he just scored another hat trick. Rowan’s whole body relaxes, the way he only does when he’s in the place he’s meant to be. And Bruno leans down and kisses my forehead, soft and reverent.
We group hug again, tighter this time, warm and real and so stupidly us .
Then the locker room door swings open, and Coach sticks his head in, looking both amused and vaguely horrified.
“Alright, lovebirds,” he drawls. “You’ve had your Hallmark moment. Now out , Anderson. Let the boys shower before they infect the building.”
I salute, stepping back with a mock military nod. “Yes, sir.”
Coach waits for me just outside the locker room, arms crossed, mouth twitching like he’s trying really hard not to look like a softie. Spoiler: he’s not succeeding.
“So,” he says, voice gruff but eyes kind, “you gonna make it official?”
I tilt my head. “What, the relationship or the job?”
He rolls his eyes. “The job , Anderson. Though…” his lips twitch again, “I don’t think I want to know how you plan on rehabbing three of my top players and dating them at the same time.”
I smirk. “Very carefully.”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “We still haven’t found anyone who gets those guys like you do. The locker room’s been off ever since you left. So if you’re in, really in, we’d be glad to have you back.”
My heart gives this happy little lurch. Like it’s jumping up and down yelling, “Yes, yes, yes!”
“I’m in,” I say, and I mean it with every bone in my slightly chaotic, snake-owning body.
Coach nods once, solid. “Good.”
I pause as I start to walk past him, then glance back. “Hey, uh… I’m gonna head out… unless maybe a couple of your players need a little help?” I raise a brow. “Nothing too serious. Just, you know, the usual post-game wear and tear.”
He gives me a look that’s pure amusement now. “I’ll send them to your office.”
My office.
“Thanks, Coach.”
I make my way down the familiar hall, sneakers echoing on the tile, past the nameplates and framed jerseys and the old bulletin board that still has half a flyer about flu shots from last season.
My office door is still marked with “ Anderson ,” peeling at the edges but still clinging on like it was waiting for me to come back.
Inside, it smells like disinfectant and eucalyptus. There’s a stack of folded towels in the corner and a pair of crutches leaning against the wall like they’ve missed me.
I flick on the light, grab a bottle of massage oil, and start pulling supplies out of drawers with muscle memory I didn’t even know I still had.
The table squeaks the same way it always did when I adjust it. The cabinets still stick a little on the left side. And me?
I smile as I wipe down the table and prep for the post-game rush.
Feels good to be back.