Chapter 12
Two Years Later
There are three things I never thought I'd have:
A job I actually love that doesn't involve taping Jay Cross's thighs.
An apartment in Monterey with a view of the skyline and a closet full of someone else's hockey gear.
A man who looks at me like I hung the moon, even when I'm yelling at him about his stretching routine.
Life is funny that way.
I'm sprinting through the Leviathans' arena concourse, my work bag bouncing against my hip, still wearing my Monterey Waves polo. The basketball team ran over and now I'm late.
Jay's going to give me so much shit for this.
The thought makes me smile even as I'm dodging confused fans heading for the exits. Mainly because I like the way he makes me pay him back. I can hear the roar of the crowd from here, which means the game's still going. Or just ended. Either way, I'm missing it.
Story of my life these days.
Don't get me wrong; I love my job with the Waves. Getting to work with professional athletes, building my own reputation separate from “Jay Cross's girlfriend” or “that girl who taped the Leviathans' right wing”? It's everything I worked for.
But it also means nights like this. Nights where Jay's playing the biggest game of the season and I'm stuck across town dealing with a point guard who doesn't understand that “pre-game stretching” isn't optional.
I round the corner to the main arena entrance just as the final buzzer sounds.
The crowd erupts.
Shit.
I push through the doors and immediately scan the ice, searching for number seventeen in teal and silver.
There.
Jay's being mobbed by his teammates at center ice, his helmet is off, and he’s got that stupid gorgeous grin on his face. Even from here I can see the way his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, the way his chest is heaving from exertion.
They won.
No surprise. Jay Cross doesn't lose playoff games. Not since his right adductor healed.
I make my way down toward the glass, weaving through celebrating fans, and watch as he hoists the conference championship trophy over his head. The arena lights catch on the silver, and my heart aches just watching how happy he is out there.
I love him. I love him more than I ever thought possible.
Even when he's being an idiot about his recovery schedule, or he leaves his sweaty gear all over our apartment, or when he wakes me up at 2 A.M. because he “had a dream about that time you taped my mouth shut and needs to recreate it for research purposes.”
Especially then, actually.
I'm so lost in watching him celebrate that I don't notice when his eyes scan the crowd and land on me. That’s when his whole face changes. His smile softens as I give him a small wave and mouth the words “congratulations.”
Moving away from his teammates, he skates over to the boards, and even through the plexiglass I can read his lips: You made it.
I press my hand against the glass. Barely.
Doesn't matter. You're here now.
The team circles up for the traditional handshake line, and I watch Jay make his way through it. Ha talks to the players as he passes them, but he keeps glancing back at me, making sure I haven't disappeared.
As if I would.
After two years, he should know by now: I'm not going anywhere.
An hour later, the arena is nearly empty.
The fans have cleared out, the media has finished their interviews, and most of the team has headed to the bars to celebrate. I'm sitting in the stands, scrolling through congratulatory texts from Kinsey (seventeen messages, all in caps, most unintelligible), when I hear skates on ice.
I look up.
Jay's back on the rink, still in full gear except for his helmet. He's skating lazy circles around center ice, with his stick in hand, looking completely at peace in a way he only ever does out here.
“Shouldn't you be celebrating with your team?” I call out.
He glides to a stop near the boards, grinning up at me. “I am celebrating. I'm celebrating with you.”
“I'm one person.”
“You're the only person who matters.” He holds out his hand. “Come down here.”
I raise an eyebrow before looking down at my Waves uniform. “I'm not exactly dressed for ice skating.”
“Good thing I'm not asking you to skate.” His grin turns wicked. “I'm asking you to trust me.”
Famous last words.
Still, I find myself making my way down to ice level, because apparently after two years of this man, I still haven't learned my lesson about his “trust me” moments.
There's a door that leads directly onto the ice, normally locked, but Jay's already opened it. He's waiting for me with his hand extended and that stupid beautiful smile on his face.
“You're going to make me fall,” I warn him.
“When have I ever let you fall?”
“That time in our apartment when you tried to eat me out while holding me against the wall.”
“That doesn't count. That was a controlled descent.”
“I hit the floor, Jay.”
“Gently, and I made up for it by giving you two orgasms, don’t you remember?” He's still holding out his hand. “Come on, Hart. Live a little.”
I take his hand.
The ice is slippery under my sneakers, and I immediately grab onto his arm for balance. He laughs, pulling me closer, one arm wrapping around my waist to steady me.
“I've got you,” he murmurs.
And he does.
He always does.
He guides me out toward center ice, skating backward while I shuffle forward like a baby deer. The arena is quiet except for the sound of his blades and my nervous breathing, the overhead lights casting long shadows across the frozen surface.
“Remember the first time you came to my apartment in college?” he asks, spinning us gently, and I tighten my grip on him.
“You mean when you begged me to come to your apartment because you couldn’t walk.”
“And yet you came. Even though you hated me.”
“I didn't hate you.” The admission comes easier now than it would have two years ago. “I hated that I didn't hate you.”
He grins, slowing our movement until we're just standing there at center ice. “And now?”
“Now?” I look up at him, this man who chased me for years, who introduced me to his little brother on our first date, and who makes me laugh even when I want to strangle him. “Now I love you. Even though you're still an idiot about your stretching routine.”
“I stretch.”
“You don't stretch enough.”
“You could always help me with that.” His voice drops suggestively. “I seem to remember you being very thorough about my flexibility assessment.”
Heat floods my face. “We're in a public arena.”
“An empty public arena.”
“Jay—”
He kisses me, and I forget what I was going to say. His mouth is warm despite the cold air, and he tastes like Gatorade, victory and home.
When he pulls back, he's smiling at me in that way that makes my heart skip. The way that says he knows exactly what he does to me and plans to exploit it for the rest of our lives.
“Ally Hart,” he says, and something in his voice makes me still.
His hands leave my waist and he skates back slightly until he’s dropping to one knee on the ice.
“Jay—” My voice cracks.
“Let me do this,” he says softly, pulling a small box from his equipment bag that I didn't even notice he'd brought onto the ice.
“I've been carrying this around for two months, waiting for the right moment.
Thought about doing it at a fancy restaurant.
Thought about doing it at Owen's next game. Frankly, I thought about a hundred different perfect scenarios.”
He opens the box.
I gasp when I see the simple silver band that crosses on each side with a subtle heart-shaped diamond in the center. It’s understated and beautiful and so perfectly me.
“But then I realized,” he continues, “that there's no perfect moment with us.
There's just... us. Being idiots together.
You yelling at me about my recovery schedule.
Me convincing you to do inadvisable things in semi-public places.
Both of us pretending we're not completely gone for each other when we obviously are.”
My eyes are burning, and I'm trying so hard not to cry because I refuse to be the girl who ugly cries during a proposal, but Jay Cross on his knees on the ice is doing things to my emotional stability.
“You walked into that training room two years ago looking like you'd rather be anywhere else, and I thought 'Finally.
There she is. The girl who walked away from me in my freshman year.
The one who got away.'“ His voice roughens.
“Except you didn't get away this time, and I don't plan on letting you get away ever again.”
“Jay—”
“I love you, Ally Hart. I love your smart mouth and your terrible taste in reality TV and the way you can't resist fixing my tape job even when you're mad at me.
I love that you fell asleep on my chest after the best sex of my life and that you checked my thigh one more time before you left because you couldn't help yourself.” He grins.
“I love that you're late to my games because you're too busy being brilliant at your own job. I love everything about you, and I want to spend the rest of my life proving it.”
He takes a breath.
“So. Ally Hart. Will you marry me?”
The arena is completely silent except for my heartbeat thundering in my ears.
I look down at this man. This beautiful, ridiculous, persistent man who chased me for years and somehow convinced me to run with him. This man who's currently kneeling on ice in full hockey gear, holding out a ring, looking at me like I'm the answer to every question he's ever had.
“You're supposed to be stretching,” I say, because apparently, I can't handle genuine emotion like a normal person.
He laughs. “Is that a yes?”
“You just played a full playoff game. Your muscles are going to seize up if you stay in that position much longer.”
“Ally.”
“And the ice is cold. You're going to give yourself hypothermia.”
“Ally.”
“Plus, you're probably dehydrated, and your recovery routine specifically calls for—”
“I'm not getting up until you answer me.” His eyes are dancing with amusement, but there's something vulnerable underneath it. Something that reminds me of that night in his apartment when he told me I was the only one he trusted to fix him.
I take a breath.
“Yes.”
His face splits into the biggest smile I've ever seen. “Yeah?”
“Yes, you idiot. Yes, I'll marry you, but only because someone needs to make sure you actually stretch properly, and I guess that someone might as well be me for the rest of our lives.”
He's up in a second, pulling me into his arms and spinning us around on the ice. I shriek and grab onto him, and we both nearly go down, but he catches us at the last second.
“Controlled descent,” he says against my hair, laughing.
“You're impossible.”
“You love it.”
“I really do.”
He sets me down—carefully, this time—and takes my hand, sliding the ring onto my finger, which fits perfectly.
“How long have you been planning this?” I ask, still staring at the ring.
“Two months officially. Two years unofficially.” He kisses my knuckles, right above the diamond. “Ever since you walked out of that training room without looking back, I knew I was going to marry you someday.”
“That's insane.”
“Nah, that's love, baby.”
And maybe he's right. Maybe love is just two people being insane together until it doesn't feel insane anymore. Until it feels like home.
“Take me home,” I murmur, looking up at him.
“Now?”
“Now.” I reach up and trace the line of his jaw, feeling the stubble there. “I believe I have a fiancé who needs a proper cool-down routine, and maybe some... manual therapy.”
His eyes darken. “Is that what we're calling it now?”
“That's what I'm calling it.” I lean in close, my lips brushing his ear. “Unless you'd prefer I tape your mouth shut again. For old times' sake.”
The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a laugh.
“Fuck the cool-down routine,” he says, already pulling me toward the exit. “We're going home right now.”
“I can't wait to marry you,” I whisper.
His arms tighten around me. “Good. Because I'm not letting you change your mind.”
“Wouldn't dream of it.”
I had it all wrong when I first met Jay.
Jay Cross wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to me.
He was the best thing I never knew I needed.