Chapter 30
CHAPTER
THIRTY
MILES
It’s been close to a month since the whole internet debacle, and thankfully—just like Penny promised—everything died down almost immediately.
No major backlash on Miranda, Anna, or the team.
The first week after Miranda found the videos, she moved through life like she was walking on eggshells, bracing for the other shoe to drop.
But slowly—hesitantly—she began to trust that maybe the other shoe didn’t exist.
Now? I’d say we’re not just back to where we were before the scandal, we’re even better. Stronger. Closer. Happier.
I love going home to her. I love seeing her in the VIP box at my games. My heart damn near bursts every time my strawberry-blond sunshine wears my jersey to our games.
I truly, deeply love her.
When I open the front door, I’m hit with the most incredible, savory smell. Whatever she's making, it’s different from the usual attempts. There’s no undercurrent of charcoal. This actually smells… perfect.
Miranda appears from the kitchen with a bright smile. I pull her into my arms and kiss her hard.
“Oh my gosh, what smells so good?” I ask against her lips.
She practically vibrates with excitement, clapping her hands together.
“I made dinner! I found this recipe on TikTok, followed it to a T, and I think it actually turned out.”
“Really?” I try not to sound shocked, but her eyes narrow, and I laugh. “I didn’t mean it like that—I’m excited. And starving. What did you make?”
“Braised short ribs,” she announces proudly.
“Braised short ribs?” My brows lift. “That sounds… complicated.”
“I know!” she beams. “I always thought so too, but this lady made it seem so easy, and I think I’ve finally broken my cooking curse.”
“Yeah?” I grin. “All right—let’s see.”
She leads me into the kitchen, where two plates are already prepared—creamy mashed potatoes topped with a thick, glossy braised short rib, gravy, and roasted vegetables. It looks legitimately professional.
I glance between her and the plate. “Miranda… this looks seriously delicious.”
“It is!” she squeals, rocking onto the balls of her feet. “It’s really, really good.”
“All right.” I laugh. “Let’s eat.”
We sit down at the table and dig in—and holy hell, the food is incredible. Tender meat, perfect gravy, buttery potatoes. I look up at her in awe.
“You’ve definitely broken your cooking curse. You’re officially a bona fide chef.”
She giggles and takes a huge bite of potatoes. “I know. It’s amazing. It’s so good. I mean, I just feel confident. Like if I can make this meal, I can make any meal.”
“I agree,” I say, smiling at the pride radiating off her. “I know you can.”
We finish eating and talk about our days while I keep one eye on the clock. As Miranda sets her fork down, I wipe my hands on a napkin and say, “So… I have a little surprise for you. Something I really hope you’ll love.”
Her eyes brighten with curiosity. “Really? What is it?”
“Well… it’s not here.” I grin. “It’s kind of like an excursion.”
“Ooh. Intriguing.” She leans forward. “Okay, where?”
I check the time on my phone. “We actually have to get going, but you need to change your outfit first.”
She glances down at her jeans and T-shirt. “Really? Okay… what should I wear?”
“Shorts, a T-shirt, a sports bra, and tennis shoes.”
Her brows draw together, suspicion narrowing her gaze. “Are we going to work out? Because that’s not really my idea of a fun date.”
I laugh. “It’s not yoga or anything. But it is a little active, and you’ll be way more comfortable if you change.”
“All right.” She stands and stretches. “I’m slightly terrified of this surprise… but I trust you.”
About thirty minutes later, we’re pulling into the parking lot of a local gym. I spot several familiar cars already lined up. Miranda spots them too.
“Everyone’s here,” she says, confusion creeping in.
“Yeah.” I put the truck in park. “It’s a charity event for our nonprofit, Cranes Care.”
What I don’t tell her yet is that I asked Penny to set up an impromptu basketball charity game.
My hockey team has a few days off before the playoffs, and every single guy agreed to show up on short notice.
All because I asked. All because they know what Miranda means to me… and how much this could mean to her.
I have no idea how she will react. It could backfire. It could crack her open in ways I’m not prepared for. But deep down, I hope this brings her joy. I hope it reminds her of the part of herself she buried. I hope it heals a part of her heart.
I jump out and circle to her side, pulling her door open and offering my hand.
“Come on,” I say, my voice soft but full of excitement. “This is going to be fun.”
She slips her hand into mine—warm and trusting.
We step into the gymnasium, and the echo of bouncing basketballs immediately fills the air.
All the guys are already warming up—dribbling, passing, taking wild shots that clank off the rim.
It’s surreal seeing them in loose shorts and sleeveless shirts instead of layers of pads and heavy hockey gear.
Beside me, Miranda’s steps slow. Her grip tightens around my hand.
“Miles…” she whispers, hesitation threading through my name. “What is this?”
We stop in the doorway, the fluorescent lights humming above us. I squeeze her hand gently. “We’re going to play some impromptu basketball.”
She turns her face upward, eyes wide. “I don’t want to play,” she says instantly, shaking her head. “I haven’t played since I was fifteen.”
“I know,” I murmur. “I know.”
I turn toward her fully, cupping her hand between both of mine.
“I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do,” I say softly. “But I really, really think you should try.”
She swallows, her throat bobbing, her eyes glistening with a hundred emotions.
“You loved basketball,” I continue. “It was a part of you. A good part. And it was taken from you… robbed from you… and then twisted into something ugly. You don’t deserve that. You don’t deserve to lose something you loved because someone else ruined it.”
Her breath catches.
“I kept thinking,” I say, voice thickening, “what if someone made it so I could never play hockey again? What if one person destroyed the thing that made me feel like me? It’s unthinkable and not fair.”
Her eyes flick away—to the court, to the guys laughing, to the ball rolling across the polished wood. She’s trembling, but she’s listening.
“I know basketball brings up heavy memories,” I tell her. “But I also believe that if you play… if you even just try… it will fill you with joy again. Real joy.”
I brush my thumb over her knuckles.
“I promise you—if you hate it, we stop. We will never do this again. I won’t ask, and this will be a one-time thing. But please…” My voice dips, earnest and soft. “For me. Will you just try?”
She blinks rapidly, fighting the sting of emotion. Her voice is thick when she finally speaks.
“Okay,” she whispers. She nods, breath trembling. “Okay. I’ll play.”