Chapter 10
Zoey
The arena is still vibrating around us when I finally let myself process what I just did.
I kissed Colt Lane in the middle of twelve thousand strangers, half of whom are still on their feet screaming the team motto like they're at war.
But here's the thing.
I didn't kiss him because the lights were low, or because Cade Jensen just scored a hat trick and emotions are running at an all-time high.
I kissed him because somewhere between the ridiculous spiral straw, the broadcaster voices, and the way he keeps making my daughter smile… I just couldn't sit beside him for one more second without touching him.
It was that simple.
His thumb is still dragging over my knuckles right now, and I'm trying very hard to look like a woman who has her life together, when really I'm a single mother in stained three-year-old jeans, holding hands with a professional hockey player whose face is currently airbrushed onto my daughter's souvenir cup.
"MOM!" Morgan's voice rips through my thoughts as she nearly takes my eye out with the foam finger. "Did you SEE that? Did you see what Cade did?!"
"I saw, baby."
"He's a GOD. I love him. I want to marry him."
Colt snorts beside me. "He's a bit old for you, Morgs."
"I don't care."
"He has a girlfriend."
Morgan waves the foam finger dismissively. "I'll wait until they break up and I'll be patient. Plus, I'm a very mature ten."
I'm still laughing when Colt squeezes my hand and leans into my ear, his breath warm against the shell of it.
"Surprise time?"
I look over at him, and there's that grin again.
"Colt. If you've arranged anything else tonight, I swear to God—"
"Morgs." He cuts me off entirely, turning to my daughter with the kind of theatrical seriousness that immediately makes her stop breathing. "How would you feel about meeting the team?"
Morgan falls silent for the first time all fucking day. She blinks up at him.
Then she makes a sound that I'm fairly certain hasn't been heard since the dinosaurs went extinct.
"WHAT."
Colt beams brighter. "You heard me. What do you say we head down to the locker room? Right now."
"WHAT."
"Yes or no, kid. I mean, if you don't wanna—"
"YES! YES, YES, YES, OH MY GOD, YES!"
Morgan grabs the front of Colt's jacket with both hands and shakes him so hard his head wobbles like a bobblehead.
"Take me. Take me now. I am ready."
The entire row around us bursts into laughter as Morgan physically hauls Colt out of his seat and starts dragging him up the concrete steps toward the aisle with the single-minded determination of a woman on a mission, foam finger abandoned somewhere behind her.
"Colt! Wait… Hold on." I chase after them. "The locker room. Like... the locker room locker room?"
He arches a brow over his shoulder. "I mean. Yeah."
"With the... players."
"That's typically who you find there, yes."
"And they'll be—" I gesture vaguely to my mid-section. "I mean, are they—dressed?"
The grin that spreads across his face shouldn't look that good. It really shouldn't.
"You're worried about my teammates being naked?"
"I'm worried about my ten-year-old daughter being in a room with a bunch of naked men, Colt!"
"They'll be clothed, Zo." He's laughing as we stride onto the concourse. "Mostly. Probably. Some of them."
"Mostly?!"
"Mom!" Morgan tugs at my sleeve. "Mom, please. I'll cover my eyes. I'll wear a blindfold. I'll bring sunglasses. I'll—"
"Alright, alright." I throw my hands up. "Fine. But if I see one bare butt, Lane, I'm sending you the therapy bill."
"Deal."
We weave through the crowd, ducking past fans and fluttering purple flags as the passage beneath the arena thrums with a wholly different energy than the stands.
We pass between concrete walls, the thud of bass still rattling up through the floor from the arena above. There's an odor that's part sweat, part rink, part something I don't want to think about, and Morgan is basically yanking me along by the wrist while Colt taps a badge against a steel door.
"This is the inner sanctum," Colt whispers conspiratorially to Morgan, wiggling his eyebrows. "Are you prepared, kiddo?"
"I was born prepared."
"That's the right answer."
The door swings open and—
Oh, sweet mercy.
The Snow Leopards locker room is chaos.
The dark charcoal walls are glowing from the claw marks etched into the vaulted ceiling, and each individual stall glows in leopard gold along every wall. The floor has a steel plate embedded in the center that reads STRIKE FIRST. STRIKE FAST.
And the players?
The players are everywhere.
Cade Jensen is shirtless in the middle of the room, hat trick puck in one hand, a half-empty bottle of Gatorade in the other, dancing to a song blasting from a speaker that Colt very loudly mutters is "fucking Bluetooth-hijacked again."
Theo is firing a red candy snake across the room at Silas, who catches it in his mouth like a trained seal. The entire team erupts in cheers.
Samuel is standing at the whiteboard in just a towel and compression shorts, marking up plays for a game that ended fifteen minutes ago because apparently that man does not know how to relax.
"BEHOLD!" Colt announces, throwing his arms wide. "I bring you a VIP!"
Every head in the room snaps toward us.
And Morgan?
Morgan makes a tiny squeaking sound, both hands flying to her mouth in both shock and awe at the entire scene laid out before her.
"That's—" she whispers, voice cracking. "That's Samuel Voss."
Samuel sets down his marker, takes in the situation with one quick captain-level sweep, and immediately drops to one knee.
"Hey," he says softly, the rough captain voice gone, replaced by a steady hand held out to shake. "You must be Morgan."
Morgan stares at his hand and just… nods.
Colt shuffles back in beside me, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches Morgan unable to form words. She can't speak. She literally cannot form words.
"Colt's told me about you," Samuel says, and she makes another squeak.
Samuel reaches behind him into his stall and produces a Sharpie like he keeps one for exactly this occasion. "Want me to sign that jersey?"
Morgan spins around so fast she nearly takes out his eye. "Yes, please. On the number."
Samuel signs her back with a flourish. "There you go. Now you officially own a piece of franchise history."
Morgan looks to me, eyes shining with actual tears.
And that's when it hits me. All at once.
This is the kind of moment I have spent ten years wishing I could hand her. Not the autograph, not the Sharpie scrawl across her back, not even Samuel Voss on one knee in front of her.
But the bigness of it. The wonder. The lit-up, can't-breathe magic of being a kid who gets handed something they didn't even dare to want out loud.
I haven't been able to give her this. I'd never have been able to give her this if it wasn't for Colt.
Not when I was working day and night to keep us alive, not when I was crying into bread dough at two in the morning, not when I was so tired I'd fall asleep reading her bedtime stories and she'd quietly pull the book out of my hands and tuck me in instead.
I release a heavy sigh, not realizing Colt's looking at me until I feel his arm slide around my shoulders, warm as he pulls me gently into his side.
"Hey," he says, giving me a squeeze. "You okay?"
"She deserves this," I whisper, mostly to myself. "She deserves all of this."
Cade jogs over next, still shirtless, still glistening like an oiled god and crouches down beside Samuel.
"Hi. I'm Cade." Morgan shakes his hand. "I think you might have been the loudest person in this entire arena tonight, which is a huge compliment."
"I screamed your name," Morgan informs him solemnly.
"I felt it. Spiritually."
He digs into the pocket of his post-game pants and pulls out the puck. The hat trick puck. The one I just watched him score the third goal with about twenty minutes ago.
"This is for you."
I shake my head, ready to tell Morgan she can't accept such a gift. But Colt holds me back, curling that big strong arm tighter around me.
"I just—" My voice catches as Morgan's entire face crumples. I try again. "I never could've given her this, Colt. I tried. I tried. But there was always—"
"I know," he murmurs, and his hand squeezes my shoulder. "I know, sweetheart."
"Look at her." It comes out wet. "Look at her face."
He pulls me a little tighter against him, his cheek brushing the top of my head. "You did give her this, Zo. You got her here. Every step. That's all you."
"Oh good, the bakery contingent has arrived!"
Delaney appears in the doorway, Paige and Avery on either side of her, all three of them draped head to toe in purple attire.
From sequined jerseys to glittery scarves to lipstick, it all screams we've been cheering in The Velvet Prowl all night.
There's a flush to their cheeks that shows the champagne cocktails are clearly still buzzing through their veins.
"There she is." Delaney winks at Morgan. "The famous Morgan Morrison. We've heard so much about you."
Morgan straightens, suddenly very aware that more women have arrived to bear witness to her new found fame.
"Hi. I'm Morgan. I have a hat trick puck."
"I see that. Very impressive." Delaney crouches next to her. "Hey. We were just talking. How would you feel about getting out on the ice?"
Morgan's mouth opens. "…The ice? The actual ice? Where they play?"
"Where they actually play." Delaney glances up at me with a smile that's all warmth and zero negotiation. "We've got someone bringing skates in your size. Avery wants to show you some moves."
"I have some moves," Avery confirms proudly. "And Quinn promised she'd meet us out there with hot chocolate. So… Sleepover but on ice."
Morgan turns to me with her hands clasped over the hat trick puck she'll absolutely want to cuddle to sleep every night from now on.
"Mom."
"I—" I look at Delaney. "Are you sure? Is it safe?"