Chapter 31
I’m still buzzing from the anthem when I see him.
Scotty pushes through the locker room doors, his hair still damp from the shower, and his T-shirt clings to every inch of his stupidly gorgeous shoulders.
His eyes lock onto me instantly, hungry and focused, and his gear bag drops to the floor with a dull thud.
Then he’s moving.
“Scotty…” I start, but the rest dies on my lips because his hands are sliding over my waist, then up to my face. His fingers frame my jaw, and there are no words.
Words would only cheapen it. This feeling, this moment, the way everything tonight lined up exactly right. He’s the reason it all feels like magic.
His mouth crashes into mine, deep and hungry, and the shock of it sends a shiver straight down my spine.
I gasp into him, and he uses that tiny opening to drag me closer, pressing me flush against him like he needs my body against his to stay upright.
Heat surges through me so fast my knees almost give out.
My fingers fist in the front of his shirt, pulling him in harder, feeling the thick muscles under the thin cotton and the way his whole body tightens when I touch him.
His lips part against mine, his tongue sliding in with a slow, purposeful stroke that makes my stomach drop.
It starts gentle, teasing, almost tender, then turns deeper and filthier, his mouth moving with a hunger that knocks the breath out of me.
A sound escapes my throat, soft and desperate and completely out of my control. His grip tightens as one hand slides down to my hip, anchoring me against the solid heat of him. He lets out a low groan that sends fire racing through my veins.
This isn’t just a kiss.
It’s a claim.
And my whole body answers it.
Somewhere in the haze of kissing him, I hear a loud cough to the side, which is probably from one of his teammates, but I don’t care.
They could be staging a full musical number with Alex tap-dancing on a water bottle crate and Erik doing interpretive fox ballet, and they’d still be background noise.
All I can feel is him.
His mouth. His body drawing me in like he’s been waiting all night for this.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, and his hands grip my waist like he has no intention of letting me go.
“Do you have any idea what you did out there? You were incredible, Princess.”
“I just sang, Scotty. It’s not a big deal.” I play it down, more to myself than him. It was just one song, one time, after all.
Scotty scoffs. “Please. You did more than sing.” He pulls me into a hug, his arms wrapping around me so tight I can barely breathe. “You showed everyone what I've been seeing all along. You were perfect, Laura. Absolutely perfect.”
I let my forehead rest against his chest for a beat, my pulse finally slowing as I feel him hold me like he’s afraid I might float away.
I tilt my chin up with a small smile. “You weren’t exactly invisible out there either. Five points? That’s—”
“Because of you,” he interrupts. “All of it. Everything tonight was because of you.”
“That's not—”
“Miss Conners?”
The voice cuts in from behind Scotty, and we break apart.
Scotty’s hands slide down my waist and he pulls me close.
I turn to find Coach McKibbon with Professor Foster walking by his side with a small smile on her face.
She must know that she changed my entire life just by pairing me with this brilliant man last year.
But it’s the woman beside them who makes me nervous.
Dr. Patricia Cole. President of Covey University.
I recognize her instantly. Everyone on campus does. She has a sharp suit, sharper eyes, and a presence that makes you stand straighter without thinking about it. I never thought I’d actually see her in person, let alone have her smiling as she walks toward me.
“Good, we caught you,” Professor Foster says warmly. “I told Derek we’d find you glued to Scotty.”
Coach McKibbon nudges Scotty with his elbow. “All right, Romeo. Let her breathe a second. Laura, come here. There’s someone who insisted on meeting you.”
President Cole steps forward, and I really hope she can’t see me blushing from the comments.
“Laura Conners,” Coach says, his voice filled with pride. “Meet Dr. Patricia Cole, President of Covey University. And this is Laura Conners, who apparently stopped time tonight.”
My cheeks heat. “Dr. Cole. Hi. It’s nice to meet you.”
Her smile deepens. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Conners.”
She extends her hand and I shake it, trying not to look as shocked as I feel. The university president is talking to me. “I wanted to speak with you about your performance tonight.”
My stomach drops.
Oh no, did I do something wrong? Was I not supposed to—
“It was extraordinary,” she continues, and relief floods through me. “In my fifteen years at this institution, I've never heard a more moving rendition of the national anthem. The response from the crowd was… well, it was remarkable.”
“Thank you,” I manage. “That's very kind.”
“I'm not being kind, Miss Conners. I'm being honest.”
President Cole pauses, studying me with an assessing calm that makes my spine straighten instinctively. “And I’ve already been speaking with Coach McKibbon about you.”
My stomach tightens. “About… me?”
Coach steps closer, hands in his pockets like he’s trying not to grin outright. “Your performance didn’t just impress the crowd tonight. It impressed people who actually make decisions around here.”
I swallow. “Decisions?”
President Cole’s smile deepens. “Laura, with our new TV partnership, the Crushers have been working to refine the game-day experience. Stronger branding. More personality. Something memorable.”
Coach nods. “Something that keeps fans engaged from the second they sit down.”
President Cole gestures toward the rink behind us. “We’ve never had an official anthem performer before. Not once in the history of the program.”
“Until now.”
Scotty squeezes my hip and it takes me a second to process what they’re implying. “Wait, do you mean me?”
“Yes, you,” President Cole says, voice warm but certain.
“We would like to offer you the role of official anthem performer for the Covey Crushers for the remainder of the season. You’d open every home game.
Your performance tonight was… well, you saw the crowd’s reaction. You gave us something unforgettable.”
My pulse kicks up, sharp and loud.
“I—wow. I don’t even know what to say.”
Coach laughs under his breath. “Say yes, kid. The whole arena damn near levitated when you sang.”
President Cole nods once. “We think you’d be an excellent addition. And, frankly, the camera crews would be thrilled. The broadcast team already asked who you were.”
My breath catches. It’s suddenly hard to think past the rush of emotion swelling in my chest.
Me.
They want me.
I meet President Cole’s eyes.
Then Coach’s.
Finally, I look up at Scotty. He’s smiling at me like he already knows my answer.
“O-okay,” I whisper, feeling the words settle into something real inside me. “Yes. I’d love to.”
President Cole’s smile widens. “Wonderful. I’ll have our athletics coordinator reach out this week. And Laura…” Her tone softens. “You should be incredibly proud. Tonight was exceptional.”
“Thank you,” I breathe. “Really.”
She gives Coach a nod and steps back to speak with one of the arena staff.
The moment she’s out of immediate earshot, Professor Foster finally lifts her brows like she’s been holding a secret this whole time.
“Well,” she says, “I’d say my freshman-year pairing experiment worked out beautifully.”
Coach McKibbon slings an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “She still brags about it at faculty dinners,” he says. “You’d think she solved world hunger, not assigned a group project.”
Professor Foster lifts her chin. “I was fostering collaboration.”
“You were playing matchmaker,” Coach corrects. “And for the record, you’ve ruined every other player’s expectations. I’ve got at least one kid on my roster wondering why his poetry partner hasn’t shown up to whisk him away.”
I choke on a laugh, and Scotty says, “Coach!”
“I’m just saying,” he continues with a shrug, “some of these boys could use whatever magic touch you two have. One of my wingers tried to flirt with the Zamboni driver last week. It was grim.”
Professor Foster covers her mouth, laughing. “Which one?”
“Erik,” Scotty answers simply. “I saw it.”
Coach waves her off. “The point is”—he looks at me, softer now—”tonight was something special. You did that. You earned this. And we’re damn proud of you.”
Pride blooms warm and bright in my chest.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “All of you.”
Professor Foster gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “We’ll let you two celebrate. You deserve a moment.”
They're already heading toward the exit, and suddenly it's just Scotty and me in the hallway. The air between us feels charged, electric.
“Come with me,” he says, his voice low and rough.
He laces our fingers together and pulls me a few steps down the hall until we’re tucked behind a column, out of sight. The noise of the arena feels distant, the fluorescent lights softer, everything narrowed down to just him.
“Scotty…” I breathe.
His hands settle on my waist. His eyes are bright, almost wild with pride, and it hits me that he’s been holding this in since the second I stepped off the ice.
“Laura,” he says, breathless in a way I’ve never heard from him, “you just booked yourself a gig. A real one. An actual anthem spot for the Crushers. Do you understand how insane that is?”
I blink up at him, still reeling. “I… I guess.”
“No.” He shakes his head, grinning like he’s about to lift me off the ground.
“Not ‘I guess.’ You did that. You stood in front of five thousand people, blew the roof off this place, and now they want you back every game.” His hands slide up to cradle my jaw, his thumb sweeping across my cheek. “You earned this, Princess.”
Emotion rises in my throat, thick and warm, almost unreal. “I didn’t think—”
“Yeah,” he interrupts softly, “I know. But look where you are now.” His smile deepens, softer, more certain. “Look what you just made happen.”
He leans his forehead to mine, his voice dropping to something low and reverent. “I am so damn proud of you.”
Emotion burns behind my eyes, hot and overwhelming. “I never thought this could happen,” I whisper. “Not for me.”
His smile curves, soft and certain, eyes warm like he’s been waiting years to prove me wrong.
“Inconceivable!”