Epilogue
MADDIE
When I bump into someone from behind for the third time today, I realize I’ve become everything I’ve always hated: the kind of person who walks around with their eyes glued to their phone and absolutely no awareness of their surroundings.
But right now, I can’t help it. I can’t believe the way my notifications are popping off.
A couple months ago, Rhys encouraged me to make an Instagram account for my art. I did, and I’ve been uploading each new piece I complete. For a while, I’d get a couple likes or comments here and there.
I don’t know what happened, but over the last three days, it’s taken off .
I’m getting hundreds, even thousands, of likes and comments. I’ve had dozens of messages from people asking if I have works available to purchase.
It’s surreal.
It’s my senior year, and I’ve been anxious about what I’m actually going to do once I graduate. Rhys, with his NHL career, never tires of telling me that I don’t have to do anything. And it’s true that he makes more than enough money for the both of us—many times over—but I want to have my own career.
I’ll never regret studying art, but it’s no secret that a guaranteed ticket to a stable career isn’t one of the benefits of an art degree.
I’m lucky to avoid bumping into anyone else—not to mention getting hit by a car while crossing the street—as I still can’t pry my eyes away from my screen until I approach the tiny off-campus house that Jasmine and I are renting together.
Once I’m inside, I’m finally able to bring myself to close out my Instagram app. But when I do, my eyes flit to my text message icon, and seeing that it still displays zero unread message notifications makes my chest sink in disappointment.
I texted Rhys this morning, and he still hasn’t responded. It’s not like him at all.
I roll my eyes at myself. I don’t want to be clingy and demanding. After all, things are crazy for Rhys right now. He’s knee-deep into the season, and he’s just been promoted to the first line of his team. Not only is he getting used to his new role, but he had a grueling stretch of back-to-back away games last week.
He has a couple days off now, so I was selfishly hoping he might try to make it up to visit. I know he needs to recover, and that his next game is in Tampa, so it’s not exactly convenient for him to stop by.
But I really, really want to see him. It’s been too long.
I breathe out a sigh and head up to my room. I think for the rest of the day I need to just zone out with cheesy, comfy movies. Between missing Rhys and being overwhelmed by the recent response to my art online, I’m wound way too tightly. I need to relax.
But when I open my bedroom door, relax is the last thing I do.
My bones almost jump out of my skin when I push the door open and see a figure lying in my bed—and a split-second later, my heart starts to gallop when I recognize it’s Rhys.
“Rhys!” I exclaim, my breathing ragged. I draw my hand up to my chest. “Are you trying to kill me?”
Rhys laughs, leaping up from my bed and tilting his shoulders. “Couldn’t resist.”
“How’d you get in!?” I lower my brow. “It was Jasmine, wasn’t it? Ugh, my best friend and my boyfriend conspiring to give me a heart attack. That’s the last thing I need.”
His low, warm chuckle is like a masseuse smoothing out the tension in my muscles, though. “Well, you’re the first thing I need. Get over here.”
I roll my eyes. “So cheesy.” But that doesn’t keep me from stepping into his arms, pressing my cheek against his chest, and melting into him as he wraps me up in a hug I’ve been craving so, so bad for too long.
With his arms curved around my shoulders, he falls back onto my bed, taking me tumbling with him. I let out a long sigh as I lie on his chest, and all my nerves and tension evaporate into the air with it.
“How long are you here for?” I ask.
“All weekend.”
I nuzzle my face into his shirt, pulling in a breath of his scent. “Good.”
He smooths his big palm down my hair. “With the way your art’s blowing up, you’ll be making more than me by this time next year.”
I laugh. “Awfully optimistic.”
He presses a kiss to the crown of my head. “When it comes to what you can accomplish? Always. I’d be a fucking idiot not to be.”
Happiness thrums in my chest. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll make more than you, and then you can retire from hockey. I can do my art from home, and you can lounge around in your underwear all day as a house-husband, on call to satisfy me at my whim.”
His chest shakes with laughter. “Now that doesn’t sound like a bad arrangement.”
I lift my head to lock my eyes with his honey-amber gaze. “Love you, Rhys.”
He grins. “Love you, too, baby.”
“Always?”
He chuckles, tilting his head to press a kiss to my lips. He doesn’t need to answer. I already know the answer. But he does anyway.
“Always.”