CHAPTER 24
Harper
The new year has started off remarkably well.
At some point between me storming out of the Rainbow Room and Julian sprinting through Rockefeller Center in a tuxedo like a deranged leading man in a cheesy Hallmark movie, our relationship changed for the better.
And it wasn’t just because he explained the situation with Giselle, but because of how immediate his clarity became afterward.
There are no games with Julian. No keeping options open.
He simply looked at me standing there beneath Rockefeller Center and decided—with total certainty—that I was the only woman he wanted to spend time with.
January in Manhattan is hopeful.
Dylan came back from North Carolina looking refreshed, which I honestly wasn’t expecting. Usually after extended time with Mom and Marley, he returns carrying the emotional exhaustion of being the only functioning person in a house full of dreamers.
But this time seems different. Maybe because he’s getting older and he’s beginning to understand that he can love people while also understanding their limitations.
Or maybe he’s just genuinely happy to be home.
Either way, it’s been adorable watching him prepare for the new semester.
This morning, for example, I wake up to find him sitting at our tiny kitchen table organizing school supplies.
“Why do you have binders?” I ask as I pour coffee.
Without looking up, he says, “Because chaos is the enemy of academic excellence.”
I blink at him. “Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”
That finally earns a grin.
The binders are color-coded. Color-coded. Red, green, blue, yellow. There are sharpened pencils lined up beside them and stacks of fresh spiral-bound notebooks from the stationery store down the block.
And despite all the technology available to him—all the apps and tablets and laptops—Dylan still insists on studying with actual pencil and paper.
“I remember things better when I write them down,” he says with a shrug when I point it out.
I love that about him. Beneath all the sarcasm and TikTok and teenage chaos, there’s still a quality that’s wonderfully old-fashioned about the way his brain works.
It’s incredible watching him grow up. He’s becoming a man right in front of me.
And somehow, despite all the years I spent terrified I was failing him, he’s turning into a really good one.
The weekend before school starts again, I’m stretched on the couch with Beau half asleep across my legs while Dylan argues passionately with sports analysts on television from the kitchen when my phone buzzes.
I glance down, expecting to see Abby’s name. Instead, it’s a text from Julian. Bring Dylan to the game tonight. Would enjoy spending some time with him. Meet me in the owner’s suite at 6:30.
This doesn’t make a lot of sense. Julian’s hosting a delegation of VIP execs from one of his hedge fund partners and is going straight from meetings to the game, so I’m not scheduled to drive him or attend. Moreover, Julian specifically wants to spend time with my brother.
“What’s that face?” Dylan asks from the kitchen. His eyes narrow. “That’s your Julian face.”
“I don’t have a Julian face.”
“You absolutely have a Julian face.” He points a spatula at me accusingly. “You smile different when you’re texting him.”
“I hate how observant you’ve become.”
“It’s one of my best… and worst qualities.”
“Julian wants us to come to the game,” I say, glancing over at Dylan.
“Well, hurry up and text him we’ll be there,” he says. No words to describe the joy I’m experiencing right now not only that Julian’s including my brother, but that I’ll get to see him tonight when I’d not planned on it.
I try to suppress my smile as I type back quickly, We’ll be there.
Before I can lock my phone again, another text appears. And Harper— I’m already smiling. Can’t wait to see you.
Heat rushes instantly into my cheeks.
Dylan catches it immediately.
“Oh my God,” he says in horror. “Please tell me you’re not sexting while I’m making grilled cheese.”
“I’m not sexting!”
“You’re blushing at your phone.”
I throw a couch pillow at him while he laughs loudly enough to startle Beau awake.
The Vipers are playing the Boston Eagles tonight, which means the arena is absolute mayhem by the time Dylan and I arrive.
The sidewalks surrounding the arena pulse with energy, fans bundled in green and black jerseys weaving through traffic while vendors shout over one another and taxis lean impatiently on their horns for no reason other than existing in Manhattan.
Beside me, Dylan vibrates with excitement as we push through the crowd toward the entrance.
“I swear,” he says while adjusting the Vipers beanie on his head, “playing Boston should legally count as a hate crime.”
I laugh. “Please don’t say things like that in front of Julian.”
“He’d probably agree.”
Dylan’s right. One hundred percent, in fact.
By the time we make our way upstairs to the owner’s suite, warm-up music is already thundering through the arena and thousands of fans are filtering into their seats below us in restless waves of green and black.
Julian stands near the glass speaking with two executives when we walk in, but the second he sees us, his entire expression brightens.
Tonight he’s dressed more casually than usual in dark jeans beneath a camel coat, and looped around his neck—
The scarf. The one I made him.
Then I spot not one, but two more. Identical to the one I made him.
Julian catches the direction of my stare immediately, and the corner of his mouth lifts.
“What?” he asks innocently.
I move closer, blinking at the matching green, black and white scarves folded neatly across the back of one of the suite chairs.
“Where did these come from?” I ask, completely confused as I pick one up.
Beside me, Dylan grabs another. “Wait… these are actually sick.”
Julian looks entirely too pleased with himself now.
“Well,” he says smoothly, leaning in to kiss my cheek and I blush at the PDA, “I happen to love mine. And it got me thinking about the soccer clubs in Europe. The scarves, the traditions with all the supporters’ sections.”
I stare at him, resisting the urge to touch my face where I the imprint of his lips still tingles. “You manufactured them?”
“I instructed the merchandise department to.”
Dylan looks between us like he’s watching business genius unfold in real time. “No way.”
“They go on sale tonight for the first time,” Julian says. “Limited release initially.”
I glance down again at the stitching and craftsmanship and honestly—they’re beautiful. Richer yarn than mine. Cleaner detail work. The Vipers logo woven perfectly into the pattern.
“These are incredible,” I murmur.
Julian’s gaze lingers on me for a second longer than necessary. “I thought so too.”
How am I supposed to emotionally survive this man?
Meanwhile Dylan already has his scarf wrapped proudly around his neck.
“Dylan,” Julian says, “I want to show you something.”
Dylan perks up immediately. “Yeah?”
Julian glances toward me. “Do you mind, Harper?”
“Of course not.”
The two of them head toward the far side of the suite where a discreet door blends invisibly into the wall paneling. Julian opens it and gestures Dylan inside. Meanwhile, I grab a glass of wine on a tray as a server passes me.
Curiosity takes hold of me and I follow Dylan and Julian in.
I do my best not to hover, but the truth is I’m completely endeared by Julian taking such an interest in Dylan.
Inside, the lighting glows blue from wall-to-wall monitors displaying player tracking data, heat maps, live camera feeds, shot charts, possession metrics—an entire universe of information moving in real time. It’s all getting set up for tonight’s game.
Dylan lets out an audible “Whoa.”
I smile instantly into my wineglass.
“This,” Julian explains, “is our analytics headquarters during live games.”
“You have all this running at once?” Dylan asks, awestruck.
“All game long.”
Dylan’s jaw is almost on the floor.
“It tracks player movement, shift fatigue, puck possession, expected goals,” Julian says, gesturing toward one of the screens. “That monitor there measures skating output and recovery rates during line changes.”
“That’s insane,” Dylan breathes. “I love this stuff.”
“I thought you might,” Julian replies easily.
Dylan moves closer to another monitor, completely engrossed now. “I’ve always been really into statistics,” he says. “Not just sports. Patterns in general.”
Julian leans casually against the doorway beside him. “That’s usually how analytics people start.”
Dylan glances back at him. “Yeah, that would make sense, I guess.”
“Absolutely.” Julian gestures again toward the screens. “The best analysts aren’t only good at math. They’re good at identifying stories hidden inside numbers.”
And then Julian says something that nearly makes me spill my wine. “You should meet our head analytics manager sometime.”
Dylan blinks. “Seriously?”
“Why not?” Julian shrugs before his expression turns thoughtful. “Actually, it would probably be smart for the organization to create a proper internship pipeline for students interested in sports analytics.”
Dylan looks stunned now and my heart flutters with gratitude.
“What better place to start than the analytics department?” Julian continues. “Young minds usually see things older people miss.”
This is like Julian. The guy who listens, who cares.
The guy I didn’t think really existed, at least on this planet.
He isn’t humoring Dylan or playing benevolent billionaire for my benefit.
He’s genuinely engaged, listening seriously to Dylan’s thoughts the same way he listens to executives and owners and league officials.
By the time we emerge from the analytics room, they’re already midway through an animated conversation about defensive efficiency metrics and line chemistry.
I stand near the glass of the owner’s suite watching the two most important men in my life laugh together.
Julian and Dylan spend the entire game talking.
With each passing period, the body language becomes more comfortable, more at ease, like they’ve been in each other’s lives for years.
Julian has fully bought in. He’s not there in the distracted, half-listening way adults often talk to teenagers while waiting for the conversation to end.
No, Julian engages with Dylan fully, the same engagement he brings to boardrooms and meetings and every other space where he commands attention so naturally.
The game unfolds as background noise to them at times.
Every few minutes Dylan points excitedly toward the ice while discussing some statistic or matchup trend, and Julian meets him there, expanding on the thought, challenging it occasionally, explaining nuances of roster construction or player efficiency metrics.
It all has my brother practically glowing.
At one point Dylan explains why he thinks the Vipers’ second line generates stronger offensive pressure late in periods because of their transition speed through the neutral zone, and instead of politely nodding, Julian leans forward and says: “Interesting. Explain that.”
And Dylan does. Confidently. Watching it happen is surreal.
The Vipers end up beating Boston 3–2 in a game dramatic enough to send the crowd into absolute hysteria by the third period. The final buzzer sounds and the arena erupts around us, green towels spinning through the air while fans scream themselves hoarse.
And beside me, Dylan smiles harder than I think I’ve ever seen in my life.
After a slight argument with Julian, who insisted on getting us a car home and me winning, as we’ll enjoy the walk, we leave the suite and filter out with the rest of the crowd, the energy spilling through the arena’s electric.
Fans pour into the hallways chanting in unison, or as close to it as a herd of drunk fans can manage.
“LET’S GO VIPERS!”
“LET’S GO VIPERS!”
The sound follows us all the way to the street.
And everywhere I look, people are wearing the scarves. The scarves! To think a gift I made for Julian could so quickly turn into this.
Green and black yarn wrapped around necks, lifted above heads, waving through the crowd exactly the way Julian imagined they would.
I glance over at Dylan as we step outside into the cold Manhattan night and catch the deeply satisfied expression on his face while he watches the fans.
“Tonight was insane,” he says for maybe the fiftieth time. “The analytics room alone—”
“I know.” I laugh.
“No, seriously, Harper, they had real-time shift tracking—”
“I heard you the first twelve times.”
The crowd spills around us onto Seventh Avenue beneath the bright lights of Midtown while chants echo through the street.
Then my phone buzzes in my coat pocket. A text from Julian. Scarves are already sold out. Best merch release we’ve ever had. And text me when you get home so I know you’re safe.
I laugh softly to myself before typing back quickly: Guess I was inadvertently on to something when I knitted you that scarf, huh?
His response comes almost immediately. And what he sends next hits me in the best possible way, so impactful, I stop mid-stride. Dylan is such a great kid. So smart and funny… takes after his big sister. I can’t wait to spend more time with him.
I then look at Dylan, who’s beaming as he checks out his scarf, then surveys the city around him before turning his attention back to me. “Never seen you smile that big, Harper. Must be happy the Vipers won, huh?”
“Something like that,” I say as I slip my phone back in my pocket and practically float home, arm in arm with my little brother.