Marnie
One Year Later
“I’m just saying, the boat scene was completely unrealistic,” Sarah argues, refilling her wine glass. “There’s no way they had sex on a kayak without capsizing.”
“It was a canoe,” Elliot corrects.
“Same difference.”
“It’s really not.” Goldie’s curled up in the corner of her sectional, looking tired but happy. Her and Dex’s baby, Blaire, is almost four months old and she’s already over it, according to her texts. “Canoes are wider. More stable.”
“Have you had sex in a canoe?” Sarah challenges her.
“I’ve had three children. I’ll have sex anywhere that doesn’t involve me doing any of the work.”
We all laugh. Book club has become my favorite night of the month—wine, terrible romance novels, and women who’ve somehow become my closest friends over the past year.
A year.
I touch the wind chime necklace at my throat without thinking. It’s become a habit, this small gesture. Grounding myself in the good memories instead of just the hard ones.
This morning I visited Mom’s grave. Told her about work, about Roman, about how I’m actually happy most days now. The grief is still there, it probably always will be, but it’s different. Softer. Something I carry rather than something that drowns me.
“Marnie, are you okay?” Elliot says, waving a hand.
“Yeah. Sorry. Just thinking.”
“About your captain?” Sarah grins. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘I’m getting laid on the regular by a professional athlete’ look,” Goldie supplies. “Very specific. We all recognize it.”
My face heats. “That’s not—”
“It absolutely is,” Elliot says. “Okay, before we get too detailed about everyone’s sex lives, let’s talk about next month’s book.”
“Please tell me it’s better than the kayak disaster,” I say.
“Oh, it’s special.” Elliot exchanges a look with Goldie. “Very special.”
Goldie reaches under a throw pillow and pulls out a book, handing it to me with a strange smile. “This one’s for you.”
I take it, studying the cover. It’s definitely a hockey romance—a black and white image of a shirtless player from the chest down, stick positioned just so, dramatic lighting. The title reads Ice Hot Hearts.
But it’s slim. Maybe 150 pages compared to our usual 400-page monsters.
“It’s short,” I observe.
“It’s a novella,” Elliot says. “Very focused story.”
“Read the back cover,” Sarah adds, but she’s grinning at me.
I flip it over and start reading aloud.
“When Seattle Puckaneers’ Captain Roman Varga dislocates his shoulder during practice, he never expects the team’s new physical therapist to be the woman who changes everything.
Dr. Marnie Walker is brilliant, stubborn, and completely off-limits.
But over twelve weeks of rehabilitation, stolen moments, and undeniable chemistry, Roman realizes some rules are worth breaking. ”
My voice falters. I look up at them.
“What the hell is this?”
“Keep going,” Goldie says softly.
“From heated arguments in training rooms to secret meetings in hotel hallways, from a captain who color-codes romance novels to a PT who thinks she’s broken, this is the story of two people learning that the best plays are the ones you don’t plan.
A story about grief and healing, about breaking rules and building futures, about finding love in the place you least expect it. ”
My hands are shaking and I glance up at Elliot, “Seriously, Elliot?”
“Open it,” Elliot whispers.
I flip the book open. Scan the first page. It’s us. Our meeting. Me resetting his shoulder on the ice, calling him under-brained in front of the whole team.
I flip forward, fanning through the pages. The pool therapy with Brody interrupting. The plane ride where we argued about goalies versus captains. The supply closet.
“This is—” I can’t finish the sentence. My eyes are burning.
I keep flipping. Some of it I recognize. Some of it I don’t. Scenes that didn’t happen but could have. Should have. Moments that feel like wishes made real on the page.
“Roman did this?”
“He hired a writer,” Elliot admits. “Gave them detailed notes. I helped edit it. Got it printed. Goldie had a friend design the cover.”
“The cover photo is actually from a shoot Roman did,” Goldie adds. “We just edited it.”
I’m crying now. “Why?” I manage.
“Read the dedication,” Elliot says.
I flip to the front. There, on the dedication page in simple text:
For Marnie— You said ask you in a year. It’s been a year.
I drop the book onto my lap.
When I look up, Roman is standing in the doorway. Behind him I can see Dex and Brody, both grinning.
“You—” I can’t finish. “You wrote a book.”
“Technically, I hired someone to write it.” He moves closer. “But I gave them very detailed notes. Color-coded them, even.”
“You’re insane.”
“Probably.” He’s in front of me now. “But you said ask you in a year. It’s been a year, Marnie.”
“You remembered the date.”
“I’ve been counting down.” He drops to one knee and the room goes completely silent. “I love you. I love how you take no shit from anyone, including me. I love that you still wear the wind chime necklace every day. I love that you’re stronger than you think you are.”
He pulls out a small box.
“I love that you read terrible romance novels and that you made me read them too. I love that you threatened to bench my entire team. I love that you said yes to dinner even though you were terrified. I love every single thing about you, and I want to keep loving you for the rest of my life.”
He opens the box. “So I’m asking. Will you marry me?”
I’m crying too hard to speak. Just nod frantically, laughing through tears.
“I need actual words, Moxie. That’s kind of how proposals work.”
“Yes,” I manage. “Yes, you ridiculous man. Yes.”
He slides the ring on my finger, then stands and kisses me. I taste salt from my tears and feel his smile against my mouth.
The room erupts. The WAGs are crying and cheering. I can hear Dex’s whistle, and Rodriguez’s filming commentary.
When we finally pull apart, I’m laughing and crying and completely overwhelmed.
“You wrote a book,” I say again. “Our book. With creative liberties.”
“You love romance novels.” He shrugs like this is obvious. “And I wanted to give you a good story. Our story.”
“Can I read the rest of it?”
“That’s the plan. Though some of those scenes are aspirational.”
My face heats. “I noticed.”
“Good. Gives us something to work toward.” His hand settles on my hip. “Consider it a very detailed to-do list.”
“You wrote a sex to-do list.”
“Only with things I want to do with you.”
Elliot appears with champagne and suddenly everyone’s toasting and hugging and I’m being passed around for congratulations.
“You knew,” I accuse Goldie. “You’ve all known.”
“For months,” she admits. “Roman needed time to get it written and printed. Also he made us read it first.”
“The creative liberties needed workshopping,” Elliot says. “His first draft was very... technical.”
“I was being thorough,” Roman protests.
“You were being clinical,” Sarah corrects. “We added the romance.”
“To my sex scenes?”
“Someone had to.”
I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe. This is perfect. This is exactly us—chaotic and absurd and supported by people who love us.
Dex appears with more champagne and pulls Roman into a hug. “Congrats, Cap. That was smooth.”
“Was it though?” Brody asks. “Man commissioned an entire book. That’s not smooth, that’s elaborate.”
“It’s romantic,” Goldie says firmly.
“It’s Roman,” I correct, and they all laugh because that explains everything.
I look around the room—at the women who’ve become my family, at Roman being chirped by his teammates, at the slim book still sitting on the coffee table with our story inside it. At the ring on my finger that I keep touching to make sure it’s real.
“Hey,” Roman says quietly, pulling me aside while everyone’s distracted. “You okay?”
“I’m perfect.” I touch the wind chime necklace. “I went to see Mom this morning. Told her you were probably going to propose soon.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. She would have loved this. The book, the chaos, all of it.”
His arm comes around my waist. “She would have threatened to haunt me if I messed it up.”
“She still might.” I lean against him. “But I think she’d approve.”
“Good.” He kisses my temple. “Because I have plans.”
“What kind of plans?”
“The kind that involve you, me, and the rest of our lives.” His voice drops. “Starting with working through that creative list.”
I laugh against his chest. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“I spent six months working with a professional writer on those scenes. I’m absolutely not letting it go.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re marrying me anyway.”
“I am.” I look up at him. “I really am.”
“No take-backs.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Later, after more champagne and tears and photos, after Brody posts a simple “Congrats Cap and Doc” with a picture of us kissing, after everyone finally filters out and it’s just us in Roman’s truck heading home—
“So,” he says, one hand on the wheel, one hand holding mine. “Six months?”
“Six months?”
“For the wedding. I’m not waiting longer than that.” He says. “June nineteenth. Outdoor ceremony. Small. Just family and the team.”
“The team is going to be insufferable.”
“They already are. Might as well make it official.”
Back at the apartment, I grab the novella from my bag and curl up on the couch. Roman watches me from the doorway.
“You’re actually going to read it.”
“I want to see what creative liberties you took.” I flip to a random page and my eyebrows climb. “Roman.”
“What?”
“This scene. With the—in the—”
“Training room after hours. Very achievable.”
“That’s not the point—”
“Then what is the point?” He’s grinning now, moving toward me.
“The point is you wrote down your fantasy scenarios and had them professionally edited.”
“I’m a planner.” He takes the book from my hands, sets it aside. “Besides, now you know what I’m thinking about.”
“That’s both mortifying and terrifying.”
He pulls me up, backing me toward the bedroom. “And I’m done hiding what I want.”
“What do you want?”
“You. Always you.” He kisses me softly. “But maybe we start with page forty-seven. Work our way through the rest.”
“There’s a system, isn’t there?”
“You know me so well.”
I’m laughing as he kisses me, as we stumble toward the bedroom, as the book sits forgotten on the couch with our story inside it.
Later, wrapped in his arms with the wind chime necklace warm against my chest, I think about Mom. About how she’d told Roman to be good to me. How she’d threatened to haunt him.
He hasn’t broken his promise. He’s given me this—a life, a future, a story worth living.
Because even in the grief, even in the loss, I found Roman and a future worth choosing.
And that’s the best romance novel ending of all.
THE END