Chapter 18
Josie
"Okay, Josie. Deep breath. You've got this."
The woman in the hotel mirror stares back at me, half-zipped into a gold slip dress, one eye finished, the other slowly getting there.
"Tonight, Beachside," I tell the mirror, flipping through the index cards balanced on the bathroom counter, "we celebrate not just a team, but a town—no. Ugh. Too Hallmark."
I shuffle the card to the back and focus on the next option.
"Good evening, Beachside. Tonight isn't about hockey. It's about us—God, no, that sounds like I'm proposing to the whole room."
With a groan, I forget all about practicing tonight's speech and try to finish getting ready instead.
Below my balcony, the boardwalk is already glowing. String lights are blinking to life one strand at a time, food trucks are rolling into position, and the carousel is spinning slow test rotations at the end of the pier like it's warming up before the big dance.
This is it.
It's been three weeks since Declan kissed me behind a poster on this exact boardwalk and told me to wait until after the game.
Three weeks of eighteen-hour days, of falling asleep face-down on my laptop, of surviving on Goldie's honey lattes and stolen minutes with Declan in his Rover when neither of us could stand it anymore.
Three weeks of watching the ticket counter climb like my own heartbeat.
And it all comes down to tonight.
Every permit, every vendor contract, every sponsor call I've made over these three weeks has been worth it.
Twenty-one days of hunting Colin down between golf rounds, of Rose and Darcy staying late to help me color-code seating maps, of my own name slowly becoming something people in this town actually recognize.
Because I did it.
Every single seat for tomorrow's Portland game is sold. It was confirmed right before I left The Bear Cave this afternoon, when the ticketing system flashed the words I've been chasing since I circled that date in red pen.
SOLD OUT.
I did it. Me. The girl who wasn't supposed to belong in sports.
And tomorrow, my mother will be sitting in that arena watching it happen.
My phone is sitting face-up on the counter, and I catch myself checking it for the fourth time in ten minutes. No new texts. No flight confirmation. Just my own reflection in the black screen.
Because yes… she's coming.
An invitation I only managed to extend after three espresso martinis at Breakers while Darcy chanted send it, send it, send it. Rose physically held my hand steady over the phone, but the worst part is… I couldn't even call.
I texted my own mother. Like a coward. A tipsy, brave, terrified coward.
At least she replied, even if it was only with four words: Fine. Book me flights.
I'm mid-attempt at wing number two when my hotel room door lock beeps, and swings open.
"Honey, I'm home."
"You know," I call without turning around, "most people knock."
"Most people didn't pay for the keycard upgrade." Declan fills the bathroom doorway, and I nearly stab myself in the eye with the liner.
Because he's in a suit. A devilish charcoal number with an collar open and no tie.
It's like he wants me thinking about undoing him tonight.
The sleeves strain around arms that have ruined me for every other man on this planet, thick and roped with muscle.
His dark hair's been pushed back with a comb, his stubble freshly trimmed, and God, my mouth actually waters.
I remember exactly what that scratchy stubble feels like scraping between my thighs.
This is a problem. A very hard, very tall problem currently filling my hotel doorway.
"Wow," I manage. "You look..."
"I know." He smirks and tugs at his suit jacket. Then his eyes do the long drag down my dress, over my hips, all the way to my bare feet. The smirk drops into something hungrier. "Fuck. Josie."
"Good fuck or bad fuck?"
"The kind of fuck where I'm reconsidering our whole schedule tonight."
He steps into the bathroom, and without hesitation his hands are on my ass, pulling me against him as his mouth finds the curve of my neck. He nuzzles against my skin, and every professional thought in my head packs a bag and leaves.
"Declan." It comes out embarrassingly breathy and his warm hand squeezes my ass. "Declan, I just did my makeup."
"I'm nowhere near your makeup." His teeth graze my shoulder, and I watch us in the mirror. I'm dressed in gold, and he's currently wrapped around me like a very expensive coat. God, we look good. His fingers find the zipper at my spine and he starts easing it down. "This, however—"
"I just zipped that."
"And now I'm unzipping it. It's called foreplay."
"That's called—" his palm slides inside the open back of my dress, warm and huge against my bare skin, and my knees genuinely wobble, "—sabotage."
"Come on. We've got ten minutes," he murmurs against my ear. "You planned an entire party for the whole town but you can't spare ten minutes for your captain?"
"Ten minutes?" I twist in his arms, pressing both hands flat against his chest. "Please. You've never once been a ten-minute man, Declan Morrison. You're a forty-five minutes and an encore in the shower man, and I say that with enormous gratitude."
"Yeah, but when you look like this…" His throat works as heat burns beneath his gaze. "I could be efficient."
"You cannot. And anyway, I still need to decide on which speech I'm going to use."
Declan groans like a wounded animal, and drops his forehead to my shoulder. "Fine. But just so you know, after this party is finished, I'm giving you more than one encore tonight."
"Hasn't Coach given the team a curfew tonight?"
"Perhaps. But when he sees you looking like this at the party, I'm sure he'll understand."
I feel him take one long breath, then another, and then, like the reformed man he's pretending to be, he steps back, adjusts himself in his suit pants with zero shame, and turns me by the hips.
"So, the speech…" His fingers find my zipper and draw it back up, slow, sealing me back into the dress like he's gift-wrapping something he plans to open later. He presses a single kiss to my bare shoulder. "Did you choose the one I wrote for you?"
"Absolutely not," I say, spinning to face him. "Your speech had the closing line of 'let's puck this town up.'"
"It's a great line."
"Perhaps if I were trying to initiate a riot."
Declan grins. "Alright. So which one then?"
"I'm going with the simple one." I turn back to the mirror, checking my second eye, which has miraculously matched the first. "Thank the fans, thank the team, cry a little and walk off before I say something unhinged into a live microphone."
"No mention of me?"
"You get a nod. A generic, professional nod along with all your teammates."
"Gee, thanks." He steps closer, and the bathroom suddenly feels smaller. His hand finds my waist, thumb tracing slow over gold silk. "I liked being your one night of reckless mistake better."
"That was one night. This is a new night." I glance at my phone again, still no text. "And my mother could land at any minute, which means I need every single hair on my head to cooperate, and I need you to stop looking at me like you're an appetizer I'm about to skip dinner for."
"You'll be fine. And tomorrow—" he turns me back around, tips my chin up to meet his eyes. "—you sell out that arena. You show your mother exactly who her daughter is. And then no more secrets."
"No more secrets," I echo, and the words feel like standing at the top of a very tall diving board.
He kisses my forehead and grabs my speech cards off the counter, shuffling through them.
"'Tonight we celebrate not just a team'—Josie, this is terrible. Are you sure this is the one?"
"Give me those." I snatch the stack back, check myself one more time in the mirror, and head for the door. "Now get out. We're going to be late."
He smacks my ass on the way out the door, then we ride down in the same elevator because we're rebels. When the doors open on the lobby, he hangs back in the corner like a gorgeous secret.
"Go," he says. "I'll meet you at the party, two minutes late. You know, for appearances."
"For appearances," I agree, smiling.
The doors start to close between us, and the last thing I see is Declan Morrison in a charcoal suit, mouthing you've got this at me.
By the time I reach the boardwalk, it has become an entire world out of a dream I didn't know I was allowed to have.
It's a carnival. A hockey-inspired festival of fun.
"Wow," I say, moving towards the end of the pier, my gown gently dragging across the boardwalk beneath the string lights. "This is amazing."
The carousel spins at full glory at the pier's end, its carved horses and one controversial hockey-helmeted bear glowing under carnival bulbs.
There's a line of shrieking kids stretching thirty deep for the free rides already.
The band on the small stage is halfway through a surf-rock cover, and the smell.
Rico's carnitas are caramelizing on the flat-top inside his food truck, and across from him some waffle cones are pressing sweet and golden at the ice cream stand.
There's blue and gold everywhere. From the tiny jerseys on toddlers and the endless balloons set in clusters, all the way to the glittering streamers and lights showcasing all the hard work I've done.
There's even a golden retriever in an adorable Bears bandana strutting his adorable fluff around the pier.
The entire town is here.
I did this.
I move through the crowd, and right behind that thought is the one I've been thinking about all week. Dad would've loved this. He'd be at Rico's truck right now with hot sauce on his shirt, telling strangers his daughter planned all of this. He'd be the Bears biggest fan, I just know it.
"JOSIE!" Rico waves a taco at me from his window like a torch. "Best night of my LIFE! Your little friend—" he points across the crowd at Beck, who is at a picnic table with an entire tray of tacos, "—he lost the salsa bet again!"