Chapter 20
Josie
Ihave officially entered a state of emotional whiplash so severe I should probably be wearing a neck brace.
Tonight, my career imploded, my mother branded me a slut in a parking lot, and a handsome man in full hockey gear declared his love to the night sky.
Now we're clomping down a service corridor while the muffled roar of the arena bleeds through the concrete, the building itself still riding the high of the celebration.
"You know you're leaving little skate marks on the floor," I say, wiping mascara off my cheek with my free hand. "Colin is totally going to bill you for that."
"Worth it."
"You're also still wearing your gloves. You've been holding my hand with a hockey glove this whole time."
Declan turns to look at me, that grumpy expression returning for a moment of brief satisfaction. "Do you want me to take it off? Because the hand under here has been sweating for three periods and I'm trying to keep the romance alive."
I consider this. For about one second. "Keep the glove on. Possibly forever."
"That's what I thought."
Declan keeps tugging me along, and as we round the next corner, Rose comes sprinting like she's being chased by bees. Her cheeks are flushed, her braid is flapping behind her, and she's… holding my phone above her head?
"Rose?"
"JOSIE! Oh my God. Josie. Phone. You need—okay, breathe, Rose—" she skids to a stop in front of us, hands me the phone, and doubles over with her palms on her knees. "You left it in the box and the damn thing hasn't stopped buzzing. I thought it was going to catch fire."
I look down at the screen and my stomach drops.
The notifications are stacked so deep the numbers have given up counting.
There are hundreds. No. Thousands. Of mentions, tags, and DMs. There's even three missed calls from Colin, and one from a number labeled ESPN, which cannot possibly be a good thing.
Shit. Is this it? Is my career over?
After what happened last night, and then just now in the arena.
I don't remember leaving the box. I don't remember pushing through the crowd, or the way their faces blurred into a sea of pity and shock.
The only thing I remember is the jumbotron lit up with that headline, and my mother turning slowly, like a horror movie villain, to look at me.
"You whore."
That's how the woman who raised me chose to greet the news that her youngest daughter had found love, success, and a man willing to fight for her.
I chased her through the building, all the way out into the darkness while every accusation she spat over her shoulder landed like another slap across my face. I was a slut. I was a disappointment. I had disgraced her mother's name.
But the worst part was when she said Dad would be ashamed.
Because in that moment, after seeing everything I had worked for, that arena so alive, so full with joy and excitement despite what was happening down on the ice, I believed her.
For one horrible, soul-crushing moment, I believed her.
And then Declan Morrison came clomping across that parking lot, his blue eyes blazing with a fury I'd never seen from him before. He stood beside me and took her blows, just like Dad used to after we'd come back inside, drenched and beaming after an afternoon playing sports together outside.
Then Declan gave her a piece of his mind, and declared his love for me.
When my mother drove away, leaving me in a puddle of mascara and humiliation with an arena roaring in the distance, he turned to me and said three words that rewrote every bad thing I'd ever believed about myself.
Damn him. He beat me to it.
I love you.
I flinch when the phone buzzes in my hand again. "Shit, Rose. How bad is it?"
"Bad?" Rose straightens up, and she's—wait. She's grinning. "Josie… It's not bad. It's the opposite of bad. Look!"
She grabs my wrist and opens the first video herself. I hold the phone at arm's length like it might bite me.
"Rose… What—what is this? This is from last night. The boardwalk. That's the hot mic." I shove the phone back into Rose's chest, shaking my head. "I don't want to watch that again. I already lived it once."
Declan's glove squeezes my hand, but Rose forces me to look at the screen.
"I know you have," she says, tilting her head. "But please. Just listen to this."
She cranks the volume until Declan's deep voice comes through the speaker, and I hate how it sounds. I'm done carrying it alone.
I spent the entire night last night pacing my hotel room all alone trying to figure this out. Trying to find a way to spin what happened at the pier into something good.
I came up with nothing.
The entire thing was a disaster. But Rose is here, vibrating with excitement, which means the public reaction might be different than I expected.
"Oh my God. Sweetheart…" Declan squeezes my hand again. "Read the screen."
I don't want to. But the tenderness in his voice makes me look.
And suddenly, I can't breathe.
The screen shows my own face, frozen mid-sob, and below it, a tsunami of comments flooding in.
And the comments aren't dragging us down. They're lifting us up.
Underneath it, someone's captioned the clip the most human thing I've ever heard an athlete say. It's at one point one million views. Since last night.
"Okay, next one," Rose says, swiping before I can. "Oh, yes! This one's my favorite."
It's a badly put-together clip of the winning goal, spliced with Declan sprinting off the ice in full gear. There's a text caption layered over the video: HE LEFT HIS OWN CELEbrATION TO FIND HER. I'M UNWELL.
"Rose, there's more?"
"Josie. There's so much more."
She swipes again, showing dozens of videos of the party at the pier, the game that literally just happened, and—
"Oh my God! Look what someone just uploaded!" She squeezes the phone and does a little bounce on the spot. "Someone was in the parking lot! Oh, you guys!"
Declan shuffles in closer, his warmth surrounding me as we gather around the screen. The video's grainy, shaky, but the audio's crystal clear.
"I'm the captain. And I'm in love with her."
"Read the comments," Rose says. "No, actually—I'll read them. Oh wow… Crying emojis. Keyboard smashing. Oh, look at this one!" She starts laughing and points, delighted. "Somebody just wrote I'm selling my house and moving to Beachside."
I stare at the phone in Rose's hand, the influx of glowing comments a blur of hearts and fire emojis. Declan's gloved hand slides over my back, pulling me tighter.
I look up at him, my heart hammering inside my chest. "Declan... what the hell just happened?"
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell sweat still clinging to him.
"I think," he says softly, "the world just fell in love with us."
"Absolutely. The Ledger story is dead," Rose says, bouncing on her toes.
"Like, dead dead. Susie Wrath posted her hit piece and the internet turned on her.
The whole narrative has flipped. Nobody's saying scandal anymore, Josie.
They're saying—" she pulls up one more post and holds it in front of my face, "—this. "
THE BEACHSIDE BEARS: THE TEAM THAT PLAYS FOR LOVE.
And that's when I see it. All of it.
The whole Saves the Bears campaign assembling itself in my head like game film. We can do couples' night promotions, behind-the-scenes series, merch drops. This could be the story that carries this franchise all the way to April, and beyond.
I snatch my phone from Rose's hands, and my thumbs come back to life. They start flying across the screen, my tongue wedged between my teeth like it's trying to make a run for it. The view counter's spinning so fast my phone should be issued a speeding ticket.
"Oh my God, your face right now," Rose says, wheezing.
"Are you—" Declan leans over my shoulder, frowning. "Josie. Are you seriously working right now?"
"Declan." I don't look up. "We just went viral for being in love. Do you know what that does to ticket sales?"
"I do. I get that. But, um…" He clears his throat. "I was kind of in the middle of something. Remember?"
I nod as I fire off the text to Colin—don't talk to any press until I brief you, and for the love of God don't say the word VISION—then spin around, hold the phone up at arm's length, and yank Declan down by the jersey until his sweaty face is level with mine. "Quick selfie. Smile."
"Josie—"
"SMILE, MORRISON."
I smack his ass as the flash goes off. On the screen we look absolutely deranged. I've got cried-off makeup and a grin like a jack-o'-lantern, and Declan looks mid-protest with helmet hair.
It's the best photo ever taken of two human beings.
I post it with the caption: Sorry Mom.???? (bear emoji, blue heart emoji)
"Right." I sniff once, hard, and shove the phone in my clutch. "Okay. Locker room. You said you had one more thing."
Declan chuckles and shakes his head. "You're lucky you're pretty."
He wraps his gloved hand around mine again, and moves towards the double doors of the locker room. Rose, reading the sudden drop in temperature, quietly falls into step behind us like a bridesmaid who knows the wedding's about to get interesting.
Declan pauses at the door, listening to the music thumping on the other side. The sound of grown men screaming and the pure, unfiltered joy of victory is rattling the door.
Declan takes a breath, and pushes through.
The locker room hits us like a wave.
Music is blasting, Gatorade is spilled everywhere on the floor, and Finn standing on a bench with his shirt off conducting the room like an orchestra.
It's pure hockey mayhem.
Declan looks at me and smiles as Corbin gets doused with a water bottle by Sawyer. Coach Pearson is in the corner pretending to disapprove while visibly fighting a smile. Someone's smuggled in some champagne, and the whole room is celebrating like we just won the cup.
Then somebody spots us standing at the door, hand in hand.
And a room full of grown men lose their entire minds.
"OHHHHHHHH—"
"THERE THEY ARE!"
"CAPTAIN AND THE BOSS! CAPTAIN AND THE BOSS!"
Finn cups his hands around his mouth. "I KNEW IT SINCE THE ROAD TRIP, LADS! THE VAN WINDOWS DON'T FOG THEMSELVES!"