Epilogue
JAXON
Our table is in the fourth row but has an unobstructed view of the stage.
My seat? Yeah, that has a clear view of my favorite girl in the world. Stunning in her floor-length silver dress. Thin straps, a modest neckline, but the back dips low. And a slit runs up to mid-thigh, showing off her perfect muscles…and easy access for my hand.
I slip my hand under the table—this time she doesn’t slap it away.
I guess at the NHL draft isn’t the time to feel up your ceiling-shattering, inspiring, and hot girlfriend, but whatever—and onto her exposed knee to steady its bounce.
She hasn’t stopped moving or biting the inside of her cheek since the draft started three hours ago.
If I had to guess, she’s been like this all day.
I was kicked out of our hotel room after dying her hair.
Sutton, Elliot, and Xanie commandeering the space as Jordan’s glam team.
Around noon I tried to sneak in, but Sutton—as kind as she could and followed up with an apology text—slammed the door in my face after taking the tray of coffees I’d brought.
Cooper was with me, laughing at my misery and made it worse by knocking and being allowed in.
It’s not like we are getting married, seeing Jordan won’t ruin anything.
When I was finally allowed to enter my room, all the breath was knocked from my lungs. They did a fucking stellar job, but they had an easy canvas. Jordan’s already beautiful, already like a star in a midnight sky.
“How high up do you think I should hold my dress if I climb the stairs? There’s three or four, or is there five?” Jordan shakes her head, blue hair whipping me in the face. “But that’ll wrinkle it. I shouldn’t hold it—but what if I tr—”
“You won’t trip, baby.” I give her knee a reassuring squeeze. “Breathe, there’s still ten picks left in the first round.”
“Okay. Yeah, you’re right.”
She goes to bite her cheek.
“Breath with me,” I offer as a way to get her to stop. Jordan turns her upper body to face me. “In for one, two, three. Hold it, and out for one, two, three. Again.”
After four breaths her knee stills.
I won’t knock her for being anxious about tonight. If I was the first female to enter the draft, I’d be terrified as hell.
That’s why we’re all here. Flying into Los Angeles from wherever our lives have taken us.
Cooper came in from Chicago. He recently wrapped up his rookie season with them.
They made it to the playoffs, sadly losing in the first round, but Coop still managed to win rookie of the year.
Him and Sutton have been doing long-distance, like Jordan and I will be next year.
Sutton is in a graduate program in Denver, working with Dr. Zando, a sports psychologist for Team USA.
I was accepted into the master’s program at Lakeland and have been coaching with the hockey team.
It’s been a challenging but rewarding twelve months.
I’ll graduate in a year, but plan to move for the summer to Cincinnati to help my dad adjust to his new cochlear implants.
He finally agreed to let me use my savings from my silly little dancing videos to pay for them.
Afterward, I’ll apply for coaching jobs wherever Jordan is drafted.
Dad’s here too, deep in conversation with Jordan’s mom. Cooper and her dad both started taking ASL classes.
The rest of our table is our friends—Xanie, Chase, Dawson, and Beckett. Even Madeline is here, begging Beck to take her out of school for the weekend. He’s heading back to Bensen, but we’re all heading to Michigan on Sunday to spend the week at the Carmichael’s lake house.
Lights dip low, and the music changes as the clock starts for the next and last pick.
“You ready, Blue?” I ask Jordan. The nerves I’ve tampered down start to fizzle. “It’s your turn.”
We’re all on the edge of our seat as the commissioner walks to the podium.
He leans forward and starts, “With the thirty-second pick, the Columbus Lightning pick Jordan Carmichael, forward from Lakeland University.”
Our table erupts. Loud and chaotic, excited and proud. I waste no time stripping off my suit jacket and unbuttoning my dress shirt. Finally, I can breathe.
I got word a couple weeks ago from a little birdie, also known as my girlfriend’s brother, that Columbus was going to take her, and commissioned a jersey. I hoped I hadn’t jinxed it by wearing it under my suit, but I was confident the rumor was true.
We’re all standing except for Jordan, and I know she’s taking it all in. She stands, eyes glossy on the verge of tears, and hugs me. I kiss the top of her head, wrapping my arms around her.
“Are you wearing a jersey?” Her fingers trace the numbers. “Are you wearing my jersey?”
Jordan steps back and sees the Lightning’s logo on the front. “Looks like perfection?” I do a spin. “Carmichael looks better on my back than Greene, I know.”
“You’re ridiculous, Greene.”
I laugh and use all my muscles to smile. “You better get up there.”
Jordan nods, hugging and kissing me again. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Jordan Carmichael, forward for the Columbus Lightning.”
She rolls her eyes, heels clicking on the ballroom floor as she heads up on stage—not holding her dress and not tripping.
It’s an out of body experience watching her on stage, shaking the commissioner’s hands, and holding up an official jersey. The smile on her face, one she wears every day now, is so natural and filled with a warmth that I knew was always inside of her.