Epilogue
JANIE
New Year’s Eve Game - One Week Later
If you’d have asked how I felt about hockey a few months ago, I would’ve answered: It’s complicated. Kind of like love.
But now that I’m standing outside the Ice House Arena, wearing Rourke’s jersey—officially, this time—with Aria bundled in her tiny Crushers matching one, I feel the familiar flutter of nerves in my stomach.
The crowd moves around us in a sea of Crushers teal and red and black, and am startled to realize I’m not wondering what I’m doing here anymore.
Sure, I’m a little out of place. I’m used to watching games from the comfort of my living room, completely transfixed every time number 18 touches the puck. But tonight feels like stepping into his world completely. And I’m more than ready to take this step.
“You okay?” Jaz asks, appearing at my elbow with Brax’s jersey on under her coat. “You seem a little overwhelmed.”
“I’m fine,” I say, adjusting Aria on my hip.
“Just taking it all in.” I knew the Crushers were popular, but I didn’t realize the size of their crowd.
I should’ve known based on the attention that Rourke gets around town.
Since Christmas, a dozen people have asked him to sign jerseys and take selfies when we were out shopping—and he’s always happy to oblige, especially when it’s a child.
Jaz leads me inside the Ice House Arena next, where we take an elevator up to the box seats.
The WAGs box is swankier than I imagined—comfortable seating with the perfect view of the ice, a private area with food and drinks where I don’t have to worry about Aria getting overwhelmed by the crowd, and staff who deliver whatever we need.
Putting protective earphones over Aria’s ears, we settle into a seat as Aria watches the crowd below us. I scan the ice for number 18, and my stomach flips when he bolts out of the tunnel. “Look, Aria.” I point as the players take the ice for warm-ups. “There he is.”
From a distance and surrounded by his teammates, I can pick out Rourke immediately. There’s something about the way he moves on the ice, like he was born wearing skates. The crowd roars, the lights gleam off his helmet, and I can’t help smiling.
He knows this is our first game, and I tried not to make a big deal about it, but he insisted. “This is your first game. I want it to be special,” he told me before he left tonight, wearing his game-day suit. “Every time I glance at the crowd, I want to see my girls.”
I straightened his tie, resting my hands on his lapels. “You’re so handsome,” I whispered, beaming up at him. “Now go show me why you love this game so much.”
Watching him now, seeing the joy on his face, I understand why he wanted tonight to be special. This isn’t just about hockey—it’s about sharing a part of himself with me—maybe the most important part. Because this is his world.
Somehow, over the chaos of all these fans, Rourke finds us in the WAGs box. He reaches his glove in the air in a silent wave, flashing a smile that reminds me why I’d fall for him all over again. Then he skates over to the boards directly below our section, stopping in a spray of ice.
His eyes crinkle when he smiles, and my cheeks heat when I realize everyone is turning to see who Rourke is staring at.
“Love you,” I mouth to him.
He brings his fingers together to make a heart with them, placing it over his own, before skating away to rejoin his team.
I press a hand to my chest, grinning like a fool in love. Leave it to Rourke Riley to make a heart on the ice and still somehow look manly doing it.
“Whatever you did to him,” Jaz says, settling into the seat beside me with Rosie, “keep it up. Brax says he’s been on fire in practice ever since you two officially got together.”
I shake my head. “It’s nothing I’ve done.”
“Girl, please.” Jaz leans back, smirking like she doesn’t believe a word of it. “That man just blew you a kiss in front of thousands of people. He’s a changed man—all because of you.”
Six months ago, that kind of public display would’ve scared me to death, but now it feels natural, like I’m ready to tell the world what I already know—I love this man.
When the puck drops, I quickly realize the games I’ve watched on TV are light years away from the real live experience of being part of the crowd’s energy.
The sport is frantically paced and slightly terrifying, with pucks and bodies flying across the ice, but it’s never boring.
Which is funny, considering I once called it that.
Turns out, I was watching the wrong guy.
My stomach clenches every time Rourke gets hit, and on more than one occasion, I gasp when he’s checked into the boards. But from the first face-off, I’m completely invested.
“He’s really good at this,” I say under my breath and Jaz laughs.
“Honey, he’s one of the best defensemen in the league.”
And now I understand why. Fifteen minutes into the first period, he grabs a loose puck, glides down the ice, and sinks it into the net—his first goal of the game.
It happens so fast, I have to watch the replay on the big screen to catch the puck flying between the goalie’s legs.
The red light flashes and the horn blares, sending the entire arena to their feet.
And I’m right there with them, screaming louder than anyone. On the ice, Rourke’s teammates mob him, but even in the crush of bodies, his eyes find mine. He points up at us again, and I blow him a kiss this time, then form my fingers into the shape of a heart.
“Now, that,” Jaz shouts over the noise, “is how you fall in love with hockey!”
Sometime between the opening face-off and this moment, something has changed inside me. It’s not just that I’m watching Rourke play—it’s seeing why he loves this, why it’s such a huge part of who he is.
And the fact that I can be part of it, supporting him, leaves me humbled and grateful.
When the final buzzer sounds announcing another Crushers’ win, I’m emotionally exhausted and completely exhilarated.
The crowd is on their feet, but down on the ice, Rourke doesn’t greet his teammates first. Instead, he skates directly to our section, his helmet off, his hair damp with sweat, his face flushed with joy as he motions for me.
Lauren takes Aria so I can run down the stairs, but as soon as I get to the rink level, I’m pushing against a tide of people going the opposite direction.
At one point, it feels impossible that I will ever reach him, and then someone calls out, “Let the lady through!” and the sea of people parts, creating a path straight to him.
I rush toward him, unable to hide the way I’m nearly glowing with joy as he meets me at the entrance to the ice.
“Did you see—” he starts to say, but I cut him off.
“I saw everything,” I say. “You were incredible out there.”
And then he’s kissing me in front of everyone—teammates, fans, cameras. It’s not a brief peck on the lips either. This is an I-claim-you-in-front-of-the-world kiss. And I kiss him back, throwing my arms around his neck and squealing with delight.
Camera flashes pop, and the Jumbotron shows our mini make-out session, broadcasting it to the remaining crowd, who absolutely eats it up, cheering even louder.
“I love you,” I say against his lips, tangling my fingers in his hair. “Even more than Christmas.”
“Really?” he says, pulling back to look at me. “Now, that’s saying something, considering you probably have Christmas music playing in July.”
“I know, and I mean it too,” I reply, my hands tugging his jersey toward me one last time. “Now, get back to your teammates before they start heckling you for too much PDA.”
“Oh, that’s already happening.” He lets out a full-body laugh and steals one more quick kiss before heading back to celebrate with his team.
As I watch him leave, Jaz comes up next to me, nudging me with her elbow.
“So,” she says with a grin, “still think love is complicated?”
“No,” I say, and I mean it completely. “Not when it’s with the right person.”