Chapter 20
Liam
If you want to know what redemption smells like, it smells like Zamboni fumes, cheap champagne, and the sweat of twenty-five grown men who have just played seventy minutes of playoff hockey.
I sat in my stall in the visiting locker room of the Colorado Eagles. My gear was soaked. My hair was plastered to my forehead. My left knee was throbbing a dull, rhythmic beat of complaint that I knew would turn into agony tomorrow.
I didn't care.
The Kelly Cup—the championship trophy of the ECHL—was sitting in the center of the room. It wasn't the Stanley Cup. It was smaller, dented, and kind of ugly.
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
"Vanner! You absolute legend!" Davis screamed, pouring a beer over my head.
I laughed, wiping the foam from my eyes. "Save the beer for drinking, Cap!"
"Not tonight!" Davis yelled. "Tonight we drown!"
The room was chaos. Music blasting. Guys hugging. The equipment manager crying in the corner.
We had done it. We had come back from a 3-1 series deficit. We had won Game 7 in overtime.
And I had posted a shutout. 42 saves.
I looked at my phone, which was sitting on the shelf next to my mask.
One text.
Salinger: Pack your bags, kid. Flight to Chicago leaves Tuesday. Contract is in your email.
I stared at the screen. The letters blurred.
Contract.
It wasn't a tryout anymore. It was a two-way entry-level deal. NHL money. NHL insurance. NHL dream.
I closed my eyes, letting the noise of the celebration wash over me.
Six months ago, I was driving a rusted truck through a blizzard, thinking my life was over because I couldn't pay an electric bill. I was angry. I was lonely. I was The Wall—impenetrable, isolated, and cold.
Now, I was soaked in beer, surrounded by a team of misfits who would die for me, holding a ticket to the big show.
But none of that mattered as much as the person waiting outside.
"Hey, Vanner!" Davis yelled. "Your girl is fighting security again!"
I looked toward the door.
Sure enough, there was a commotion in the hallway.
"I don't care about the clearance level!" I heard a familiar voice shouting. "I am the Performance Coach! And I am the fiancée of the MVP! Move or I will buy this arena and fire you!"
I grinned.
"Let her in!" I shouted.
The security guard stepped aside, looking terrified.
Sofia burst into the room.
She was wearing a Grizzlies jersey that was three sizes too big, black leggings, and combat boots. Her hair was wild. Her face was flushed.
She saw me.
She didn't care about the smell. She didn't care about the half-naked men. She didn't care about the beer on the floor.
She ran.
I stood up, ignoring my knee.
She launched herself at me.
I caught her, spinning her around, burying my face in her neck.
"You did it!" she screamed. "You did it! Shutout! Championship! Everything!"
"We did it," I corrected, pulling back to look at her. "Check my phone."
She grabbed my phone from the shelf. She read the text.
Her eyes went wide. She dropped the phone onto my gear bag.
"Oh my god," she whispered. "Chicago."
"Chicago," I confirmed. "We're going to the show, Princess."
She let out a shriek of pure joy and kissed me.
It was a kiss that tasted like victory. Like cheap beer and expensive vanilla. Like the rest of our lives.
The team cheered. Someone popped a cork.
"Speech!" Davis yelled. "Speech from the MVP!"
I looked around the room. At the guys who had welcomed me when I was broken. At the trophy. At Sofia, who was beaming up at me with tears in her eyes.
"I don't have a speech," I said, my voice thick. "Just... thank you. For letting me play. For believing in the backup."
I looked down at Sofia.
"And to my manager," I said, winking at her. "For fixing my knee. And my head. And my life."
"You're welcome," she said sassily. "Now take a shower. You smell like a brewery."
"Yes, ma'am."
An hour later, the chaos had moved to the team bus.
We were parked outside the arena, waiting for the stragglers. The mood was rowdy.
Sofia and I slipped away.
We walked around the side of the arena to the parking lot. The desert air was cool, smelling of sagebrush and cooling asphalt.
"It's weird," she said, leaning against the side of The Beast (which we had somehow kept running, despite the Utah altitude). "It's over."
"The season is over," I said. "The work is just starting."
"Yeah," she agreed. "Packing. Moving. Finding an apartment in Chicago. Dealing with Salinger."
"And the wedding," I added casually.
She froze. She looked at the cheap silver ring on her finger.
"Right," she said softly. "The wedding."
"We haven't really talked about it," I said. "Since the proposal. We've been busy surviving."
"We have," she nodded.
"Do you want the big wedding?" I asked. "The Thorne extravaganza? We could wait. Save up. Do it right in a few years."
She looked at me. She looked at the truck. She looked at the empty parking lot under the vast western sky.
"I hated the gala," she said quietly. "Remember? In Paris? All those people. The champagne. The fakeness. It felt like I was suffocating."
"I remember," I said.
"I don't want that," she said firmly. "I don't want the dress that costs a car. I don't want the guests who are there for networking. I don't want Marcus Thorne giving a speech about assets."
"So what do you want?"
"I want you," she said. "I want us. I want to be Sofia Vanner. And I want to do it before we get to Chicago. Before the NHL madness starts. Before we have to be 'public figures' again."
"Okay," I said. "When?"
"Now?" she suggested. "Tomorrow? Is there a Vegas drive-through on the way to Chicago?"
I laughed. "There is definitely a Vegas on the way."
"Then let's do it," she said. "Let's elope. Just us. And maybe Davis if we need a witness."
"Davis would love that," I grinned. "He loves a road trip."
"It's a plan," she said. "Logistics confirmed."
"Logistics confirmed," I agreed.
I pulled her close, wrapping my arms around her waist.
"Can I ask you something?" I asked, my voice dropping to a serious tone.
"Anything."
"Do you miss it?" I asked. "The money? The access? The G-Wagon?"
She looked me in the eye. Her gaze was steady, clear, and fierce.
"I miss the heated seats," she admitted with a smirk. "But do I miss the life? No. That life was lonely, Liam. I was surrounded by people, but I was always alone. Here? In this truck? With you? I've never felt less alone."
She reached up and touched my cheek.
"You gave me something money can't buy," she whispered. "You gave me a team. You gave me a partner who doesn't look at me and see a dollar sign. You see me."
"I see you," I promised. "Always."
"Then that's enough," she said. "That's everything."
We kissed under the stars in a parking lot in West Valley City. It wasn't Paris. It wasn't a fairy tale castle.
It was better. It was real.
Sofia
The drive to Las Vegas was six hours of open desert, bad radio, and pure adrenaline.
Davis, God bless him, had agreed to drive behind us in his Jeep to serve as witness/photographer/bodyguard.
We arrived in Vegas at 4:00 AM. The city was glowing on the horizon like a neon mirage.
"Where are we going?" I asked, looking at the strip. "Little White Chapel?"
"Too cliché," Liam said. "I found a place. A drive-through. But it's... special."
"Special how?"
"You'll see."
He pulled the truck off the main strip, down a side road. We pulled up to a small, retro-looking chapel with a pink neon sign.
The Graceland Tunnel of Love.
"Elvis?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Better," Liam said. "Look at the sign."
I looked closer. Below the neon Elvis was a smaller sign.
"Home of the 'Love Me Tender' Package - Includes Vintage Cadillac Rental."
"A Cadillac," I laughed. "You're renting a Cadillac?"
"I told you," he said. "Vanner Customs. We appreciate the classics."
We rented the pink Cadillac. We drove it through the tunnel. An Elvis impersonator who looked suspiciously like Davis in a wig (it wasn't, but the resemblance was uncanny) officiated.
I wore my Grizzlies jersey. Liam wore his championship hat.
We exchanged vows over the rumble of the V8 engine.
"I, Liam, take you, Sofia, to be my co-pilot. In poverty and in wealth (hopefully wealth). In injury and in health. I promise to fix whatever breaks. I promise to carry the heavy stuff. And I promise to never let you feel alone again."
I wiped a tear from my cheek.
"I, Sofia, take you, Liam, to be my anchor. I promise to manage the logistics. I promise to keep you humble. I promise to love you even when you're grumpy. And I promise to bet on you. Every single time."
"I now pronounce you... teammates for life," Elvis said. "You may kiss the bride."
Liam leaned across the center console. He kissed me.
It was sweet. It was funny. It was perfect.
Davis honked the horn of his Jeep behind us.
"Yeah!" he screamed. "Go Vanner!"
We drove out of the tunnel into the dawn light of Las Vegas.
"Mrs. Vanner," Liam tested the name.
"Mr. Thorne-Vanner," I corrected. "I'm keeping the name. It's a brand."
"Fine," he laughed. "We'll hyphenate. The dog can be a Thorne-Vanner too."
"The dog," I smiled. "We're really doing this."
"We're doing it," he said. "Next stop, Chicago."
Two Months Later
The apartment in Chicago was not a penthouse. It was a third-floor walk-up in Lincoln Park. But it had big windows, hardwood floors, and exposed brick.
It was currently filled with boxes.
"Where does the coffee maker go?" Liam asked, holding the expensive machine like it was a holy relic.
"Counter," I said, pointing. "Next to the toaster. Strategic caffeine deployment."
I was sitting on the floor, unpacking books. I was wearing leggings and a 'Blackhawks Training Camp' t-shirt.
Liam was shirtless. His knee brace was gone. He had a scar—a long, thin white line running down his leg—but he was moving well. Strong.
He put the coffee maker down and walked over to me. He offered me a hand.
"Up," he said. "We have an appointment."
"We do?" I asked, letting him pull me up. "I thought we were unpacking."
"We are," he said. "But first, we have to pick up the roommate."
"The roommate?"
He grinned. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a photo.
It was a puppy. A Golden Retriever. With huge paws and a dopey smile.
"His name is Puck," Liam said. "I put a deposit down last week."
I stared at the photo. Tears welled up instantly.
"He's perfect," I whispered.
"He comes home today," Liam said. "Are you ready?"
"I'm ready," I said.
He pulled me into a hug.
"We made it, Sofia," he whispered into my hair. "We actually made it."
"We did," I said.
I looked around the apartment. It was messy. It was chaotic. We were starting over in a new city, with new challenges. Salinger was tough. The NHL was a grind. My father was still silent (though Mia told me he had hung a framed photo of my MBA acceptance letter in his office, which was a start).
But as I stood there in the circle of Liam’s arms, listening to the traffic outside and the beat of his heart against my ear, I knew one thing.
I wasn't the Heiress anymore. I wasn't the Brat.
I was Sofia Vanner.
And I was home.
We walked down the stairs, hand in hand, out onto the busy Chicago street. The summer air was warm. The city was alive.
Liam stopped on the sidewalk. He looked at me.
"Ready to go get our boy?" he asked.
"Ready," I said.
He squeezed my hand.
"Let's go."
We walked down the street, two kids who had survived the winter, walking into the sun.
And for the first time in my life, I didn't look back.