Chapter 20 #2
He pulled me into him. I didn't care about the sweat. I didn't care about the cameras that were suddenly flashing around us.
"We won," he said, breathless.
"You won," I corrected, reaching up to wipe blood from his lip.
"No," he said fiercely. "We won. I couldn't have done this without the fuel."
He handed me the trophy.
"Hold it."
"Nick, it's heavy!"
"Hold it with me."
I put my hands on the cold silver handles. He put his hands over mine. We lifted it together.
The crowd cheered. I saw myself on the Jumbotron—messy hair, oversized jersey, holding the National Championship trophy with the most beautiful man on the planet.
He leaned in.
"I love you," he said, loud enough for the world to hear.
"I love you too."
He kissed me.
It was a kiss that tasted of victory. It tasted of Gatorade and blood and forever. The confetti rained down on us, getting stuck in our hair, sticking to our skin.
For a moment, the noise faded away. It was just us. The boy who learned to feel, and the girl who learned to stay.
"Now," he whispered against my mouth. "Let's go get that dog."
The party was over. The arena was empty.
The ice was scarred and cut up. The stands were littered with popcorn and discarded programs. The janitors were sweeping up the remains of the glory.
We sat at center ice.
Just us.
Nick was still in his gear, though he had taken off his skates and helmet. He was sitting on the logo, his legs stretched out. The trophy sat between us like a third wheel.
I had a bottle of cheap champagne we had smuggled out of the locker room.
"It's quiet," I said, my voice echoing in the vast, empty bowl of the stadium.
"It is," Nick agreed. He took the bottle from me and took a swig. "I used to hate the quiet. It meant I was alone with my thoughts."
"And now?"
"Now my thoughts are mostly about you. And whether Puck is going to chew the baseboards in the brownstone."
"We haven't even met the dog yet, Nick. You can't preemptively discipline him."
"I'm proactive."
I leaned back on my hands, looking up at the championship banners hanging in the rafters. A new one would go up there next season. National Champions.
"Are you going to miss it?" I asked. "College? The team?"
"I'll miss the boys," he said. "Jax is going to be a disaster without me."
"Jax is coming to visit in August. He invited himself."
"Of course he did."
Nick traced the line of the scar on his thigh through his compression pants.
"I won't miss the pressure," he admitted. "I won't miss feeling like I owe something to this place."
He looked at me. His expression turned serious.
"Do you remember the first time we met?"
I groaned. "Please don't. The Gala. The Wine Incident. I still have nightmares about that white suit."
"I was so angry," he murmured. "I felt like you had contaminated my perfect, sterile world."
"I did contaminate it. I stained it red."
"You colored it," he corrected. "You saturated it. Before you, everything was black and white. You brought the chaos. And the chaos saved me."
He reached for the champagne bottle.
"Hold out your hands," he said.
"Why?"
"Trust me."
I cupped my hands together.
He tipped the bottle. He poured a small splash of champagne into my palms. It was cold and fizzy.
"To the stain," he toasted, raising the bottle.
I laughed. "To the stain."
I licked the champagne from my palms. It was sticky and sweet.
Nick watched me, his eyes darkening with that familiar heat.
"You know," he said, setting the bottle down and moving the trophy aside so he could slide closer to me. "We have the ice to ourselves. No coaches. No cameras."
"Nick Vance," I feigned shock. "Are you suggesting we desecrate a National Landmark?"
"I'm suggesting we christen it."
He pulled me down onto the ice. It was freezing through my leggings, but his body was a furnace on top of me.
He kissed me, slow and deep.
"I'm ready," he whispered against my skin.
"Ready for what?"
"For the next part. Chicago. The NHL. The rest of it."
"Me too."
He pulled back, framing my face in his hands.
"I used to think my life ended when the buzzer sounded," he said softly. "I thought everything after hockey was just... waiting to die."
He brushed a piece of confetti from my hair.
"But looking at you... I realize the game was just the warm-up."
I smiled, tears pricking my eyes.
"The game is just starting, Coach."
He grinned—a real, boyish grin that lit up the empty arena.
"Then let's play."
He kissed me again, and the world narrowed down to the point of contact between our lips.
We lay there on the center ice of TD Garden, surrounded by the ghosts of the past and the promise of the future. The trophy gleamed under the safety lights. The confetti settled around us like snow.
We were leaving this world behind. We were trading the dorms for a brownstone, the exams for a career, the secret meetings for a life in the open.
It wasn't going to be easy. There would be slumps and injuries and long road trips. There would be fights and messy kitchens and a dog that chewed the baseboards.
But as Nick wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into the warmth of his chest, I knew we would be okay.
Because we weren't just a machine and a distraction anymore.
We were an empire.
And we were just getting started.