Chapter 19
Georgia
Waking up next to Toby Kincaid felt like waking up from a long, feverish nightmare into a perfect, quiet morning.
The Paris sun was filtering through the white curtains of my tiny apartment. The sounds of the street below—mopeds, chatter, the clink of coffee cups—drifted up like a gentle soundtrack.
I turned my head.
Toby was asleep. He was sprawled across the narrow bed, taking up 90% of the space. His arm was thrown over his eyes, shielding them from the light. The sheet was tangled around his waist, exposing his chest and the sharp definition of his abs.
He looked peaceful. For the first time since I’d met him, the tension between his eyebrows was gone. The robot was offline. The man was resting.
I reached out and traced the scar on his eyebrow.
He stirred. A low hum vibrated in his chest. He turned his head, catching my finger in his hand. He kissed it without opening his eyes.
"Morning," he rasped. His voice was thick with sleep and sex.
"Afternoon," I corrected. "It's 1:00 PM."
One eye cracked open. It was gray and clear and full of mischief.
"Impossible," he mumbled. "I don't sleep past six."
"You do when you fly across an ocean and then spend four hours engaging in rigorous... cardio," I teased.
He groaned, pulling me closer until I was draped over him. His skin was warm. He smelled like my soap and his own musky scent.
"Cardio," he murmured against my neck. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"Sounds professional."
"I felt very professional."
He kissed my throat, his hand sliding down my back to rest possessively on my hip.
"We have to get up," I said, though I made no move to leave. "We have a war to win."
Toby sighed. The reality of the world outside this room settled back onto his shoulders, but this time, it didn't seem to crush him.
"Right," he said. "The war."
He opened his eyes fully. He looked at me.
"Are you ready?"
"For what? The paparazzi? Your father? The Montreal Canadiens stripping your contract?"
"All of it," he said. "Are you ready to face it? With me?"
I looked at him. I saw the fear in his eyes—not fear of the consequences, but fear that I might bail. That I might decide it was too much.
I smiled. I leaned down and kissed him soft and slow.
"Toby," I whispered against his lips. "I already faced the worst thing. The worst thing was you leaving. Everything else is just paperwork."
He let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for weeks.
"Okay," he said. "Paperwork. Let's handle it."
We spent the next hour strategizing over croissants and terrible instant coffee.
"My father will try to block the trust fund again," Toby said, pacing the small room in his boxers. "He'll claim mental incompetence. He'll say I've been brainwashed."
"Let him," I said, sketching on a napkin. "The money is already moved, right? You said you put the bonus in a Swiss account."
"Yeah. It's untouchable."
"Then he has no leverage. He can yell, but he can't bite."
"The team," Toby continued. "Molson. He'll be furious I walked out of the gala. Breach of contract. Bad press."
"You're the number one pick," I pointed out. "You're a generational talent. Teams put up with a lot for talent. Look at the guys who get arrested and still play on Sunday. You... you fell in love. It's a scandal, sure, but it's a romantic one. The fans will eat it up if we frame it right."
Toby stopped pacing. He looked at me. "Since when are you a PR expert?"
"Since I had to navigate being Richard Sterling's daughter," I shrugged. "Spin is my second language."
"Okay," he nodded. "So we own it. We don't hide."
"We go back," I said. "Together. We walk off that plane holding hands. We go straight to the arena. And we tell them: take us both, or take neither."
"A package deal," he mused.
"Exactly."
"And your father?" he asked quietly. "And the debt?"
I froze for a second. The check. The lie.
"The debt is paid," I said. "I used the advance from the gallery sales. It wasn't the full amount, but it was enough to get the sharks off Leo's back. He's safe."
"And your father?"
I took a deep breath.
"He's dead to me," I said. "He tried to buy me. He tried to sell me. He's not my father anymore. He's just a man I used to know."
Toby walked over to me. He pulled me up from the chair and wrapped his arms around me.
"You have me," he whispered. "I'm your family now."
"I know," I said, burying my face in his chest. "And I'm yours."
"Let's go," he said. "Let's go show them what a power couple looks like."
The flight back to Montreal was different.
We took the private jet Jager had chartered. This time, we didn't sit in silence. We sat together. We drank champagne. We planned our apartment.
"Floor to ceiling windows," Toby insisted. "North facing. For the light."
"And a gym for you," I added. "With a reinforced floor so you can drop weights without the neighbors calling the police."
"And a guest room," he said. "For Jager. Because you know he's going to crash on our couch."
"God help us."
When we landed in Montreal, it was chaos.
The news had broken. HOCKEY STAR FLEES GALA FOR PARIS REUNION. ROMANCE OF THE CENTURY OR CAREER SUICIDE?
Reporters swarmed the private terminal.
Toby grabbed my hand as the cabin door opened.
"Ready?" he asked.
I squeezed his hand. "Showtime."
We walked down the stairs. The flashbulbs went off like a strobe light storm. Questions were shouted over the roar of the engines.
"Toby! Is it true you quit?"
"Georgia! Did you force him to leave?"
"Are you engaged?"
Toby didn't stop. He didn't answer. He just held my hand tighter, put his arm around my waist, and guided me through the throng toward the waiting black SUV.
He looked defiant. He looked proud. He looked like a king claiming his queen.
We got into the car. The door slammed shut, cutting off the noise.
"Step one complete," he said, exhaling.
"Step two," I said. "The Lion's Den."
The meeting was set for 5:00 PM at the Bell Centre.
Mr. Molson's office.
We walked in together. Toby was wearing a fresh suit he had kept on the plane. I was wearing a white power suit I had bought in Paris. We looked like we were there to buy the team, not beg for a job.
Mr. Molson sat behind his desk. He looked tired.
Marcus Thorne was there too. Of course he was.
"Toby," Molson said, not standing up. "And... Miss Sterling."
"Georgia," I corrected, sitting down without being asked.
"You caused quite a scene, son," Molson said to Toby. "Walking out of a sponsor gala. Flying to France. The media is having a field day."
"I'm aware," Toby said calmly.
"Your father is furious," Marcus interjected. "He's threatening to pull the arena funding entirely. He wants you in a facility for 'exhaustion.'"
"My father can do whatever he wants," Toby said, turning to Marcus. "I don't work for him anymore. And neither do you, Marcus. If you're here representing Kincaid Shipping, you're in the wrong meeting. This is a meeting between a player and his team owner."
Marcus blinked. He wasn't used to being dismissed.
"Mr. Molson," Toby turned back to the owner. "I apologize for the disruption. It was unprofessional. But it was necessary."
"Necessary?" Molson raised an eyebrow. "To chase a girl?"
"To fix my life," Toby corrected. "I was playing distracted. I was playing unhappy. A distracted player makes mistakes. An unhappy player burns out."
He reached out and took my hand on the desk.
"Georgia isn't a distraction," he said firmly. "She's my anchor. With her, I'm focused. I'm stable. Without her... I'm a liability."
"You breached your contract," Molson pointed out. "The morality clause—"
"Read the clause," I interrupted. "It prohibits 'criminal or scandalous behavior that brings disrepute to the franchise.' Falling in love isn't a crime, Mr. Molson. And as for scandal? Look at the numbers."
I pulled out my phone. I had done my research on the flight.
"Since the story broke this morning," I said, sliding the phone across the desk, "social media engagement for the Canadiens is up 400%.
Jersey sales for 'Kincaid' have tripled in six hours.
The narrative isn't 'irresponsible jock.
' It's 'romantic hero.' The fans love it.
They're calling it the 'Love on Ice' saga. "
Molson looked at the phone. He scrolled. He saw the tweets. The TikTok edits of us leaving the plane. The comments saying Relationship Goals.
He looked up at Toby. Then at me.
A slow smile spread across his face.
"You're right," Molson admitted. "The numbers don't lie. It's a circus... but it's a profitable circus."
"So," Toby said. "Here's the deal. I play. I give you 110%. I win you a Cup. But Georgia stays. She comes to games. She sits in the wives' section. And the team issues a statement supporting us."
"And if your father pulls the funding?" Marcus threatened.
"Then let him," Molson said, surprisingly. He looked at Marcus. "We have other investors, Thorne. Investors who like a good story. And frankly, William Kincaid is a pain in my ass."
Molson stood up. He extended his hand to Toby.
"You're fined $50,000 for missing the gala," he said sternly. "Don't do it again."
"Understood," Toby grinned, shaking his hand.
"And Miss Sterling," Molson nodded to me. "Welcome to Montreal. I hear the art scene is vibrant."
"It is," I smiled. "I think I'm going to like it here."
We walked out of the office.
Marcus Thorne sat there, stunned. The Antagonist had been neutralized not by force, but by the undeniable power of a good narrative (and jersey sales).
In the hallway, Toby picked me up and spun me around.
"We did it," he laughed. "We actually did it."
"Put me down," I giggled. "We're in a place of business."
"I don't care," he kissed me hard. "Let them fire me. I'm bulletproof."
That Night
The penthouse Toby had rented temporarily wasn't the "forever home" yet, but it had a view of the river and a massive bed.
We ordered pizza. We drank wine. We sat on the floor of the living room, surrounded by boxes.
"So," Toby said, pulling me into his lap. "What now?"
"Now," I said, tracing his jawline. "You start training camp. I start looking for gallery space in Old Port. And we... live."
"Just live?"
"Just live. No secrets. No running."
"Sounds perfect."
He leaned back against the sofa, pulling me with him so I was straddling his lap.
"I missed you," he whispered, his hands sliding under my shirt to rest on my warm skin. "I missed this."
"Me too."
The mood shifted. The victory adrenaline faded into something softer, deeper.
"Show me," I whispered.
"Show you what?"
"Show me we're safe."
Toby didn't need to be told twice.
He lifted me up and carried me to the bedroom. He didn't turn on the lights. The city glow was enough.
He laid me down on the bed like I was made of glass. He undressed me slowly, reverently. Every piece of clothing removed was a layer of armor we didn't need anymore.
When we were both naked, skin to skin, he hovered over me.
"I love you," he said. "Georgia Sterling. My brat. My artist. My North."
"I love you," I answered. "Toby Kincaid. My robot. My Captain. My home."
He kissed me. It wasn't hungry or desperate like in Paris. It was joyful. It was a celebration.
He made love to me with a slow, deliberate tenderness that made my chest ache. He took his time. He explored every inch of me, re-memorizing my body, reclaiming what he had lost.
There was no rush. We had all night. We had forever.
When I came, crying out his name in the quiet room, it felt like a release of months of fear.
He followed me moments later, his body shuddering against mine, his forehead pressed to my shoulder.
We lay there in the aftermath, tangled together.
"You know," Toby said after a while, his voice sleepy. "I think I'm going to get a dog."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. A golden retriever. Named Puck."
I laughed. "I thought you were joking about that."
"I never joke about dogs," he said seriously. "Or about us."
He kissed my temple.
"Sleep, Princess. Tomorrow, the real work starts."
"Goodnight, Captain."
I closed my eyes.
The external conflict was over. My father was gone. His father was powerless. The team was on board.
We had won the war.
Now, we just had to win the peace.
And lying there, safe in his arms, I knew we would. Because we weren't just two broken people anymore. We were a team.
And Kincaid and Sterling were undefeated.