Chapter Twenty-Three Kelly
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kelly
The arena is louder than anything I've ever experienced.
Travis taught me the basics over the past few weeks. Offsides, icing, power plays. The difference between a slap shot and a wrist shot. Why everyone gets so excited when the puck crosses that little red line. I'm still confused half the time, but I know enough to follow along.
And I know enough to know that number seventeen, the one with HOWE on his back, is having a hell of a game.
His suspension ended two weeks ago. The team welcomed him back with open arms—or at least, that's what the press releases said.
The reality was probably more complicated.
Travis told me there were meetings, conversations with coaches and teammates, a careful process of reintegration.
But whatever happened behind closed doors, the result is this: Travis Howe, back on the ice, playing for his country in the biggest tournament of his career.
I watch him skate, and I barely recognize him.
This isn't the quiet man who fixed my sink and helped with my book.
This is someone else entirely—fierce and focused, moving across the ice like he was born there.
He's been in three fights already, clean hits that the announcers keep praising, and every time he touches the puck the crowd roars.
"He's really good," Nicole says beside me. She came with me, insisted on it, said she wasn't going to let me experience my first hockey game alone. "Like, actually really good. I didn't realize."
"Neither did I. Not really." I watch Travis steal the puck from a Canadian player and send it sailing toward the goal. The goalie catches it, but the crowd cheers anyway. "He always talked about hockey like it was something he used to do. Past tense. I didn't understand how much he loved it."
"Do you think he's going to keep playing? After this?"
"I don't know. We haven't talked about it." I haven't wanted to push. Whatever Travis decides about his career, I want it to be his decision, not something he feels pressured into because of me. "I think he's still figuring it out."
The first period ends, and the players skate off the ice. I lose sight of Travis in the crowd of jerseys, but I know he's in there somewhere. Probably getting instructions from coaches, hydrating, doing whatever hockey players do during intermission.
"I still can't believe we're here," Nicole says, looking around at the arena. "VIP seats at the 4 Nations Face-Off. Dating a professional athlete is apparently very glamorous."
"It's not always like this. Usually it's just him coming over for coffee and me pretending to write while actually staring at him."
"That sounds pretty good too."
"It is." I smile. "It really is."
The past month has been a whirlwind. After the media story died down, after Travis cut off his family, things got easier.
Not perfect—there were still moments of doubt, still days when I couldn't believe any of this was real—but easier.
We fell into a rhythm. Coffee in the mornings, dinner most nights, long conversations that stretched past midnight.
He helped me finish the first draft of my book.
I helped him figure out what he wanted to do with his life.
Turns out, what he wanted was this. Back on the ice, playing the game he'd loved since he was five years old. Not because anyone pressured him, not because of obligation or expectation. Just because he missed it.
"I forgot how much I loved it," he told me the night before he left for the tournament. "Being part of something bigger than myself. Working toward a goal with a team. I thought I was done with that, but I'm not."
"So you're going back? For real?"
"For real." He pulled me close, his chin resting on top of my head. "But only if you're okay with it. The traveling, the schedule, the attention. It's a lot. I understand if it's not what you signed up for."
"I signed up for you," I said. "The rest is just details."
He laughed at that—my own words, thrown back at me—and kissed me until I forgot what we were talking about.
Now I'm here, in this arena, wearing his jersey with his name on my back, watching him play the game he loves.
The cameras have found me a few times—I've seen myself on the jumbotron, felt the curious stares of people wondering who I am.
There'll probably be articles tomorrow. Photos, speculation, commentary on my outfit and my hair and whether I'm the same gold digger from the tabloids.
I don't care.
That's the part that surprises me most. A month ago, the thought of being photographed, of being scrutinized, would have sent me into a spiral.
But something shifted after the media storm.
I realized that the only opinions that matter are from people who actually know me. Everyone else is just noise.
Besides, I look good in this jersey. Travis's number, Travis's name, stretched across my back. It feels like a statement without saying a word. I'm here. I'm with him. Deal with it.
"You're smiling," Nicole says.
"Am I?"
"You have been since we sat down." She bumps her shoulder against mine. "It's a good look on you."
"I'm happy." The words come out easily, naturally. "I didn't know it could feel like this."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
" I gesture at the arena, at the ice, at everything.
"Six months ago, I was miserable. Working a job I hated, living a life that didn't fit.
And now I'm here, watching my boyfriend play hockey in front of twenty thousand people, and I've never felt more like myself. "
"That's the book writing. And the therapy. And, yes, the extremely hot hockey player." Nicole grins. "But mostly the hockey player."
"Mostly the hockey player," I agree.
The second period starts, and the players pour back onto the ice.
I spot Travis immediately—number seventeen, skating to his position, tapping his stick against the ice.
He looks up at the crowd, and I swear he's looking right at me.
I wave, feeling ridiculous, but he nods slightly before turning his attention back to the game.
"He totally saw you," Nicole says.
"He probably didn't."
"He definitely did. That was a very specific nod."
The game picks up speed. Team USA scores twice, and the arena explodes. I'm on my feet with everyone else, screaming, my voice lost in the wall of sound. Nicole is laughing at how into it I am, but I don't care. This is the most fun I've had in months.
Midway through the third period, it happens.
Travis gets the puck near center ice. He's surrounded by Canadian players, but he weaves through them like they're standing still, his stick a blur, his skates carving impossible angles.
The crowd rises, sensing something building.
He crosses the blue line, dekes around the last defender, and fires a shot at the goal.
The puck hits the back of the net.
The arena erupts.
I'm screaming, jumping up and down, grabbing Nicole's arm so hard she yelps.
On the ice, Travis is being mobbed by his teammates, a pile of bodies and raised sticks and pure, unfiltered joy.
The jumbotron replays the goal in slow motion—the shot, the save attempt, the puck sliding past the goalie's glove—and the crowd roars all over again.
"Oh my god," Nicole is saying. "Oh my god, Kelly, your boyfriend just scored."
"I know." I'm laughing and crying at the same time. "I know."
Travis skates out of the pile and does a lap around the ice, his stick raised, drinking in the cheers.
As he passes our section, he looks up again—and this time I know he sees me.
He points his stick in my direction, a small gesture that probably no one else notices, but I feel it in my chest like a fist.
That's for you.
The game ends with Team USA winning 4-2.
Travis gets third star of the game for his goal and two assists.
The announcers are talking about his comeback, his redemption arc, how he's proven all the doubters wrong.
I barely hear any of it. I'm too busy watching him celebrate with his teammates, this man who six months ago was hiding in a cottage, convinced his life was over.
After the game, I wait for him in the tunnel area where Dave arranged for me to be. It takes forever—interviews, locker room stuff, all the post-game rituals I'm still learning about—but finally he appears, hair still wet from the shower, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
His face lights up when he sees me.
"Hey," he says, dropping the bag and pulling me into his arms. He smells like soap and sweat and something uniquely him, and I bury my face in his chest.
"You scored," I say.
"I did."
"It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And I don't even like hockey."
He laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest. "You liked it tonight."
"I liked watching you." I pull back to look at him. "You were incredible out there. Like a completely different person."
"Not different. Just... the other part of me. The part that's been sleeping for six months." He touches my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. "I forgot how much I missed it. The ice, the crowd, the feeling of everything clicking. But I wouldn't have come back if it wasn't for you."
"I didn't do anything."
"You did everything." His voice is serious now, his eyes holding mine. "You made me believe I could be more than the worst thing I've ever done. You gave me a reason to try again."
"Travis."
"I mean it. I was ready to disappear forever. Hide in that cottage until everyone forgot who I was. But then you showed up, and you saw me—really saw me—and I thought... maybe I don't have to hide anymore."
I don't know what to say. So I just kiss him, right there in the tunnel, not caring who sees.
Someone clears their throat behind us. Travis pulls back, grinning, and I turn to see Jaxson Morris standing there with an amused expression.
"So this is the famous Kelly," Jaxson says. "Travis has told me approximately nothing about you, which means he's completely in love."
"That's not—" Travis starts.
"It's nice to meet you," I say, shaking Jaxson's hand. "I've heard a lot about you. The Tuesday night dinners. The terrible advice about women."
"That was one time." Jaxson turns to Travis. "I like her. She's got your number."
"She does," Travis admits. "She really does."
We walk out of the arena together, Travis's hand in mine, the cold night air sharp against my face. There are cameras outside, photographers shouting questions, but Travis just waves and keeps walking. No statement. No explanation. Just the two of us, together, letting the world see what we are.
"So," I say as we reach the car. "How does it feel? Being back?"
Travis considers the question. "Good. Really good." He opens the door for me. "But you know what feels better?"
"What?"
"Coming home to you."
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling. "That was cheesy."
"Doesn't make it less true."
He's right. It doesn't.
I get in the car, and he closes the door behind me. Through the window, I can see him standing there for a moment, looking up at the arena, at the lights still blazing against the night sky. Then he walks around to the driver's side and slides in beside me.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Ready."
He starts the car, and we pull out of the parking lot, leaving the arena behind. We’re driving through the dark, holding hands across the console, heading home.
Home. That's what it is now. Not a place, but a person.
Him.
Me.
Us.