Chapter 18 Brody #2
“Then stop protecting her from yourself. Stop performing. Stop trying to be perfect.” He smiles.
“Stop thinking you have to earn love. Stop controlling everything because you’re afraid of being hurt.
You’re already loved. By God. By me. By that girl who’s probably sitting at home right now thinking you don’t want her.
I think it’s time you go win her back. Now, come on. Don’t you have a game tonight?”
I check my phone. 11:23 a.m. Game starts at seven.
“Yeah. But I was going to help you get settled at home—”
“Absolutely not.” He grabs his duffel. “You’re going to that game.
And you’re going to play like you used to play—not because you’re trying to be perfect or impress anyone or prove something.
But because you love it. Because it’s who you are.
Because it’s a gift God gave you, and you’re going to use it. ”
“Dad—”
“I’m not asking, Brody. I’m telling you. Go to the game. Play your heart out. And after”—he claps a hand on my shoulder—“you find that girl, and you tell her the truth. That you love her. That you’re sorry. That you’re done running.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going to an AA meeting. Already looked up the schedule—there’s one at two o’clock at the church down the street from the house.
I’ve got a ride coming. I’ll be fine.” He tosses his duffel over his shoulder and starts walking back toward the facility.
“I’m proud of you, son. Your mom would be too. ”
The doors shut behind him, leaving me to process…a lot of things.
My phone is still in my hand.
I open it. Pull up Chloe’s contact.
My thumb hovers over the Call button.
Then I put the phone away.
I’m not texting her.
I’m not calling her.
I’m going to play the best game of my life.
And then I’m going to find her.
The game goes sideways in the first period.
Two penalties. One offside. Coach Jacobsen benches me halfway through.
I sit there, watching through the plexiglass, replaying every conversation with my dad. Every word about dreams and control and being human.
Stop protecting her from yourself. Stop performing.
The problem is, I don’t know who I am when I’m not performing.
Second period starts. Coach puts me back in.
“Kane,” he says. “Get your head in the game or get off my ice.”
I skate out. Take my position.
But my head isn’t in the game.
It’s thinking about Chloe. About armor coming off. About dragons and vulnerability and the fact that she posted that this morning—the day our contract ends.
Sometimes the armor has to come off.
Is she thinking about me too?
Stop protecting her from yourself.
The puck drops.
Chicago charges down the ice. Their left wing breaks free, heading straight for our goal.
I’m supposed to block him. It’s my job. My position.
Instead, I see Chloe’s face. The way she looked at me before everything fell apart.
I love you. Not Candy Kane. You—Brody.
The crowd noise fades. The ice disappears. There’s just that moment. That truth.
She loves me. The real me. The messy, imperfect, terrified-of-failing me.
And I pushed her away because I thought I was protecting her.
But I was really just protecting myself.
The Chicago player blows past me.
Shoots.
Scores.
The crowd groans.
Coach is yelling something.
But I’m not listening. I’m done pretending.
I’m done doing the right thing.
Intermission can’t come fast enough.
I skate off the ice, helmet in hand, heading straight for the tunnel with the other guys.
Derek catches up with me. “Kane, where are you going? We’ve got—”
“I need five minutes.”
“We’re down by one—”
“I know.” I keep walking. “Five minutes. I promise.”
I burst into the locker room. Everyone’s scattered—some guys getting water, others checking their equipment.
I grab my phone from my locker.
Open Instagram.
Find Chloe’s profile.
The dragon post is still there. Sometimes the armor has to come off.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
Then I notice she’s posted again. Two minutes ago.
A photo of her sitting next to Jessa in what looks like a hockey arena. Behind her, I spot a section number. It’s section 104 in our arena. No caption.
My heart stops.
Section 104.
She’s here.
I look up at the clock. Three minutes until we’re back on the ice.
Derek appears in the doorway. “Kane, Coach is—” He stops. Sees my face. “What?”
“She’s here.”
“Who’s—” Understanding dawns. “Chloe?”
I nod. “Section 104.”
Derek grins. Shakes his head. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down there, lover boy.”
“I’ve got to—”
“And you will.” He claps me on the shoulder. “But do it after we win. You owe us a decent third period after that disaster you just pulled.”
“Derek—”
“Save it. Get your head together. Win the game. Then go get your girl.” He heads back toward the tunnel. “In that order, Kane!”
I look back at my phone. At the photo of section 104.
She came.
After everything. After the contract. After I pushed her away.
She came.
And she’s wearing—I zoom in on the photo—is that a glittery jersey?
A laugh bursts out of me. It feels like a weight lifted, floating like light.
Conrad pokes his head in. “You good, man?”
“Yeah.” I’m grinning like an idiot. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“Then get back on the ice. We’ve got a game to win.”
Third period.
Before we take the ice, Coach Jacobsen stops me.
“Whatever’s going on with you,” he says, “figure it out. Now. I need you present.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Good.” He starts to turn away, then stops. “Also—section 104. Blue glitter jersey. Foam ox horns. That your girl?”
Heat floods my face. “How did you—”
“I’m a coach. I see everything.” He smiles. Barely, but it’s there. “Nice taste. Now go play hockey.”
We take the ice for the third period.
I scan the stands as I skate to position.
Section 104.
And there she is.
Chloe Dawson. Wearing a bedazzled Blue Ox jersey that catches the arena lights like a disco ball. Foam ox horns on her head. Holding a giant sign that says GO BIG 7 in glitter letters.
She’s not subtle.
She’s perfect.
Our eyes meet across the ice.
She grins.
Waves the sign.
And then she blows me a kiss.
Actually blows me a kiss. In front of eighteen thousand people.
My chest is so tight I can barely breathe.
Derek skates past me, heading for the tunnel. Sees where I’m looking. Sees Chloe in her glittery jersey and ridiculous horns.
He grins. Shakes his head. “Eyes on the puck, Candy.”
I play like I’ve never played before.
Not trying to prove anything. Not performing. Not being perfect.
Just being.
Every blocked shot. Every defensive play. Every split-second decision.
I’m not thinking. I’m just moving. Trusting my body. Trusting my training. Trusting that this—hockey, the ice, the game—is what I was made for.
And knowing that she’s watching.
That she came. That she’s here. That she’s wearing the ridiculous getup and waving a sign like this is game seven.
Cheering for me.
We score again. And again.
Chicago can’t touch us.
Final score: 5–2.
The crowd is on their feet. Chanting. Celebrating.
The team mobs me on the ice—pounding my back, yelling, congratulating.
“Best game of the season, Kane!”
“That’s what I’m talking about!”
“Candy Kane is BACK, baby!”
But I’m not listening. I’m scanning the stands.
Section 104.
She’s there. Running down the steps toward the glass. Pushing through people, apologizing, still wearing that ridiculous glittery jersey, her foam horns crooked now.
She reaches the boards. Presses her hands against the plexiglass.
I’m on the other side. Separated by three inches of reinforced plastic and every rule about player-fan interaction.
We stare at each other.
She’s crying. I’m probably crying too, but the helmet hides it.
Her lips move. I can’t hear her through the glass and the crowd noise, but I can read the words:
I’m sorry. I love you.
That’s it.
I’m done with things keeping us apart.
I look at the bench. At Coach Jacobsen who’s watching with raised eyebrows.
Then I climb over the boards.
Not the normal exit. Right over the plexiglass between the bench and the stands, using my stick for leverage.
My teammates are shouting. The crowd is screaming. Security is probably having a heart attack.
I don’t care.
I drop down into the stands—awkward in skates, nearly losing my balance. She’s right there.
I reach for her, but she holds up a hand.
“Wait.” She’s crying and laughing at the same time. “The contract doesn’t end until midnight.”
I stare at her. “Are you serious?”
“The thirty-day period. It’s technically—”
“Chloe.” I step closer. “It’s midnight somewhere.”
Her face breaks into the biggest smile I’ve ever seen.
And I kiss her.
Pull her into my arms and kiss her like I’ve been wanting to for thirty days. Like I’ll never let her go again. Like she’s the only thing that matters.
She kisses me back. Hands in my hair. Tears on both our faces. The foam ox horns fall off her head and tumble down the steps.
The crowd loses their minds.
Chanting. Clapping. Stomping.
Someone’s playing “We Are the Champions” over the loudspeakers.
The Jumbotron is showing us—I can see it out of the corner of my eye. The kiss. Us. Together.
My teammates are leaning over the boards, whooping and hollering.
“Way to go, Candy!” Torch yells.
Derek is grinning. He catches my eye and gives me a thumbs-up.
I pull back just enough to look at Chloe’s face. She’s wearing sparkly eye makeup and her mascara is running and there’s glitter everywhere.
“You look ridiculous,” I say.
“I just didn’t want you to miss me,” she says, laughing through tears.
“How I missed you.” I kiss her again. Softer this time. “I’m so sorry. For everything. For asking you to break up with me. For the contract—”
“Stop.” She puts her hand over my mouth. “I’m sorry too. For what I said. For comparing you to—I didn’t mean it.”
“You were right,” I interrupt. “I was running. Just like him. Trying to control everything instead of trusting. But I’m done running. I’m done hiding. I’m done pretending.”
“Good. Because I’m done hiding too.” She grins. Touches my face. “I love you, Brody Kane.”
“I love you too.” I’m grinning like an idiot. “Also, is that glitter on your jersey?”
“Yes. I made Jessa help me bedazzle it. It took four hours and six containers of craft glitter.”
“It’s perfect.”
“It’s hideous.”
“It’s perfectly hideous.” I kiss her forehead, her nose, her cheeks.
“You smell,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
“I just played three periods of hockey—”
“Shower. Then meet me at Ironclad. Jessa’s gonna drive me.” She grins. “I need a giant chocolate chip cookie and a late-night latte. And you. Not necessarily in that order.”
“I’ll be there.”
“You better.” She picks up the fallen ox horns, puts them back on her head. Crooked and ridiculous and perfect.
I kiss her one more time—quick, sweet—then climb back over the boards.
My teammates are waiting, all of them grinning like idiots.
Conrad skates over first. “Sheesh. I guess absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
Derek follows, shaking his head. “Thirty days and you climb into the stands. Could’ve just texted her, Kane.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I’m grinning so hard my face hurts.
“Fair point.” Derek claps me on the shoulder. “Welcome back, buddy.”
Coach Jacobsen is waiting at the bench, arms crossed, trying to look stern. “Kane. My office. Tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“But good game.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Best I’ve seen you play all season.”
Conrad appears at my elbow. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I’m still grinning. Can’t stop. “I’m really good.”
We skate toward the tunnel. My teammates are still ribbing me, still laughing, still making jokes about climbing into stands and midnight and glitter.
I don’t care.
For the first time in my entire life, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Not performing. Not pretending. Not hiding behind charm or control or fear.
Just being.
And in about thirty minutes, I’ll be at Ironclad Desserts with the woman I love, eating cookies and drinking terrible coffee and figuring out how to build a life together.
No contracts. No performances. No rules.
Just us.
Finally.