Epilogue
Josie
I woke up early the next morning to make breakfast for Grayson.
Mason was still fast asleep on the couch, one leg thrown over the armrest and drool trickling out of the side of his mouth.
While the bacon was sizzling in the pan, I walked over and paused the episode of Golden Girls that was still playing on the TV.
He immediately jerked awake. “Hey. I was watching that.”
“Sorry. My mistake,” I said, tossing him the remote.
He sniffed the air. “Are you making breakfast?”
“For Grayson,” I replied. “But there should be enough bacon and pancakes to share.”
He grinned at me. “Hey, don’t tell Grayson I said this. But you’re really good for him.”
I paused while mixing pancake batter in a bowl. “I am?”
Mason nodded enthusiastically. “He’s always been a grumpy bitch. That hasn’t changed. But since he started going out with you, there’s a glimmer of passion and joy underneath it all. I guess what I’m trying to say is: keep it up?”
The compliment made me beam. “I’ll try. But I don’t think he’s ever going to stop being a grumpy bitch.”
“Wow,” Grayson said while striding out of the bedroom. “Getting called a grumpy bitch isn’t my idea of a good morning. What did I do to deserve that?”
“Well,” I joked, “for starters, you’re a grumpy bitch.”
Mason pointed at me and nodded.
“But more importantly,” I added, “you’re my grumpy bitch.”
He came up from behind and wrapped his arms around me. “Goddamn right I am,” he said, kissing the back of my neck.
“Get a room you two,” Mason complained from the couch. “Preferably after she’s made breakfast.”
“Too late,” Grayson growled into my ear. “I woke up with an appetite.”
I yelped as he picked me up off the ground and carried me into the bedroom. I barely had enough time to ask Mason to watch the bacon before Grayson slammed the bedroom door closed and spent the next ten minutes tearing my clothes off and making slow, passionate love to me.
When we returned to the kitchen afterward, Mason was flipping bacon with a spatula. And he was wearing a pair of noise cancellation headphones.
“I guess we were loud,” I said.
“You were loud,” Grayson replied.
“Because of what you were doing to me.”
Grayson grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled me into a rough kiss. “Goddamn right.”
*
The next two months were a blur.
Grayson and I spent the night together more often than not. Sometimes we were at his penthouse condo, and other times he crashed at my place. “I don’t care,” he said when I apologized for my place being way smaller than his. “As long as there’s enough room for the two of us in bed, I’m happy.”
We had sex. A lot of sex. Apparently Grayson had a lot more energy now that the season was over, and wanted to tear my clothes off at least twice a day.
I didn’t mind. Not even a little bit.
Our chemistry was undeniable now that there weren’t any roadblocks or distractions. We had similar personalities. That was the reason we had clashed so much at first, but now it meant it was easy for the two of us to interlace our lives together.
I couldn’t get enough of him. Even the hundredth time we slept together felt every bit as satisfying as the first time. It was like a never-ending honeymoon.
My TikTok channel was chugging along. I’d received a massive spike in traffic when he posted his To Josie video, but my views had begun trending downward since the Surge season ended.
I had expected that, but it was fine. I was still getting far more views and sales than I ever could have imagined a year ago.
But then I got a call from one of the marketing guys who worked under Bob Trent.
I had forgotten all about my agreement with the Surge to do some cross-promotion on their social media accounts.
They ended up re-posting three of my videos, spaced out a week apart.
My expectations were low since the season was over, but the result was far better than I ever expected: there were spikes for each re-posting, which was enough to get the TikTok algorithm to fall in love with me.
Throughout May and June, every single video I published received more views than the previous one.
The graph showing my affiliate sales was a steep upward curve.
By July, I was making enough money to safely quit my job at the Frost Bank Center.
Grayson took me out to dinner to celebrate. He kept our destination a secret, but it was no surprise when we pulled up to Carlo’s, the site of our first fake date.
“You’d better not angrily storm out of our date this time,” Grayson warned as we sat down in the exact same private room as the first time.
“I promise I won’t. But only if you order an eight thousand dollar bottle of wine.”
He snorted. “The team isn’t paying for this dinner.”
“Oh, so suddenly you’re too good to spend money on your girlfriend?” I teased.
Grayson narrowed his eyes at me. “Girlfriend?”
“Yes. Girlfriend. I’m putting my foot down and making it official.”
Grayson chuckled and shook his head.
“What’s so funny?” I asked. Had I pushed too far?
Without saying anything, he pulled a card out of his jacket pocket and slid it across the table. He’d written, “Pussycat,” on the front.
“Open it,” he said.
Not understanding the significance, I slowly tore open the card and began reading it out loud. “To my girlfriend. You mean the world to me more each and every day. Happy Anniversary.” I glanced up at Grayson. “Anniversary?”
“Today’s the fifteenth,” Grayson said with a smirk. “Exactly six months ago, we went on our first date. Here.”
“Oh my God. You’re right. I can’t believe I forgot.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “As long as I get to call you girlfriend.”
I’d been so focused on the anniversary part of the card that I had glossed right over the beginning. To my girlfriend.
We both wanted the same thing without knowing it.
I leaned across the table and gave him a long kiss. When I tried pulling away, he held me against him, deepening the kiss.
We were interrupted by our server stepping into the private room and clearing his throat. “I, um, can come back…”
“Sorry, we’re ready,” Grayson said as I returned to my seat. “What’s your most expensive bottle of wine?”
The server blinked. “That would be the Leroy Romanee-Saint-Vivant. I will need to verify the price with our sommelier, but I believe it is around nine thousand dollars.”
“And the least expensive bottle?” Grayson asked.
“That would be our house red. Twelve dollars per glass, or thirty for a bottle.”
Without taking his eyes off me, Grayson said, “The house red sounds perfect. I don’t want my girlfriend accusing me of being a rich asshole.”
“My boyfriend is a rich asshole,” I told the server. “But he’s my rich asshole.”
The server wasn’t sure what to say to this, so he mumbled something about retrieving the bottle and disappeared.
*
Mason moved out of Grayson’s apartment that summer.
“I got this sweet place down the street,” Mason explained while carrying the last box out of his room.
He set it down on the table and wiped sweat from his forehead.
“It’s like two blocks from the arena where we play.
That cute little district with all the apartments above shops.
There’s this super hot chick who sunbathes on the balcony across the street. In her bikini.”
Mason grinned, then suddenly remembered that I was sitting on the couch.
“Um… sorry,” he said to me.
“Don’t be,” I replied. “Go get it, dude.”
Mason turned to face his teammate. “I know you hated having me here. But it made the last season, my rookie season in the league, a lot more tolerable. I was lucky to have you as a mentor.”
“You still do,” Grayson replied. “And you weren’t so bad.”
Mason cupped his hand over his ear. “I’m sorry. Can you repeat that? I think I misheard you.”
Gritting his teeth, Grayson replied, “You heard what I said. Once is all you’re getting.”
“Good enough!” Mason reached into his box of belongings and pulled out a small package wrapped in Surge-themed wrapping paper. “This is for you.”
“I told you. I hate gifts.”
“I know, I know, but this isn’t anything crazy. Just something small.”
“Do I have to open it now?”
I leaped up from the couch and joined them. “Of course you have to open it now. Let’s see it!”
Grayson looked embarrassed as he tore open the box. Then he reached inside and pulled out a jar of JIF peanut butter. The big hockey player stared at the jar, then looked up at Mason. “The fuck?”
“I didn’t know what to get you!” He pointed at me. “She gave you peanut butter before that Oilers game and you damn near started crying.”
Grayson put down the jar and stepped close to Mason. For a moment, it looked like he was angry. But then he threw his arms around his teammate and clapped him on the back.
“Thanks,” was all he said.
“You’re… welcome?” Mason glanced at me. “Now I really hope the peanut butter isn’t some sex thing.”
*
Aside from a few public appearances here and there, Grayson’s schedule was delightfully free all summer. And since quitting my job, I now had the ability to work from anywhere—so long as I had my camera equipment and a makeup product to review.
So at the beginning of August, Grayson took me on a trip back to Wisconsin to meet his parents.
“Should I have brought a better gift?” I asked while we drove our rental car out of the airport. “This feels inadequate.”
“My mom doesn’t like expensive gifts. A bottle of chocolate liqueur is perfect.”
I stared at the bottle in my lap, a red bow wrapped around the neck. I had this sinking feeling that his parents would hate me.
They lived in a modest house in a middle-class neighborhood in the Milwaukee suburbs. When I commented on it, Grayson said, “I tried to buy them something nicer, in a gated community, but they wouldn’t have it. I did convince them to hire a maid, though.”