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Olive

T he familiar chill from the arena is a welcoming feeling that pebbles my arms as I scream at the top of my lungs alongside sixteen-thousand other fanatics. There are twelve seconds left in the final period, with a two-point lead in favor of the New York Rangers.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

The puck goes flying from Sebastian to Akira Mendall across the ice, right past the Bruins’ defense.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

My brother maneuvers skillfully around the other defenseman and sees Bodhi open on the right.

Four seconds.

Sebastian sends the puck over to the right winger at three seconds, where Bodhi takes his shot.

Two.

One.

The puck flies past the goaltender and into the net, sending the crowd into a frenzy.

“They’re moving on!” I scream at anybody who will listen, bouncing up and down before catapulting myself into Alex’s arms.

He easily catches me, spinning me once before setting me carefully onto the ground.

For a split second, I forgot he was here.

At my brother’s game.

Where the Rangers officially advanced to the Conference Finals.

I look up at Alex with a big smile on my face. He’s already watching me with those blue eyes that still do something to my heart. “You know what this means right?” I ask him.

His hands go to my hips. “What?”

“You’re going against each other in the finals,” I say, as if he doesn’t already know.

Sebastian against Alex.

Their rivalry continues.

His lips quick up. “So it would seem.”

My palms rest on either side of his chest. “Aren’t you going to ask who I’m cheering for?”

Alex shakes his head, squeezing his fingers into the fleshy part of my hips. “It doesn’t matter. Because not only do you work for the team now, but at the end of the day, you’re coming home with me .”

The smile on my face grows instantly.

He pecks my forehead. “Plus, I know better than to assume you won’t cheer for the Rangers even on the job,” he muses against my skin. “If today is any indication, you’ll be the loudest in the room.”

Pride swells in my chest. “I always am.”

He chuckles. The sound is low and mischievous, like the glint in his eyes is. “Oh, trust me, baby girl. I know that.”

My cheeks heat at the dirty implication.

He reaches for his phone and hands it out to Murphy, Gemma’s grandfather. Bodhi’s daughter and both of her grandparents attended today’s game to show their support. I’m not sure what’s happening with them, but things seem good. At least from the outside looking in.

“Do you mind taking a picture of me and my girl?” Alex asks the older man, showing him what button to press on the camera app.

I look over at him when he hooks an arm around my waist. “A picture, huh?”

“I told you before that any guy would be lucky to be in a photo with you,” he reminds me, tugging me closer into his side. “We control this narrative. You and me. It’s what we decide to do with it that counts. I don’t have to post it. It can just be for us.”

A warm feeling wraps around my heart as Murphy tells us to get ready. He counts to three before pressing the button.

Alex presses his lips against the side of my head at the same time, and when we see the photo…

God.

My heart turns into mush.

Because we look so in love.

It’s hard to look away.

“That kind of love,” Murphy tells us with a smile on his aged face, “is the kind that lasts a lifetime.”

Gemma runs over to him and hugs his leg. He puts a hand on her head and smiles down at his granddaughter. The love is plain as day on his face, lighting the whole thing up.

Just like how mine looks in the picture.

I look from Gemma to Alex. “Post it. I don’t have anything to be ashamed of.”

He presses another kiss against my head. “I don’t either. Come on. We should go find your brother and congratulate him.”

When his fingers thread through mine, it sends sparks throughout my whole body. The tingling sensation settles into my fingertips and toes the entire way to the locker room where friends and family gather to meet the players.

Tori is standing with Beckham, my nephew, and they’re wearing matching Henderson jerseys like the one I’m in. Because she was working, she was with the media closer to the action. Go figure her debut in the headlines was much kinder than mine was with Alex. But whatever.

Alex has a point—we own the narrative.

Just like Tori owns hers.

When Sebastian walks out of the room, his eyes instantly gravitate toward his wife and son. Pecking them both on the heads, he says something quietly to them both before turning to see Alex and I holding hands off to the side.

He comes up and gives me a one-armed hug before shaking Alex’s free hand. The grin on his face is the same cocky, victorious one he always has when his team wins. All he says to my boyfriend is, “Can’t wait to beat your ass at the finals, O’Conner.”

Alex squeezes my brother’s hand. “The feeling is mutual, Henderson.”

Tori and I share an amused smile.

That night, Alex posts our picture online.

His mother texts him from her new home on the outskirts of Philly saying she can’t wait to see us next week.

My brother comments with the puke face emoji and gets five thousand likes within thirty minutes.

Our mother tells him to behave himself and gets ten thousand likes.

But, otherwise, we get nothing but love.

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