Page 10 of Pucked Mountain Man (Cold Mountain Nights #6)
GRADY
Adrenaline flow through my veins. So strong, I can taste it in the back of my mouth.
It’s been months since my the injury. Months since I thought I’d never feel the burn of ice under my blades again.
But this afternoon, with the blessing of my coaches and trainers, I laced up, stepped out on the ice, and proved I still have something left to give.
One slow lap turned into two. Then drills. Then shots fired hard into the net, my stick cracking with the rhythm I thought I’d lost. The knee held. My lungs burned. And when the final whistle blew at practice, the boys slapped my helmet, hollered my name, grinned like idiots.
Grady Jones is back.
I’m still sweating when I coast to the bench, peel off my helmet, and there she is. Stevie. Waiting at the tunnel with her hair loose and her smile wider than the damn rink.
The sight of her nearly buckles me worse than the injury ever did.
“Rockstar,” I breathe.
She laughs, running a hand over my damp hair, not caring that I probably smell like a locker room. “You did it.”
“Couldn’t have without you,” I say, and I mean every word.
She pulls me down by the collar and kisses me—quick but enough to set the guys behind me howling.
“Get a room!” one of them yells. Another wolf-whistles.
Thatcher jogs by, stick slung over his shoulders, smirk firmly in place. “Don’t distract him too much before the playoffs, sis. We need him functional.”
Stevie rolls her eyes. I flip Thatcher off behind her back. He just grins wider.
“I gotta shower,” I murmur against her hair. “Then I’m taking you to your gig.”
Her eyes light up. She’s been booking steady shows at local clubs, her songs finally spilling out of notebooks and onto stages. Watching her step into the spotlight makes me prouder than any stat sheet ever did.
But before she can lead me off, the weight in my pocket reminds me why I asked her here tonight. Why I couldn’t wait another second.
“Actually,” I say, stopping her. My heart kicks like I’m facing a penalty shot in overtime. “I was gonna wait till later. Candlelight, music, the whole nine yards.”
She tilts her head. “Grady?”
I drop to one knee—my good one, because irony would really have a field day otherwise. Gasps ripple down the bench. The guys lean forward, wide-eyed, grins spreading. Thatcher mutters something that sounds like, “Oh, hell no,” but even he can’t hide the way his eyes soften.
I pull the box from my pocket, pop it open, and look up at her.
“Stevie, you turned my whole damn life upside down. You made me believe I’m more than the game, more than the injury. You made me believe I’m worth love—even when I didn’t believe it myself. And I don’t want another day without you. So… will you marry me?”
Her hands fly to her mouth. Her eyes shine. Tears slip free before she even nods. “Yes,” she whispers, then louder, laughing, “Yes!”
The boys explode, banging sticks against the boards like we just scored in overtime. Thatcher groans, buries his face in his glove, but even he can’t smother the smile breaking through.
I slide the ring onto her finger, stand, and kiss her right there in front of the whole damn team. She kisses me back, not caring who’s watching.
When she pulls back, nearly breathless, she grins. “You’re still taking me to my gig, right?”
I rest my forehead against hers.
“I’ll always be front and center, Rockstar. Always.”