Page 9 of Pucked Mountain Man (Cold Mountain Nights #6)

NINE

STEVIE

My gut twists as I step into the honey arena.

The familiar scents of popcorn and adrenaline tickle my nose along with the cold. Normally, I’d find that comforting. It’s usually a reminder of growing up in the bleachers. Waving homemade signs for Thatcher. Pretending being known exclusively as “the little sister” didn’t bother me.

Tonight… Well, tonight, I frankly can’t decide why I let my brother talk me into being here. But after spending the past few days hiding in my apartment, I was afraid he’d stage an intervention if I didn’t make an appearance.

I sit in the lower bowl, wrapped in a jacket two sizes too big, hands buried in the pockets, telling myself I came because Thatcher asked. That it’s just one more game. That I can watch, clap politely, and go home to the songs I’ve been avoiding writing.

I should feel proud. My brother, the star. The crowd wearing his number on jerseys and painted across cheeks. And I am proud, somewhere under the ache. But mostly I’m just tired.

The announcer’s voice booms through the arena, rattling the rafters. “Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the singing of our national anthem.”

I stand automatically, heart thudding. The anthem is sacred here—players lined up on the blue line, hands over hearts, goalies bouncing on skates like restless giants.

But then the announcer keeps talking. “And tonight, we have a special guest joining us to perform.”

The spotlight swings.

On me.

I freeze. My pulse spikes. “Wait, what?—?”

An usher appears out of nowhere, gesturing me down the aisle. People clap, confused and curious. My feet move before my brain catches up, down the steps, through the boards, onto the ice.

A microphone is pressed into my hand.

“Sing,” the usher mouths, grinning.

The players shift, curious. The crowd hushes, like the whole building inhaled at once.

My palms are slick. My throat is dry. This is the moment I’ve wanted my whole life, and I didn’t even know it was coming.

I close my eyes. Breathe once. Twice. Hear Mom’s voice in my head: Don’t chase it. Let the song come to you.

And then I open my mouth.

The first notes waver, but then they steady.

The words roll out, clear and sure, climbing into the rafters.

I don’t think about the cameras, the thousands of eyes, the ice under my boots.

I just think about the melody, about the way it feels when the song leaves my chest and becomes something bigger than me.

By the time I hit the last line, the arena is roaring. People are on their feet. Flags are waving. The sound is a tidal wave and I’m standing in the middle of it, shaking with adrenaline and something dangerously like joy.

I lower the mic, breathless. “Thank you,” I manage, voice cracking into the speakers. “And thank you, Thatcher, for?—”

But Thatcher is shaking his head, smirking. He points.

To the tunnel.

And there he is.

Grady Jones. Not in skates. Not in gear. Just jeans, a button-down rolled to his elbows, tattoos stark under the lights. Watching me like I hung the stars instead of sang a song.

The crowd, nosy as ever, catches on fast. The jumbotron cuts to his face, then mine. Whispers ripple, then cheers.

My stomach drops, my heart lifts, and suddenly I can’t breathe.

Grady steps onto the carpet laid over the ice, slow and steady, his brace visible under the denim but his stride sure. He takes the mic from my hand, big fingers brushing mine, and turns to face me and ten thousand strangers.

“I didn’t call you here to put you on the spot,” he says, voice carrying through the speakers, low and rough. “I called you here because I needed you—and everyone—to know the truth.”

The crowd hushes again, waiting.

He looks at me, just me, like the rest of the world is a detail.

“Stevie, you made me see things I didn’t want to see.

That I’ve been hiding behind hockey and excuses.

That I’ve been measuring my worth by what I can do on the ice instead of who I am off it.

That I’ve been too damn scared to admit when something—or someone—really matters. ”

My throat tightens.

He swallows hard. “You made me realize that even if I never play another game, I’ll be okay.

That I’m still me. But life is better with you.

You make me laugh when I want to brood. You make me hope when I want to give up.

You make me believe there’s more to me than stats and scars.

And I love you. I love you so much it makes every excuse I had look pathetic. ”

The building erupts. People are clapping, whistling, chanting. The jumbotron flashes his face, mine, the words Make her say yes! in obnoxious block letters.

I’m crying, mascara running, heart pounding.

I take the mic back with trembling fingers. “Grady Jones, you’re an idiot.” The crowd laughs. I laugh, watery. “But you’re my idiot. And I love you too. So much.”

His grin is a miracle. He cups my face in both hands right there on the ice, the crowd counting down like it’s New Year’s.

And then he kisses me.

It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s everything we’ve been holding back and everything we almost lost. His brace squeaks, the crowd roars, Thatcher pretends to gag on the bench, and I couldn’t care less.

Because for the first time, it’s not a secret. It’s not borrowed time. It’s us.

It’s real.