Page 30

Chapter Thirty

Lily

Hockey Rule #117: Know when to hit—and when to hold your ground Media Rule #117: You don’t have to shout to take control of the room

The warped floorboards groaned under my boots as I paced the office, each step stirring up the scent of old lumber and iron nails. We were probably looking at some renovation work soon, if we decided to stay. Thunder growled somewhere beyond the windowpanes, low and restless, echoing the riot tumbling around in my chest.

Three Corners Productions had a real contract with the Renegades.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about the man who made it possible.

Jack.

The way he’d stepped forward, all growly and unapologetic. The way his voice had dropped, rough with defense and threaded through with heat that slid beneath my ribs and settled low, warm and familiar and entirely out of place. My pulse had stuttered, completely abandoning the whole professionalism pretense.

“Will you please sit down?” Adele sprawled in her squeaky desk chair, feet propped on the edge of her desk. “You’re making me dizzy. And you’re stressing out Bright.”

My cat, curled up on his custom shelf above my desk, opened one eye and gave me his patented “foolish human” look. Traitor.

I pressed my thumb to the inside of my wrist, chasing a rhythm that refused to settle. One, two, three—too fast. “I just... What happened today?”

“What happened is we kicked Malone’s ugly-suit-wearing ass.” Adele’s grin stretched wide enough to light the whole damn block. “And landed a big legitimate contract that doesn’t require selling our souls.”

“Because Jack stepped in.” The words scraped free of my throat. “After everything I did to him in Austin, he still...”

“Showed up like some romance novel hero to save the day?” Adele’s eyes sparkled. “Girl, that man looked at you like you hung the moon. Even while defending your professional honor.”

Heat crawled up my neck. “He was just being...”

“If you say ‘nice’ I’m throwing my stapler at you.” She patted around her desk as if searching for her non-existent stapler before straightening in her chair and meeting my gaze head on. “That wasn’t nice, Lils. That was a man who watched your tribute and understood exactly why you made it. Who respected that choice enough to go toe-to-toe with Jasper freaking Pendleton.”

Thunder cracked overhead, brutal enough to rattle the windows. I jumped, breath catching as the lights flickered. Outside, downtown Three Corners blurred into shadow, the storm swallowing the streetlamps one gust at a time. Wind whooshed against the glass, but for me, the pressure was all internal—tight around my chest, pulsing in my throat.

“The contract terms are incredible.” I sank into my chair, fingers finding my laptop keyboard by muscle memory. “Full creative control. No fake rivalries. No scripted locker room drama. Just honest game coverage. Honest people.”

“Because you stood your ground.” Adele’s voice softened, not with sympathy, but pride. “The Lily who left LA in a meltdown haze? She would've handed Malone whatever he wanted, just to stay employed. But you? You turned him down cold.”

“We didn’t move here to chase Emmys. Or ratings,” I said, the words scratching their way out. “We wanted to do work we could live with. I couldn’t have gotten here without you.”

Not just Adele. Jack, too—even if he didn’t know it.

Watching him the last year, I’d seen the shape of a man who didn’t sell pieces of himself to stay on the roster. Who played through pain not for the glory, but because he owed it to his teammates, to the game, to his own code. He knew what line he wouldn’t cross.

I used to have that. Before the panels, the deadlines, the meetings where I smiled and nodded while producers sliced the truth into a digestible runtime. Somewhere in the noise of LA, I’d started mistaking performance for purpose.

Jack had reminded me—without ever saying a word—what it looked like to stand for something, even if it cost you.

Maybe I’d already lost him. Maybe that part was over.

But I wasn’t going to lose that part of myself again.

“Obviously.” Her toothy grin was all bite. “But let’s not pretend you’re pacing over our dazzling professional integrity.”

I pulled in a breath and held it, trying to slow the gallop in my chest. “He watched the tribute episode. Even after swearing he wouldn’t.”

“And?”

“And he didn’t just watch it. He understood it.” The truth burned my throat like cheap whiskey. “He understood what I was trying to say—about him, about me, about what this kind of work can be. What it should be.”

Lightning lit up the room, stark and blue-white. For a second, every detail came into focus: the old wooden counter we’d converted into a shared workbench, Adele’s ever-growing jungle of sticky notes, the stack of camera bags wedged between filing cabinets. The tin ceiling caught the light, gleaming faintly above the worn pine floors we still meant to refinish.

We hadn’t built a production empire. We’d built something small enough to hold in our hands—a place where the story didn’t have to scream to be heard. Where we could film the way Viggy played—knee taped up, pain stitched behind his smile—because showing up mattered more than making it shiny. Because doing the job right meant knowing your limits and sticking to your principles, even when no one’s handing out trophies for it.

That’s what Jack saw. Not just the footage. Not just the edit. He saw the decision underneath it—the one where I walked away from flash and spin, from Malone’s easy offer, and chose the slower, steadier path instead. The one that wouldn't bring trophies, but would let me sleep at night.

At least, I hoped that’s what he saw. Selfishly, I needed that to be true.

“I should get home before this storm floods Main Street,” Adele said, stuffing her charger into her tote. She paused at my desk, eyes softening. “For what it’s worth? The way he looked at you in that conference room? That wasn’t just about the work.”

A slow, aching heat curled up my throat, almost painful in how badly I wanted to believe her. “Del…”

“Just saying.” She squeezed my shoulder, quick and reassuring. “Maybe it’s time to trust that second chances aren’t a one-way street.”

The front door chimed as she disappeared downstairs, heels tapping out a rhythm I already knew by heart. Then nothing but the sound of rain starting to tap the roof and Bright’s slow purr from the shelf above.

I tilted my chair back and reached up to scratch under his chin. “What do you think, sweet boy?” My voice wobbled in the quiet. “Think your mom’s brave enough to try again?”

His unimpressed blink had opinions.

Outside, the storm gathered its strength, wind howling down the alley like it had a message to deliver. Inside, my pulse kicked harder, faster—anticipation or fear, I couldn’t tell. Maybe both.

I’d made peace with losing Jack. Told myself I deserved to. But then he stood up in that conference room, voice low and certain, and I saw the truth in his eyes.

He didn’t see the woman who sold out her edit for an executive's approval. He didn’t see the burnout who fled LA with a useless résumé full of bylines and no idea who she was anymore.

He saw the one who stayed up until two a.m. cutting a tribute that wouldn’t win awards, but might make one person feel understood.

He saw the version of me I was still trying to become—quietly, imperfectly—when no one was watching.

And maybe that was what scared me most.

Because if he saw her , then maybe a second chance wasn’t a fantasy I’d built to soothe the guilt.

Maybe it had just moved to town and—

The bell chimed.

The sound floated up the stairs, faint but unmistakable.

My pulse stuttered. Had I fantasized him into being?

I didn’t need to check the video doorbell. I knew .

My body recognized him before my mind caught up—shoulders tensing, breath stalling, like my whole system braced for impact. A slow coil in my stomach, nerves thrumming awake. Even the air felt different, charged and familiar in a way I only let myself remember late at night, alone in bed, when the house was quiet and missing him felt safest.

Jack.

I braced even before I heard his steps on the stairs.

He climbed slowly, each step creaking under his weight. Then he stood on the landing, framed in the soft glow spilling up the stairs. A memory in the flesh. Rain soaked his t-shirt, pulling it tight across his muscled chest and shoulders. A few dark curls clung to his forehead, while a single droplet slid along the edge of his jaw.

My throat went dry. “You’re soaked.”

“Storm came in fast.” His voice—low, rough—slipped beneath my skin, curling into places I only let wake with the lights turned off and when the bed felt too big.

The scent of him—wet cotton, warm skin, the faint trace of his achingly familiar soap—wrapped around me, tugging me backward in time.

To that night. The bar. The way his laugh cracked open the air when the rain caught us off guard outside my apartment. To the way he’d surrounded me, protected me from the elements.

Because protection was second nature to a man like Jack Vignier.

I’d coaxed him up to my tiny apartment. Offered coffee, a towel.

But what lodged deepest wasn’t the conversation—it was the moment I tripped over Bright on the way to pass him a towel. One second I was moving, the next I was airborne, his arms wrapped around me.

I’d frozen, still in a way that was bone deep. Breathless and embarrassed, but he didn’t let me go right away and a knowing had filled me then. One I’d fought and that challenged everything I’d thought I wanted. I should have known then. Maybe I did, on some level.

But walking away from a dream isn’t easy. Especially not one you’ve carried for years, letting it twist around your ambition, reshape your sense of worth. Even after it curdled, after it stopped looking like you , it still whispered promises that were hard to resist.

Then, slowly, he lowered me to my feet, his hands brushing along my arms in a touch too careful to be casual.

That was the moment. Not the coffee. Not even the kiss.

That was when time stopped and the space between us changed.

That night, we stopped pretending. No polite distance. No more sharp banter or distance disguised as professionalism. No more hiding behind show credits or captain’s stats.

That night, I let myself want him.

And now, he stood in front of me again—soaked, unmoving, gaze locked on mine—and my body answered before my brain had a chance to build walls. Heat surged beneath my skin. Nerves tingled along every edge of me. Thought scattered.

Not memory. Not ache.

Hope.

Bright lifted his head from his shelf, fixing Jack with the same withering stare he reserved for delivery drivers and vacuum cleaners. But then—shockingly—he chirped.

Jack’s mouth curved at one corner. “Hey, buddy.” His voice lowered, gentle but uncertain, a quiet truce offered in cat-speak. “Still on duty, huh?”

Bright blinked once. Not approval. Not disapproval either. Just acknowledgment, which from my gargoyle of a cat, might as well have been a red carpet welcome.

Jack’s gaze moved through the room, quiet but attentive. I saw it through his eyes—the bare brick we’d decided to keep, the display cases we’d dragged in from a resale shop and filled with cameras and cables. The pegboard behind Adele’s desk still overflowed with scribbled notes, the tape peeling in places. The track lighting we fought with for an entire weekend, only to get it straight on a Tuesday night, long past midnight, our laughter fraying at the edges from too little sleep and too much coffee.

His eyes found mine again. “Nice setup.” A small smile. “Definitely an upgrade from that closet in Austin.”

I pressed my thumb to my wrist. Inhale. One, two, three. Release. “Thank you. For what you did today. You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah, I did.” He stepped closer, shrinking the space between us. Damp cotton. Clean skin. The faint trace of rain and effort. The scent reached me before his words did—pulling up memories I fought daily to suppress. “I saw the Little League piece. Puppy pulled it up on his phone, practically shoved it in my face. You didn’t oversell it. No dramatic soundtrack. No fake tears. Just a bunch of kids chasing the puck, falling over their own skates, grinning like they owned the ice. You made the story feel like it came from here.” He rested his hand on his chest, over his heart.

His gaze flicked to the bulletin board behind me—where our storyboard still hung, curling at the edges.

“He didn’t stop there. Boy’s been on a mission. The Rec Center campaign. The firefighter piece. You and Adele aren’t chasing clients—you’re showing up for people. Listening. Taking the time to make them feel seen. I’ve heard how folks talk about you now. Quiet respect. That doesn’t come easy in a town like this. You even cracked the Pendleton bubble today.”

Another step. Closer still.

“You reminded me what this was supposed to be about.” The words spilled out before I could catch them. My voice thickened. I didn’t try to clear it. “The way you played out your last season… how you kept showing up, even when your body couldn’t. Even when only my cameras were watching. That stuck with me. It made me look at what I’d been doing—and what I gave up when I let the work become about winning instead of telling the truth.”

I met his eyes, my chest tight.

“You didn’t just make me want to get your story right. You made me want to get mine right too. To stop running toward noise and start choosing work I could be proud of. Even if it’s small. Even if it never makes it past this town.”

I licked my lips, my heart pounding in my ears. “The tribute episode. You watched it.”

“Not at first.” Another step closer. My heart thundered in time with the storm. “Took me a while to be ready. To understand why you left it.”

Heat crawled up my neck. “I needed you to know. Even if you never watched it. Even if you hated me forever. I needed to mark the moment I finally got it right.”

His brows pulled slightly, something flickering behind his eyes. “Got what right?”

“Your story.” My voice cracked. “Not the clickbait Malone wanted. Not the drama that would trend on social media. Just... you. The man who made everyone around him better. Who led by example even when it cost him everything.”

Lightning flashed. For a second, I could see every line in his face. The weight he’d carried. The emotion he didn’t hide. “Not everything.”

Silence pressed between us. Heavy with all the things I hadn’t said. More than three months of distance and regret. Three months of imagining how different things could’ve been if I’d been brave enough to choose him sooner.

“It was torture, working the playoffs,” I whispered. The admission scraped my throat raw. “Watching you power through it. Through the drama. Through the pain I knew you had to be feeling every minute of every day.” I rolled my lips. “Adele and I did most of the work in the end. Traver had turned Team Malone and I just couldn’t trust anyone to get it right. And it was so important to me to get it right .”

“I wanted to call. After every game. After every hit you took, every shift you skated through when I knew your knee had to be on fire. I wanted to tell you I was sorry. That I—”

Jack’s gaze sharpened. “That you what?”

Another step closed the space between us. His nearness set every nerve buzzing.

“That I fell in love with you.”

The words fell from my lips, raspy and trembling, too raw to take back.

“That I missed you every damn day. That I should’ve said it when it still mattered. And that you were—God, Jack—you were brilliant in that series. Strong. Focused. So determined I couldn’t breathe watching you fight through it. After Game Seven, I just wanted to find you. Hold you. Be the place where you could crash, be safe.” I winced at the irony of my words. I’d done everything but make a safe place for him. And I’d regret that until the day I died.

His jaw shifted—tight, then loose, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to clench or speak. “Instead, you left.”

“Because I’d already done enough damage.” My voice caught and my eyes burned. “Because you made it clear I was a distraction. And I knew you were right. I couldn’t stay in Austin. Not after what I did. Not with Malone breathing down my neck. I pushed that last episode through behind his back, packed up our gear, and left with Adele the next morning.”

My fingers drifted to my wrist. The old habit. But before I could press down, his hand covered mine—warm, solid, and grounding. The contact lit up everything inside me, electric and aching.

“I didn’t expect forgiveness,” I whispered. “But I had to figure out who I was without the noise. Without the pressure. I needed to remember why I started doing this in the first place. And I never would’ve gotten there if it weren’t for you.” I sucked in a breath. “You were done with me. Wouldn’t even look at me after that episode. I figured I’d already ruined everything—so when the season wrapped up, I disappeared.”

“Shouldn’t that have been my choice?” His hand tightened around mine—not hard, just enough to hold me in place.

“You were drowning, and I didn’t see it. Not really.” His thumb pressed gently against my wrist, grounding. Not comforting. Just steady. “I knew you were trying to get your career back. Knew about Sydney and the mess she left behind. You explained it, and I thought I got it. But I didn’t see how deep it went—how much Malone had you cornered. All those promises, all that pressure... you were boxed in so tight you stopped looking for doors.”

He exhaled, slow and even, his gaze warm on mine. “I’ve made hard calls, Lily. Plenty. But even when the options sucked, I held the line. Did what I thought was right—even if no one else understood it.”

I shut my eyes, too tight, like darkness might hold me together. My fingers twitched in his grip, trying to pull free. He didn’t let go.

“You can’t say the same. Not then. You knew you were crossing a line, and you stepped over it anyway.”

The words gutted me. Savage and deserved.

Tears slipped down my cheeks, hot and silent at first. Then came the full weight of them. Months of guilt crashing into the present. My chest cracked open. My shoulders shook.

He didn’t flinch. Just pulled me forward. Held me.

I folded into his arms, buried my face in the soft cotton stretched across his chest. The fabric soaked up my tears, and I couldn’t stop the way I broke apart there—sobbing, gasping, every breath splintering against the wall of regret inside me.

His chin came to rest on top of my head.

“You’ve got your spine now,” he murmured, voice low, rough with emotion he hadn’t let show until now. “And I don’t think you’ll let go of it again.”

I trembled against him, full-body, down to the soles of my feet. My words scraped their way up from someplace buried deep. “Never,” I whispered, barely audible. Then louder, with my lips against his shirt. “Never again.”

I lifted my face, eyes burning, breath shaking. “I want to be the woman you believe in. The one who earns back your respect. Your trust. There’s nothing—” I choked on the rest. Sucked in air. Forced it out. “Nothing in this world could make me choose the wrong path again. Not even if it cost me everything.”

His eyes didn’t soften. They steadied.

“I believe you.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“I made a decision when I signed on with Hoss,” he said slowly, as though just coming to the realization. “I knew from Puppy that you’d moved here. Now I know why.”

My pulse kicked up. “I needed to start over.”

“There’s that. But you picked the one place I mentioned.”

The truth, subconscious or unacknowledged or buried beneath a whole lot of hope, pushed up. “I didn’t know if you’d end up here. I didn’t purposely plan it this way. When Adele mentioned her mother lived in Virginia, it seemed too close, too lucky. It would be my little piece of you.” I swallowed, throat tight. “And I hoped. Really hoped that you’d come.”

His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist again—barely a touch, but enough to keep me grounded.

“I knew,” he said. “Before I ever signed with Hoss. Before I unpacked a single box. I knew you were here.”

I laughed, too sharp and breathless to be smooth. “Yeah, well. The night I found out you were here? Partnered up and staying? I had a full-blown panic attack in the produce aisle of the Piggly Wiggly. It suddenly hit me that I’d have to see you every time I left the house. See the future Mrs. Vignier on your arm, living your best post-Lily life.” I wiped my cheek. “And then I realized I’d forced myself into your life, just by being here.”

His brows lifted, a quiet smile tugging at his mouth. “Piggly Wiggly, huh?”

I gave him a watery smile. “What can I say? Catastrophic thinking really thrives under fluorescent lighting.”

That earned me the tiniest huff of laughter.

He stepped closer.

“This wasn’t you forcing anything, Lily.” His voice softened, settling deep. “This was you leaving the door cracked open. And me choosing to walk through it.”

Jack studied me a moment longer, then leaned in.

He kissed me without hesitation, like the decision had already been made. His lips moved against mine—gentle, grounded. Nothing flashy. Nothing loud. Just a kind of quiet promise that sank bone deep.

My breath caught. I kissed him back—not with urgency, but with something heavier. A kind of aching gratitude. A promise wrapped in apology.

When he pulled away, he stayed close. His forehead pressed gently against mine, and his fingers didn’t let go of mine.

Above us, Bright chirped again. Sharp and perfectly timed.

The same sound he used to make when we talked too long and laughed too loud in my apartment, smoke curling from the pan while I ruined another grilled cheese. That week where everything felt possible. That breath of heaven before I burned it all down.

Jack’s lips twitched. “Your cat still judges our life choices, I see.”

Jack’s thumb swept across the inside of my wrist again, slow and grounding. He didn’t rush.

“I’ve watched that episode more than a few times now,” he said, voice roughened at the edges. “Could probably recite it frame by frame.”

I looked up, breath caught.

“The way you told it—” He shook his head once, jaw flexing. “You didn’t just show what I did. You gave it shape. Seventeen years on the ice, and somehow you pulled the meaning out of the bruises. You made my years count—for me. For the guys I played with. For everyone who thinks the Cup is the only metric of a successful career.”

My throat tightened. I could feel the tears threatening again, but this time I held them back. “Because that’s who you are. The guy who stays late to run drills with the new call-ups. Who blocks the cameras from the rookies when they screw up. Who makes everyone around him better.”

His gaze sharpened, locked on mine. “Including you?”

The breath punched out of me. “Especially me.”

More words scraped free—raw, unfiltered. “You reminded me what it looks like to hold the line. To stand for something that isn’t about headlines or clout. Even when it costs more than you thought you had to give.”

Lightning flashed outside, casting shadows across his face. His fingers tightened just enough to anchor me.

“That why you walked away from Malone?” he asked. “From the career you damn near broke yourself trying to rebuild?”

“Part of it,” I whispered. “After Sydney gutted me, after she took credit for everything I’d built and burned my name in half the rooms that mattered, I was drowning. I knew it. Malone knew it. He dangled a way back in, and I took it. Told myself I was being smart. Strategic. Just part of the business.”

His silence waited—not for excuses, but for the truth.

I met his eyes. “But watching you—watching you fight through the season, injured and exhausted, still showing up for your team...” My words drifted into quiet and I shoved my hand through the mess of my hair. “It wrecked me. Because I knew I wasn’t doing the same. I wasn’t showing up for anyone. Not even myself.”

My voice cracked. “The tribute episode wasn’t about your career, Jack. It was my apology. My line in the sand. My way of saying, I won’t play it safe anymore. I won’t trade truth for access. Not again.”

His thumb pressed lightly into my wrist, not soothing, just reminding me he was there. That he had me.

“You knew what Malone would do if you pushed that episode through. And you did it anyway.” His fingers slid beneath my chin, coaxing my gaze to his. I let him tilt my face up, didn’t fight it—couldn’t. The rough heat of his touch anchored me, pulled me back into my body. If I could have curled into him, I would have.

“That wasn’t a tribute, Lily.” His voice dropped, roughened at the edges. “That was you, clawing your way back to the woman you were meant to be.” His palm cupped my cheek, the scrape of stubble brushing my skin as he leaned in. Breath warm against my temple. His voice a whisper in my ear. “I’m proud of you.”

The words landed with quiet force. No fanfare. No conditions.

Heat surged through me—low, deep, spreading outward until my knees steadied and the storm outside faded away. I could finally breathe without bracing for the fallout. The future was no longer a blank page I had to apologize for.

Above us, Bright chirped again. Tail swishing off the shelf like he’d been waiting to deliver his line.

Jack’s lips twitched. “And apparently, your cat approves. He’s gotten talkative.”

“Only with people he likes.” The words slipped out, weighted heavier than I meant them to be. “He missed you.”

Something shifted in Jack’s eyes—softer now, darker.

“Nice to be missed by a grumpy cat.”

My throat tightened. Heat bloomed behind my ribs.

“I missed you too.” The words barely made it past the tightness in my throat. “So much.”

“Yeah?” He shuffled us back, crowding me back against the desk. Wood dug into the backs of my thighs, but all I could focus on was him—close, warm, impossible to ignore. “Tell me how much you missed me, Hollywood.”

The old nickname hit like a shot of whiskey—burning sweet and dangerous. “So much.” My breath came shallow, my skin buzzing everywhere he hovered. “I missed your laugh. The way you’d tease me when I murdered grilled cheese at midnight. The way you made me feel like I could breathe when everything else was caving in.”

Thunder cracked overhead but I barely noticed. Not with his scent wrapping around me—rain-soaked cotton, warm skin, Jack. Not with his chest brushing mine every time he exhaled.

“I missed you too.” His voice dropped to a low rumble. “Missed having someone who saw past the C on my jersey. Someone who made me think. Who challenged me to be a better man, be the man she wanted.”

“Jack—”

But his mouth covered mine before I could finish, stealing the rest of the words and whatever breath I had left.

This time, his lips claimed mine. Hungry. Familiar. Certain. Like he already knew how I’d respond. Like he’d waited long enough. His hands tangled in my hair as my fingers fisted in the front of his shirt, dragging him closer. The desk bit into my back. I didn’t care. I would’ve let him tear the whole world down around us if it meant keeping that connection.

He tasted like rain and memory. Like trust rebuilt and second chances earned. His fingers slid into my hair, anchoring me in the moment, tilting my head so he could take more—give more—until I gasped against his mouth.

Then Bright chirped, loud and insistent.

I would’ve locked my pet in a closet if I didn’t love him.

We broke apart just enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together, air shared between us while the storm rattled the windows

“Stay.” The word revealed too much, but I didn’t care anymore. I let every ounce of what I was feeling show on my face. Perhaps because I’d fallen in love with him in the middle of lies, but I couldn’t —wouldn’t—shy away from the truth ever again. Not with this man. “Not just for the night. Not because of the storm. Stay and build a life with me. One we don’t have to justify or filter or shrink down to fit someone else’s script.”

His hands framed my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones. “You sure about that, Hollywood?” His voice dropped low, threaded with challenge and the softest thread of hope. “Small town life doesn’t come with a red carpet.”

“I’ve never been more sure.” My heart kicked hard, but my voice held. “All I need to work is people, and Three Corners is chock full of interesting characters. But beyond that, Adele and I have lots of ideas. She wants to lean into her music connections. We might have to do some traveling, but 3C makes a great home base. Especially if you—” I leaned in, pressed against him, let the warmth of his body filter through me. “You’re here.”

His answering kiss tasted like promise. Like trust earned and forgiveness freely given. Like the kind of love worth choosing, worth fighting for, worth building brick by careful brick.

Outside, the wind eased. The rain lightened.

Inside, wrapped in Jack’s arms with Bright’s rumbly purr overhead, I finally felt steady. Like all my scattered pieces had found their way home.

“I love you.” The words came easy now, as natural as breathing. “The hockey player and the man. Every complicated, beautiful piece of you.”

His smile—the real one, the one that crinkled his eyes and made my heart stutter—lit up his whole face. “Love you too, Hollywood. Grilled cheese disasters and all.”

This time when he kissed me, it felt like beginning. Like the first chapter of a story worth telling. Worth living.

Worth choosing, every single day.