Page 53 of You’re The One (Saints Hockey #2)

FORTY-EIGHT

“Are you ready to make your TV debut?”

I’ve missed Summer’s voice and her face.

Though I’d rather see it in person. The tiny phone screen doesn’t do her justice.

She’s half-lit by a buzzing neon sign in the corner of what looks like the backroom of a bar.

Her curls are damp with sweat from her set, but her makeup is still perfectly intact.

Thank God for social media and the ability to find just about anyone with one Google search. We exchanged numbers, and it took all of twenty minutes for her to call me. Since then we’ve been checking in weekly with FaceTime.

“The real question is, are you?” I tease. “There’s no way your theatrics didn’t steal the show.” I silence the timer on my phone and bend over the counter to peek at the rise on my dough.

“They better have included them. I take my performances very seriously.” Summer flips her hair and winks.

“And it shows.” I laugh, propping the phone against a jar of flour.

“But way to outperform me on your exit.” She smirks.

I roll my eyes, but my stomach gives a nervous twist. “How do you even know about that?”

“Oh, you mean Bodhi hasn’t been breathing down your neck?” She huffs, shifting the phone as she pushes through a back door. The noise of Nashville spills in. Even on a Thursday afternoon, the street hums with music and laughter, loud enough to push through the tiny speaker on my phone.

“It took me weeks to get it out of him,” she continues.

“You’d think being on the show would give me some kind of inside pass, but nope.

He takes his job way too seriously. He only caved yesterday, then bitched for thirty minutes about how he couldn’t get either of you guys to call him back.

” She angles the phone at herself again.

“I told him you were probably in your love nest and, look, I was right. Why’re you dodging him? ”

“I’m not. I just don’t pick up unknown numbers.”

“Or check your voicemails?” She weaves past a group of tourists.

“Or that.” I pull the bowl of dough from the oven and set it on the counter.

“You know why he’s trying to track you down, right? You have to come to the reunion. If only so I can hug you and see your face. We never even got a proper goodbye.”

She’s right. If there’s any reason to film the reunion special, it’s to see her, and the rest of the women who somehow became friends.

“Okay, fine. We’re in. I’m sure I can convince Dom,” I say.

“Oh, I’m certain you can.”

I roll my eyes but laugh. “How was your show?”

“Not as crowded as a weekend night, but not bad. There’s always someone in the audience.” Her smile falters as she sidesteps a guy in a cowboy hat. “I just wish it was more.”

“You’re going to be selling out stadiums one day, I know it. You’ll be beating offers off with a stick by the time the show finishes airing.”

“God, I hope so. Two months without work has already put a dent in my savings. My agent’s going to get an earful if she dragged me on this show for nothing. At least you got a husband out of it.” The width of her smile rivals Dom’s.

“We’re not married yet?—”

“Mia Matthews, did you just say yet in relation to marriage?!” She stops dead on the sidewalk, eyes wide. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

Heat creeps up my neck, but before I can fire back, the back door clicks open.

“Honey, I’m home,” Dom singsongs. His heavy steps cross the kitchen before he wraps me in a hug from behind.

How pathetic is it that a few hours was enough to miss him?

“Hi.” He presses the word into the sensitive skin of my neck. “What’re you making?”

“Sourdough.”

“Hi, Dominic!” Summer calls through the phone.

“Oh, didn’t see you there.” He leans over my shoulder to see the screen. “How’re you doing?”

“Living the dream.” She lifts her chin toward the camera, still smiling. “All right, I’ll let you lovebirds go. Mia, call me.”

I wave goodbye before the screen goes dark and refocus on the dough, stretching and folding it over itself. It sticks to my fingers as I tuck it back into the bowl to proof.

“Summer hasn’t changed a bit.” Dom’s grin presses into my cheek as he rests his chin on my shoulder. “You’re spoiling me with the baked goods. My trainers won’t be happy.”

“They’ll forgive you for having a six-pack instead of an eight,” I deadpan.

“Brat.” He chuckles, tipping his head toward the dough. “Maybe this is your thing?”

“Yeah, maybe.” I’ve always loved baking, but I’m not in a rush to have it all figured out. For now, I’m embracing the journey. Or, as my boyfriend— yep, still getting used to that —once put it, it’s not about finding the perfect couch, but the memories on it.

Unlike before, I know it’s all in my control. I don’t have the answers yet, but with every choice I make, I’m creating the life I want.

One thing I do know? Who I want in it. Dom sits at the top of that list.

Old me would be horrified.

“I’m not sure what it is yet, but I do want to have my own thing. Like you have hockey,” I add.

“And you will. With less travel, you’ll have time to figure it out. Unless you’re still planning to—” He cuts himself off, his grip flexing on my waist. “I don’t ever want to hold you back. If you still feel pulled to travel, we’ll figure it out.”

“I don’t think I do.” And it’s the truth. I might still get the urge to run when things get hard, but the desire to build something new is stronger.

His breath escapes, tickling the side of my face.

“Plus, I think I’d miss you too much.” I turn and press a kiss to his jaw, a smile tugging at my lips when they meet his warm, stubbled skin.

“I like seeing you like this,” he murmurs.

“Baking?”

“No.” He turns me so I’m facing him, my back against the counter. “Happy.”

“You know, that’s why I hated you at first. You reminded me of everything I thought I could never be.”

“And now?”

“I mean, I still don’t think I’ll get to your level… but your level brings up mine. So, I can’t complain.”

His fingers skim my sides. “I think we can do better than not complaining.”

“Okay, content,” I tease.

He kisses my forehead. “Better?”

“Fine. I guess I’m pretty happy.”

A sharp pang cuts through the warmth, a reminder I won’t always feel this good. Dom must see it, because he lifts me onto the counter, away from the flour, and kisses me. It’s a promise without words. That he’ll be here even then. And I believe him.

When he breaks away, it’s only far enough for his breath to fan my lips. “Fuck. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

His hands slip behind my knees, tugging me closer. “That’s good, because I’ve got some not-so-great news.”

I arch a brow. “Uh-oh.”

“My teammates, and probably a couple of Hannah’s friends, are coming over for a watch party.” He glances at his watch, wincing. “Soon.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Of course they are.”

“I tried to talk them out of it.” His grin is sheepish. “Didn’t work.”