Number 29 passes, and Number 17 winds up taking a hard, fast shot.
Not fast enough though. Jasper’s gloved hand moves out in a blur and pockets the puck, making it look easy. I’m panting when he hands it back to the referee.
One hand on my chest, I take another sip of my beer and realize that I’ve nervously drained the entire thing.
The puck drops and the clock keeps winding down. They’re tied at one a piece. Jasper has played his heart out tonight.
I want this so badly for him. The big win. The crowning achievement. God, my body aches with how badly I want this for him.
Thirty seconds remain and the crowd grows quiet. Overtime isn’t a loss but isn’t a win either. It means more time. More chances. More room for tired mistakes.
I can feel the anticipation. The entire arena is thick with it. You could cut it with a knife. Each second is like a drumbeat that reverberates through the stands.
The Gators take a shot and Jasper covers, but not long enough for them to blow the whistle.
And then . . . it happens.
Damon Hart flies down the ice, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk and a little wave at his goalie.
And there’s the perfect gap.
Jasper drops the puck on the ice and sends it sailing straight through that gap. Right onto the tape of his teammate’s stick.
I swear every single person collectively sucks in a deep breath of cold air.
The seconds wind down.
But there are no defenders. They let Damon skate right past them.
He taps the puck back and forth, dekeing left and right.
He fakes a shot.
Their goaltender falls for it and drops to make the save.
Damon takes the top corner, the hard rubber hitting the back of the netting with a whoosh that’s heard through the entire building.
The buzzer sounds and the arena explodes.
Music. Lights. Screaming. Confetti. Every single person erupts.
But I sit still, watching Jasper jump for joy, stick and gloves flying, helmet tossed, he skates toward his teammates with the biggest, most heartrending grin on his face as they pile onto him for the assist and Damon for the winning goal.
I want to remember this moment, this feeling, as clearly as I remember the first day I saw him. Painfully handsome with sad eyes.
Today, when he turns and searches for me in the stands, he’s different.
He’s painfully handsome with happy eyes.
So happy that I want to see them up close. The colors. The way they swirl together. The fine lines beside them. I want to feel his stubble on my cheeks and his heartbeat against my forehead when I drop my face against his chest.
I jog through the crowd, down those stairs to the gate at the end of the rink, and he’s there.
Waiting for me.
Like he always has been.
I let him let pull me onto the ice, straight up into his arms.
“You fucking did it, baby!” I yell at him with absolutely no chill. My hands are in his sweaty hair, my legs around his waist, my eyes on his.
Right where they always have been.
“We fucking did it.” His hands squeeze my ass, and he whispers all gravelly against my ear, “My years of training and your Stanley Cup Maker. The Perfect combo.”
I laugh like a crazy person and kiss his neck. There are cameras and media everywhere. Teammates and family. It’s mayhem. But all I see is him. This moment. A good man who life dealt such an unfair hand, finally getting a win. The win.
“I love you, Jasper Gervais.” I shake my head, tears leaking down my face as I marvel at the man before me. “I love you so damn much.”
“I love you too, Sloane Winthrop,” he says as he glances over my shoulder, back toward the entrance. “But do you know what I don’t like?”
My heart races and confusion blooms behind my brows. How could anyone not like something about this moment? This moment is . . . everything.
I barely notice when he reaches behind me.
I barely notice Beau’s presence, or the big shit-eating grin on his face.
I barely notice because in all his goaltending gear, in the middle of his Stanley Cup winning celebration, my childhood crush is dropping to one knee right in front of me.
With a little velvet box in his hand.
“Do you know what I don’t like?”
His eyes staring up at mine are so clear, so bright, so unapologetically joyful. I’m still confused, still having a hard time catching up with what’s happening right now, even though it’s so damn obvious.
“What?” I whisper, and I wouldn’t think he could hear me, but he must.
Because he responds with, “Your last name, Sunny. I really don’t like your last name.”
And with that, he flips the little box open to show me a ring. A ring I like. A ring I told him about while chugging trashy beer in the passenger seat of his SUV while wearing a wedding ring from another man.
It’s a purple, oval cut sapphire, set horizontally into yellow gold. Surrounded on all edges. It’s quirky. It’s unique. It’s one of a kind.
It’s exact the ring I described to him all those months ago.
“Sloane Gervais sounds right, don’t you think?” His head quirks, damp hair brushing over his forehead. He looks so boyish, all bashful and nervous.
I glance around now, realizing this moment is so much more than just us. It’s the culmination of his life’s work. “Jasper! You should be celebrating right now!” I blurt.
“Sunny, I will.” He laughs, shaking his head at me like I’m amusing to him. “But I want to celebrate with my fiancée. Please, Sloane, let me marry you. Let me make you happy. I don’t wanna be late with this too.”
“Jas.” I laugh, reaching forward and sliding my finger into the ring, hearing a roar of cheers behind us. “You are not late! I didn’t see this coming at all.”
The stone glitters under the bright lights as I flex and wiggle my finger.
“Yeah?” he asks, voice all warm and deep.
I peek back at him, kind of sad to look away from the ring now, and nod.
He laughs and scoops me up into his arms as he reaches full height again, making me squeal. “’Bout fuckin’ time though, eh? You deserved me being early for something after all these years.”
My fingers trail down over his rosy cheeks. “I love you, Jas.”
“Sunny, tell me that’s a yes.”
“It’s always been a yes, Jasper.”
He whoops and twirls me before he kisses me stupid.
And just like that, the boy with the lanky limbs, the caramel hair, and the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen is mine.
Forever.
Epilogue
Jasper
Jasper: Meet me on the driveway.
Sloane: Yes, sir.
Jasper: Pocket that sentence for later when I strip you down and make you crawl.
Sloane: YES, SIR.
“Are you nervous?” Harvey eyes me speculatively as I wait for Sloane to come out of the house.
The sun is shining and the snow is melting. It’s one of those perfect Chinook days in Chestnut Springs, warm enough to make you want to wear a T-shirt because the heat feels so damn good after a long winter.
It’s our wedding day but we aren’t going traditional. We spent last night together on the roof talking. The ceremony is in the field, and the reception is in the house.
Before we get married, there’s something I want to show her. So I guess I’m going to see her in her wedding dress too.