My own laughter fills my silent apartment as I flop back on my bed and hug my phone to my chest.

  My first call to him goes to voicemail. So does my second. My desperation to hear him say those words growing stronger with each second.

  Hunter: We’re reviewing film before we leave. Can’t talk.

  Me: I found your surprise. Tennis balls. Lots and lots of tennis balls.

  Hunter: LOL. I meant what I wrote.

  Me: I know.

  I squeal into my apartment in elation. I probably scare the neighbors, but I don’t care.

  Hunter Maddox loves me.

  HUNTER

  THE CHARTER COACH IS SPACIOUS. The Cyclone’s arena is too close to fly and too far to get there ourselves, so we’re all spread out among the seats of the bus, each of us in our own row as we make our way to what could be the final game of the series if we can pull it off.

  I stare at the manila envelope for a moment, before curiosity gets the better of me and I open it. I spill the contents out onto the tray table in front of me and it takes me a second to realize what I’m seeing.

  And when I do, I’m speechless. One of my dreams is coming to life before my eyes.

  The renditions are in different colors with varying logos, but they’re all the same thing—or rather the same place. Dekker had a graphic designer create mock-ups of looks and logos for the arena I told her I wanted to buy. The Jonah Maddox Hockey Facility.

  I thumb through the fifteen or so versions, over and over, as chills chase over my skin at the sight of them. At the knowledge that she heard my dream and is trying to help me see it brought to life. Seeing the logos makes my idea seem that much more real, and I know come hell or high water, I will make this happen.

  I grab my phone to text her, glad she understands that Coach has a no talking on cell phones rule on the bus.

  Me: I’m speechless. They’re incredible. I can’t wait for you to help me pick one.

  Dekker: See? Dreams do come true. Now, go out and achieve your other dream tomorrow.

  Me: I love you.

  Dekker: I love you too.

  I stare at the text. At the three words and the weight they hold when I never thought I deserved them, and know I truly do mean them. Fuck, how can I not when it comes to a woman like Dekker?

  She’s everything I need and nothing I deserve.

  She’s strong, passionate, driven . . . and I love that she doesn’t take shit from anybody, least of all me.

  She’s seen me at my worst and still loves me.

  She champions my dreams when I doubt them, and she fights for me when I’ve stopped wanting to fight for myself.

  How did I get to be such a lucky bastard?

  HUNTER

  “GOOD MEETING YOU, MAN,” KATZ says to Jonah before heading out of the meet and greet room where we’ve been hanging out in the underbelly of the arena.

  “See you in a few,” I say.

  “My, he’s handsome,” my mother says with a smile and a fluff of her hair.

  “I like to think more of his hockey skills than his looks, but that’s just me,” I tease, the strain a little less with each minute we visit. “You too, right, J?”

  My brother looks so very weak—the pallor of his skin, the hollow lines of his face, his size—but it’s his eyes when he looks at me that get me. He’s proud. So very proud of me, and I refuse to let him down tonight.

  I lean over to his ear and whisper what feels like I’ve waited a lifetime to say to him. “Tonight’s the night, Jonah. We’re going to win that Cup we promised each other when we were kids. You pushed me to be better and fuck . . . I’d give anything for it to be you out there, for me to be rooting for you. I would.” I close my eyes to fight the tears so I can finish what I need to say. “I promised you I’d get here someday and that when I did, we’d do this together . . . so this game is for you, brother. Every shot, every juke, every block. I needed you here to win, because I couldn’t do this without you.”

  I rest my forehead against his as my shoulders shudder with the weight of my words and the chance at my fingertips. When I lean back to meet his eyes, there are tears on his cheeks. He understands. He hears me. He forgives me.

  He’s with me.

  “I’ve gotta get to the locker room.” I turn to my mom and freeze when I see my dad standing in the doorway. “Dad.” I sound like a child when I say his name.

  You came to a game. To my game.

  You’re here.

  “Son.” He nods and takes a step forward. He extends a hand to me to shake and I do so, feeling detached and uncertain.

  “Sir.” I stumble over words. “Thank you for coming.”

  Another somber nod. “Good luck tonight.”

  Our eyes hold, and fuck if my chest doesn’t tighten. “I’ve got to go.”

  And when I walk out of the room, I stop and brace my hands on my knees for a few moments to catch my breath.

  The man I’ve called Dad for thirty-two years used to tower over me. Add in his anger, his shame, his . . . loathing, I’ve always felt so small.

  But not now.

  Now, I feel tall, like I tower over him.

  Now, I feel proud, because I earned everything about this fucking moment. I’m the one who put the blood, the sweat, and the tears in. I’m the one who has sacrificed parts of my life for this chance.

  Yeah, him showing up means something to me, but tonight I’m playing for something bigger than him and his relentless criticism. His presence doesn’t erase anything . . .

  I have a job to do. A win for my team to produce. A place in history to make. So, I straighten and turn toward the training room, ready to lead my team to victory.

  Ready to achieve my dream.

  DEKKER

  THE PRESS BOX IS NOT where I want to be to watch this game. I want to be with the fans. I want to be high-fiving when goals are made and booing on bad calls by the ref.

  Tonight’s game is definitely not one I want to watch from the expensive seats.

  But I’ve spent the better part of the last hour up here as the countdown to the face off draws near. I’ve visited with Carla, since apparently Hunter has told her we’re dating, I’ve talked at length to Jonah about how Hunter’s conversations on the phone with him give him more clarity than I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been introduced to Gary, their father.

  He’s a hard one to read, but I’m sure my anger and resentment doesn’t help much.

  Uncertain what I’m going to say, but more than sure of my intentions, I step up beside where he’s stood the whole time, arms crossed over his chest, as he watches the teams warm-up.

  He doesn’t acknowledge I’m standing there and for some reason, I don’t expect him to.

  “Your son is a good man, you know. Incredible, actually.”

  He nods, but doesn’t say a word or look my way.

  “He’s lived a life trying to make you proud, trying to make amends for fate’s cruel hand in the accident that injured Jonah that wasn’t Hunter’s fault to begin with. I understand your lives changed forever that day. I can’t imagine how angry you are over it, and I can’t imagine the pain and suffering you’ve all been through because of it . . . but while you lost the Jonah you knew that day, Hunter lost the parents he knew that day too.”

  When I look his way, there are tears welling in his eyes and his chin trembles, but he gives no other acknowledgment that he’s heard what I’ve said.

  “I’m in love with your son, and I will not stand by and let him be hurt by you any further. I won’t let it happen. Are you prepared to risk losing your other son too or are you going to try and find a way through your anger to treat him how he deserves to be treated?” I take a step back. “Your call.”

  And without another word to Gary Maddox, I turn on my heel with so much more I want to say but restraint locked in place, and head toward my cheap seats.

  HUNTER

  A GLANCE AT THE CLOCK.

  Ten minutes left in the third period.

  It’s a tied game.

  Ten minutes left to either be a hero or forgotten.

  Two to two.

  Ten minutes left to make something happen.

  Katzen collects the puck and slings it out to me.

  I pass it over to Finch then dodge around a defender. My grunt as his shoulder checks me is loud in my head.

  C’mon, Hunter. Twenty bucks and me taking over all your chores if you can make this goal. Show Dad that you can.

  The puck is stripped from Finch and we race back to help Katzen.

  Withers cuts across the ice and intercepts the pass. We all switch gears and go back the other way.

  We’ve been at this for fifty fucking minutes.

  Our legs are tired. Our chests burn from breathing so hard.

  We need to stay focused.

  No more missed passes. No more checks turning into fights.

  We need to focus.

  We have to win.

  I have to win.

  Pass after pass we move down the ice. Withers to me. Me to Heffner. Heffner back to me.

  A glance at the clock.

  Time’s wasting.

  We need to score.

  There is no sound.

  There is no crowd.

  There is no pressure.

  It’s me and the goalie.

  It’s the puck and the net.

  It’s Jonah beside me, pushing me to make this shot.

  Daring me to prove that I can.

  DEKKER

  “TEN. NINE. EIGHT.”

  The Jacks fans in the crowd begin the countdown to the buzzer.

  “Seven. Six. Five.”

  To them winning their first Stanley Cup.

  “Four. Three. Two.”

  To twenty men a childhood dream is about to come true.

  “One.”

  The arena erupts into chaos.

  The men on the ice even more so as they pile on top of each other in an ecstatic frenzy.

  Frozen in excitement, I stand in the midlevel seats in the arena with both hands covering my mouth in a state of shock myself.

  They did it.

  They really did it.

  I can’t take my eyes off Hunter as he breaks free from the pack and skates over to the edge of the rink that’s closest to the box seats where his parents are seated. He stands there and points to the booth where Jonah sits in his chair, and I don’t have to see Hunter’s face to know that tears are streaking down his cheeks are elation, relief, and everything mixed in between.

  He won Jonah his Stanley Cup. The one promise he could fulfill . . . he did.

  I don’t even realize tears are sliding down my own cheeks as I watch Hunter begin to search the arena, his lips moving as he reads the huge section numbers painted on the walls until he finds mine. It takes him a second but when he finds me, the look he gives me is one I’ll never forget.

  “We did it,” he mouths, and all I can do is nod and watch him shine in the moment of his life.

  He’s quickly engulfed by reporters and teammates and his attention is diverted, but my heart is full beyond measure.

  My attention shifts to the box seats where Hunter’s family is seated. To where it’s ventured numerous times tonight. To the man standing at its edge with his arms crossed over his chest in a formidable stance, but with a hand that’s lifted a white tissue to dab beneath his eyes.

  My anger is still there at Hunter’s dad, it still burns bright. I don’t think I will ever find it in me to forgive him for the years of agony Hunter experienced at the hand of his father. Perhaps a better woman would forget and forgive.

  I’m not her.

  But where does that leave us? By protecting the man I love and this man—his father—taking a step forward, when for so long he’s refused to budge?

  I’m not sure how to process his presence tonight as I make my way down the edge of the rink, but one thing keeps repeating in my mind. He showed up. He took a first step. He’s the one crying, watching one son reach the pinnacle of his sport and fulfill a promise he made to his twin.

  Maybe my words hit home.

  Maybe this might change things.

  Only time will tell.

  I make my way to edge of the rink, wanting, needing to be closer to Hunter. Closer to the man I love.

  Just as I get there, when I’m as close as I can possibly be while the TV networks are getting everything set up for the presentation of the Cup, Hunter skates over to where I am.

  “You,” he shouts and points to me as he climbs on the team bench so he can reach over the plexiglass partition. “Let her down here,” he says to all the fans screaming for his attention.

  It takes a few moments before fans realize what he’s asking, so I can make my way to the seats right by the team bench. I climb up on the seat of the stands so I’m tall enough to be pulled into the arms that Hunter engulfs me in. His lips are on mine in a kiss that is one of pure jubilation.

  “We did it, Dekk! We fucking did it!”

  He reaches down to the back of his pants where he’s obviously tucked something and produces a LumberJacks hat and places it squarely on my head.

  I throw my head back and laugh, and then have to hold it to my head when I almost lose it.

  “It’s a good look on you,” he shouts above the fray.

  “I’m so proud of you,” I tell him and kiss him one more time. “Now go celebrate with your team.”

  He steps down off the bench but his eyes still hold mine, and the goofy grin on his face tells me he’s struggling to take this all in.

  “I love you,” he mouths.

  “I love you more,” I say, my words drowned out by the roar of the crowd as the Stanley Cup is carried out onto the ice.

  HUNTER

  Dad: Congratulations.

  I STARE AT THE TEXT just delivered to my phone and then back across the room where my dad is standing against the wall with his cell in his hand but his eyes locked on mine.

  I wait for the criticism to come. For my phone to alert another text where he tells me what I did wrong or what I could have done better. I expect the negativity that I’ve lived with all my life to come roaring in.

  But he doesn’t send another text, he doesn’t say a word. He only gives a nod, but it’s a nod that says more than I could ever ask for. It says things I’ve longed to hear for far too long and now that I don’t need to hear them, I can probably appreciate them more.

  But it takes me back. It challenges me to remember a time when there wasn’t something negative to weigh down anything positive that has happened.

  And still, the text doesn’t come.

  I struggle with how to feel. Relieved. Confused. Uncertain. At a loss. I’d think one of them would stand out, but it’s been so long since I’ve been given a chance to have an emotion other than shame and anger when it comes to my dad, that I don’t know how to feel.

  And then there’s the fact that he’s over there staring at me but can’t voice the word.

  I should be angry at that. I should expect more . . . but I lost hope over that so very long ago.

  So what now? How do I proceed?

  While Jonah’s body bears physical scars, mine are within, unseen, and just as devastating.

  Some scars may never heal, but for the first time, it seems I’ve accomplished what he never thought I could. I won the Cup. I lived up to his ridiculous standards.

  And a part of me suddenly feels free.

  While I shouldn’t give a fuck that I made my dad proud or happy because he stole or dominated so many years of my life, I have more to be thankful for than angry about right now.

  I did this for Jonah.

  I did this for me.

  I did this for my team.

  I’ve found Dekker.

  Now I can really live.

  A dream has been won. My heart is full because of the love of a woman I never thought I’d deserve.

  I’m a winner in more ways than one.

  And fuck . . . I’m thankful.

  DEKKER

  1 week later

  HE’S IGNORING ME.

  Plain ignoring me.

  Chase, Lennox, and Brexton are all out pursuing new clients, and I’m sitting here trying to figure out why he keeps getting up and shutting his door every time a phone call comes in.

  Is it the doctor? Isn’t that how this all started to begin with? My dad asking me to accomplish something and all of us in a panic that something was wrong with him?

  I glance at my dad through the glass window of the conference room, but his back is to me as he talks to whoever has called him this time.

  And it’s not like phone calls are uncommon. That’s all we do in here—talk and talk and talk some more.

  So why am I on the defensive without him saying a word? Why am I panicked to talk to him and desperate to as well?

  It’s because he knows. It’s because I failed him and his request. Sure, the status reports were cute and my sisters and I went back and forth with our facetious comments, but I failed to bring Hunter to the firm and now he’s trying to figure out something else to keep this place afloat.

  Overthink much, Dekk?

  Jesus.

  I blow out a breath and walk to the door, my hand ready to knock when he opens it.

  “You got a sec?” I ask when he just stares at me. He looks frazzled. Hair mussed from his hands running through it, and cheeks flushed.

  “What do you need? I’m kind of in the middle of something,” he says, striding back to his desk and shuffling through his papers.

  “Dad?”

  “Hmm?” he says, completely preoccupied. “I have an appointment. They should be here any moment.”

  “Dad,” I say more firmly.

  His head comes up and sees me for what I think is the first time. “Sorry. Yes.” He stops shuffling. “What is it?”

  I shift my feet and stress over asking the question, a grown woman reduced to feeling like a little girl who’s about to disappoint her father. “It’s been a week since they won the Cup. Why haven’t you asked me about Hunter’s status on switching agents?”