That big-ass grin is still plastered to my face when I walk out, and a disgusting spring to my step carries me down the corridor, as if I’m a character in a Disney movie. Oh no. I’m in trouble. Badass Brenna Jensen isn’t allowed to fall this hard for a guy.

It happened. Deal with it.

Yeah.

I guess this is my life now.

At the end of the hall, I turn the corner and my happy gait takes a bit of a stumble when I bump directly into Daryl Pedersen’s bulky chest.

“Whoa there, Nelly,” he says with a chuckle—which dies the second he recognizes me. “Brenna.” His tone is careful now. “Here to cheer Connelly on, I suppose?”

“Yup. I came with my dad, actually.” When his expression darkens, I try not to laugh. “We’re both rooting for you today, Coach.”

Although he’s momentarily startled, he recovers quickly and gives me a smirk. “You can tell Chad I have no need for his support. Never have, never will.”

“Still a sore loser after all these years, eh, Coach?”

His response is terse. “I’m not sure what you’re insinuating, but—”

“I heard you tried to bang my mother and she shot you down,” I cut in cheerfully. “And I’m not insinuating anything—I’m explicitly suggesting you were a sore loser back then, and you’re a sore loser now.” I shrug. “With that said, I’m still rooting for Harvard tonight. But that’s because of Jake, of course. Not you.”

Pedersen’s eyes narrow so much they resemble two dark slits. “You’re not like your mother,” he says slowly. I can’t tell if he’s pleased or disheartened by that. “Marie was a sweet southern belle. You’re…you’re not like her at all.”

I meet his disturbed gaze and offer a faint smile. “I guess I take after my father.”

Then I continue down the hall, my legs moving in that obnoxiously bouncy gait I can’t control, because my happy heart is calling all the shots, and all I want to do is get back to the ice and scream myself hoarse as I watch the man I love win his game.

Epilogue

Brenna

St. Paul, Minnesota

The last time I went to the Frozen Four, it was to cheer for my dad’s all-star crew: Garrett Graham, Summer’s brother Dean, and the two Johns—Logan and Tucker. And they won the whole damn thing. I was happy, of course, but nowhere near as ecstatic as I am during this Harvard versus Ohio State game.

The score is 3–1, Harvard. There are five minutes left. It only takes a second to score a goal, so yes, we don’t have it in the bag. It’s not a guaranteed win, and I’m not sitting here counting my chickens before they hatch. But I have a good feeling about it.

Beside me, Jake’s parents, Lily and Rory Connelly, are cheering themselves hoarse. They’re actually pretty fun to watch a hockey game with—Lily gasps any time anything happens, literally anything; Rory, after every hit, winces and proclaims, “Well, that’s gonna hurt tomorrow.” You can tell they’re not huge hockey fans. They don’t know much about the rules and they don’t seem to care. But any time Jake has the puck, they’re on their feet screaming their lungs out.

I wish Dad were here, but he’s watching the game at home in Hastings. However, he did call in a favor and arrange for this private box for us, which means we have the best seats in the house…and lots of privacy for Jake’s folks to cross-examine me.

During both intermissions, the questions came hard and fast.

Where did you meet Jake?

How long have you been together?

You know he’s moving to Edmonton, right?

Do you think maybe you’ll move there, too?

You could transfer schools, his mother had said, her expression so hopeful that I almost laughed.

When they turned their attention to the ice, I glanced at Jake’s friend Hazel and asked, “Are they always like this?”

She smiled wryly, answering, “This is kind of a big deal for them. Jake’s never had a real girlfriend.”

Okay, fine, I’m not going to lie—it warms my heart that I’m the first girl to meet Jake’s parents. Hazel doesn’t count; they treat her like a daughter. And, I’ll be honest, the girl’s been making an effort. She’s asked me about my classes, my interests, as if she genuinely wants to get to know me.

She doesn’t like hockey, though, and that’s always a strike. I still can’t believe I’m watching the most important game in men’s college hockey with three people who don’t like hockey. Figure that one out. On the bright side, my dad has been texting all evening with his thoughts on the game, which is nice.

I like our relationship now. It’s easy. And I haven’t heard from Eric since the night we went to rescue him. He’s barely even crossed my mind, in fact. I’m finally putting that part of my life behind me and focusing on what’s in front of me.

And what’s in front of me is incredible. It’s Jake, traveling like lightning across the glossy surface of the ice. One minute he’s at the center line with the puck, the next he’s in front of the crease taking a shot.

“GOALLLLLLL!” yells the announcer.

The entire arena goes absolutely bananas. It’s 4–1 now. Maybe I’m starting to count those chickens, after all. At least a couple of them. The eggs are cracking, anyway, and I can see a beak. Those chicks are coming, because it’s 4–1 and Harvard’s got this. My man’s got this.

Jake’s family is on their feet again, screaming. So am I. My phone buzzes about ten times in my pocket. It’s probably my father. Or maybe Summer, who’s also at home, watching the game with Fitz and the others, including Nate, who’s my friend again. Hell, the texts could even be from Hollis. He’s been very chatty with me since I saved his relationship with Rupi. They’re officially together now, and he really seems to enjoy telling people he has a girlfriend.

Which makes me wonder if, like Jake, Hollis never had one before. Either way, I’m happy for him. Rupi is nuts, but in a good way.

The clock winds down. I watch it with pure joy stuck in my throat, in my chest, in my heart. Jake deserves this. He deserves to end his college career with such a major win. He played brilliantly tonight, and I know he’s going to be equally brilliant in Edmonton.

As the buzzer goes off, the rest of Jake’s teammates fly off the bench and swarm the ice, and it’s pandemonium. The boys are overjoyed. Even Pedersen looks genuinely happy. Not in a smug ‘we won na-na-na-na-na-na’ way. In this moment, I can tell Daryl Pedersen actually loves his players and this game. He might play it dirtier than most, but he loves it just like the rest of us.

My phone buzzes again. I finish hugging Jake’s parents and then reach to check it. I assume it’s from my dad, but it’s a voice-mail alert. Which tells me the previous buzzing was a phone call. And either I’m hallucinating or that actually says ESPN on the caller display. Probably a telemarketer with one of those speeches—“Is your cable provider giving you all that ESPN has to offer?”

But a telemarketer wouldn’t leave a message. Would they?