“Oh my gosh!” I cry, rushing to Jada to hug her. “You guys are here? I had no idea!”
“A little surprise for you, babe,” Olivier says.
I hug each of Jada’s kids and talk to them about how school is going. Olivier and Jada catch up, too, and we all pose for photos.
The suite starts to fill up with other invited guests, and when the lights go down, Olivier and I go back to his box.
“That was such a nice surprise,” I say in his ear. “Thank you.”
He squeezes my hand and we take our seats.
“Oh, he’s a hottie!” Grandma Jo cries when Jonah West’s photo is displayed on the Jumbotron.
Everyone laughs—even my mom. Then we all take in the pregame sound and light show, the roar of the crowd like nothing I’ve experienced.
When the puck drops, the real excitement begins. Olivier clutches my hand during exciting moments and swears when things don’t go his team’s way. He’s completely engaged in the game, and even though I don’t fully understand what’s going on, I like seeing how much he loves it.
“Block it!” Giselle yells, jumping out of her seat. “Come on!”
She’s just like her father, on the edge of her seat throughout the game. They’re both bummed when the Blaze lose 3–1, but my parents have the same expressions they have after watching an opera.
“That was really exciting,” my father says. “And I’m sure we’ll get them next time.”
“Is Jonah high or something?” Giselle grumbles. “He looked like a statue someone set in front of the goal.”
“Goaltending isn’t as easy as it looks,” Olivier says. He puts his arm around me as we walk out of the box and asks, “Did you like it?”
“I did. I want to learn more about hockey, though, so I actually know what I’m watching next time.”
“I might know a guy who can help with that,” he says, kissing my forehead.
Grandma Jo approaches us and says, “Thanks for everything, Frenchman. I think I’ll need to take you up on that locker room visit some other time because it’s way past this old lady’s bedtime.”
“Anytime, Grandma Jo.”
We hug her and my parents, and then walk Giselle down to the car, where Ben is waiting to drive her home, and we say goodnight to her.
Then we take an Uber to Lucky’s, the bar we’re meeting a bunch of Blaze players at. It’s just the two of us for the first half hour, and then players start filtering into the sports bar.
“You’re back,” Victor Lane says, grinning and giving Olivier a backslapping bro hug.
“Boss man!” Anton says, also embracing him. He stands back and looks at him seriously, saying, “No more running towards burning cars or having buildings fall down on you for a while, yeah?”
“That’s the plan,” Olivier says.
We have to push several tables together to seat our whole group. Olivier and I are sitting with Anton and Mia Petrov, Luca and Abby Campbell, Victor and Lindy Lane, Knox and Reese Deveraux, Erik and Allie Zimmerman, Jonah and Rey West, and Kit Carter and his girlfriend, Molly Lynch. Olivier orders shots for the group, and when they come, Anton stands to deliver a toast.
“Welcome back, Olivier,” he says. “We couldn’t ask for a better owner and we’re happy you found your person in Daphne, however dramatic the first meeting was.”
Everyone laughs and I look around at all the faces, each one warm and smiling. The Chicago Blaze organization is very much like a family, one it feels good to be a part of.
“Cheers,” Anton says, and everyone taps their glasses and throws back their shots.
The alcohol burns going down, and I close my eyes and shake my head to clear away the sensation. When I open my eyes again, Olivier is looking at me.
He leans in and says, “I love you, Daph.”
“I love you, too,” I say, kissing him.
“Will you still love me when I’m old and gray?”
I arch my brows. “You mean next year?”
“You’re quite funny, Miss Barrington.”
“I’ll still love you then,” I promise. “Maybe even more, because you’ll make quite the silver fox.”
Groans sound around the table and I look up to see the waitress delivering not just one more round of shots, but two.
“We lost tonight,” Anton reminds the group. “We’re celebrating and drowning our sorrows.”
Shots are passed out again, and this time it’s Olivier who raises his glass first.
“To a team I couldn’t be prouder of,” he says, looking around at his players. “Win or lose.”
We all drink to that.
Epilogue
Olivier
8 months later
Daphne’s freshly showered when she walks into the living room dressed in shorts and a well-worn T-shirt that says “Fuck Gender Roles.” She sits down beside me on the couch and grabs a slice of pepperoni pizza from the box on the coffee table.
“Did I miss the puck drop?” she asks, taking a bite.