Page 79 of The Man in the Cottage

"I'm happy." The words come out easily, naturally. "I didn't know it could feel like this."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be." I gesture at the arena, at the ice, at everything. "Six months ago, I was miserable. Working a job I hated, living a life that didn't fit. And now I'm here, watching my boyfriend play hockey in front of twenty thousand people, and I've never felt more like myself."

"That's the book writing. And the therapy. And, yes, the extremely hot hockey player." Nicole grins. "But mostly the hockey player."

"Mostly the hockey player," I agree.

The second period starts, and the players pour back onto the ice. I spot Travis immediately—number seventeen, skating to his position, tapping his stick against the ice. He looks up at the crowd, and I swear he's looking right at me. I wave, feeling ridiculous, but he nods slightly before turning his attention back to the game.

"He totally saw you," Nicole says.

"He probably didn't."

"He definitely did. That was a very specific nod."

The game picks up speed. Team USA scores twice, and the arena explodes. I'm on my feet with everyone else, screaming, my voice lost in the wall of sound. Nicole is laughing at how into it I am, but I don't care. This is the most fun I've had in months.

Midway through the third period, it happens.

Travis gets the puck near center ice. He's surrounded by Canadian players, but he weaves through them like they're standing still, his stick a blur, his skates carving impossible angles. The crowd rises, sensing something building. He crosses the blue line, dekes around the last defender, and fires a shot at the goal.

The puck hits the back of the net.

The arena erupts.

I'm screaming, jumping up and down, grabbing Nicole's arm so hard she yelps. On the ice, Travis is being mobbed by his teammates, a pile of bodies and raised sticks and pure, unfiltered joy. The jumbotron replays the goal in slow motion—the shot, the save attempt, the puck sliding past the goalie's glove—and the crowd roars all over again.

"Oh my god," Nicole is saying. "Oh my god, Kelly, your boyfriend just scored."

"I know." I'm laughing and crying at the same time. "I know."

Travis skates out of the pile and does a lap around the ice, his stick raised, drinking in the cheers. As he passes our section, he looks up again—and this time I know he sees me. He points his stick in my direction, a small gesture that probably no one else notices, but I feel it in my chest like a fist.

That's for you.

The game ends with Team USA winning 4-2. Travis gets third star of the game for his goal and two assists. The announcers are talking about his comeback, his redemption arc, how he's proven all the doubters wrong. I barely hear any of it. I'm too busy watching him celebrate with his teammates, this man who six months ago was hiding in a cottage, convinced his life was over.

After the game, I wait for him in the tunnel area where Dave arranged for me to be. It takes forever—interviews, locker room stuff, all the post-game rituals I'm still learning about—but finally he appears, hair still wet from the shower, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

His face lights up when he sees me.

"Hey," he says, dropping the bag and pulling me into his arms. He smells like soap and sweat and something uniquely him, and I bury my face in his chest.

"You scored," I say.

"I did."

"It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And I don't even like hockey."

He laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest. "You liked it tonight."

"I liked watching you." I pull back to look at him. "You were incredible out there. Like a completely different person."

"Not different. Just... the other part of me. The part that's been sleeping for six months." He touches my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. "I forgot how much I missed it. The ice, the crowd, the feeling of everything clicking. But I wouldn't have come back if it wasn't for you."

"I didn't do anything."