Page 82 of The Man in the Cottage
When they finally let me up, I do my lap around the ice. Stick raised, crowd cheering, the whole arena on its feet. I've done this before, but it's different now. Everything is different now.
As I pass section 112, I look up.
She's there. Standing, screaming, her hands pressed to her mouth. Even from here I can see she's crying—happy tears, I hope—and something breaks open in my chest. I point my stick at her. Just a small gesture, probably invisible to anyone who isn't looking. But she sees it. I know she sees it.
That's for you.
We win 4-2. I get third star of the game, which means I have to skate out after for another ovation, another wave to the crowd. The announcers are talking about comebacks and redemption and second chances, all the narratives they love to spin. But I'm not thinking about any of that.
I'm thinking about after. About walking out of this arena and finding Kelly waiting for me. About driving home to Longshore, to the cottage, to the life we're building together. About all the things that matter so much more than hockey.
The locker room is crazy. A massive celebration of guys spraying each other, while the media tries to do interviews. I do the required media, answer the questions I've been asked a hundred times before. Yes, it feels good to be back. Yes, I learned a lot during my time away. Yes, I'm grateful for the second chance.
The one question they don't ask is the one I actually want to answer: what changed?
What changed is Kelly. What changed is Longshore. What changed is finally understanding that I don't have to be defined by my worst moment, that there's more to me than the headlines and the video and the mistake I made in a hospice parking lot.
I thought hockey was my whole identity. I thought without it, I was nothing. But these past six months taught me that's not true. I'm a lot of things—a man who fixes things, a man who helps with books, a man who leaves his porch light on just in case. Hockey is part of me, but it's not all of me. And that makes coming back to it feel like a choice, not an obligation.
After the interviews, I shower and change and head for the tunnel where Kelly is waiting. I see her before she sees me—standing by the wall, phone in hand, my jersey still on. Nicole must have left already because she's alone, and something about that image hits me right in the chest.
She came all this way. She wore my name. She stood in that crowd and screamed for me even though six months ago she didn't know a hockey puck from a dinner plate.
She looks up and sees me, and her whole face changes. Lights up. Like I'm the only thing in the room that matters.
That's how she always looks at me. I don't think I'll ever get used to it.
I drop my bag and cross the distance between us, pulling her into my arms. She fits there perfectly, the way she always has, like the space was made for her.
"Hi," she says into my chest.
"Hi."
"You were incredible."
"I had good motivation."
She pulls back to look at me, her eyes bright. "This is what you were meant to do, Travis. I could see it out there. You were... alive. In a way I've never seen before."
"I felt alive." I touch her face, trace the line of her jaw. "But you know what? I feel alive with you too. Different kind of alive. Quieter. But just as real."
"So you're going to keep playing?"
"Yeah. I think I am." I think about the future—games and travel and the grind of a professional season. "It's going to be hard. I'm going to be gone a lot. There'll be more media, more attention, more people having opinions about our relationship."
"I know."
"Are you okay with that?"
She smiles, this slow, certain smile that does something to my heart. "I'm okay with you. Everything else, we figure out as we go."
"That's very optimistic."
"I'm feeling optimistic." She rises on her toes and kisses me. "We survived your family and a tabloid scandal. A hockey season seems manageable."
I laugh. I can't help it. This woman—this incredible, steady, funny woman—is mine. She chose me. She keeps choosing me.
"I love you," I say.
