Page 124 of Game Misconduct

forty-six

. . .

Nick

three months later

As I take the ice for the final game of the season, it’s bittersweet. The last few months with Boston have been the best of my career, and it’s mostly due to Bex being by my side. The guys in the dressing room are a big part of that, too.

When I look back at my professional hockey career, I’m happy. Content. Even though I haven’t won a Cup yet, I’m a two-time Hart Trophy winner for most valuable player to my team—for two different teams—and I made my mark on the world of hockey.

I’m still writing my story, but I’m proud of where I am. Where I can go.

There’s still plenty more hockey in my future. I’m not retiring yet. It’s on the horizon, still kept at bay by my plans. There’s plenty more to come.

For now, as I look forward, I’m ready to move on to the next phase in my life. Marriage. Babies. Eventually, a podcast with my nemesis turned future brother-in-law.

If she says yes, that is.

It’s the Shirt Off Our Backs game, where we close out the regular season by giving our game-worn jerseys to a lucky fan. Bex is behind the bench with the rest of the staff, and when Vanessa directs her to the carpet rolled out for our fans, she rolls her eyes. But she walks out onto the ice, a smile on her face before she turns to face the audience, putting her back to me like the rest of the fans. The number 52 Mitchell jersey on her never fails to bring a smile to my face.

Before I take my spot beside my teammates, I skate over to the bench.

“You sure about this?” Vanessa asks me.

When I nod, she hands over the ring box.

“Go get your girl, tiger.”

I flash her a smile before skating into position.

One by one, the announcer introduces each fan, who turns around with a paper listing the player gifting his jersey. I watch as my teammates skate up to the fan, shaking hands or hugging, and then literally pull their sweater off their backs, sign it, and pose for photos with the fan.

We go down the list in roster order, and my palms start to sweat. My heart races, and every breath I take sounds like a foghorn blaring in the sea.

“Rebecca Whitney, meet your player,” the announcer calls.

This is it. This is the moment.

When she turns around, I skate in front of her. But I don’t pull off my sweater.

Instead, I drop to one knee.

Her hands fly up to her mouth, and she rapid blinks, like she can’t believe this is happening.

“Rebecca Lynn Bex Marie Whitney.”

She gulps, her brown eyes glassy with unshed tears. The arena has fallen silent, and the announcer approaches with a microphone in his outstretched hand. I take it, my other hand reaching for hers.

She slides her hand into mine, and all is right in the world.

There’s always a risk to a public proposal. What if she says no? What if she turns me down? I don’t know how I’d ever survive the heartbreak.

But we’ve talked about timelines, and we want to be married. We want kids.

A proposal is the first step. Then comes the engagement, then the wedding, then we’ll start trying…

Even though I’ll have hockey taking up my time for a little while longer, I can devote my time to her. To us. To our family.