Page 332 of Playing With Fire

She studies my face. “Was that really for me?”

I know exactly what she's asking.

The goal.

The celebration.

The way I pointed toward her in front of twenty thousand people.

I smile.

“Every bit of it.”

Her eyes shine. “Hayes.”

I brush my thumb along her cheek. “You told me once to make the play.”

She laughs softly. “I did.”

“Took me long enough.”

“Little bit.”

I lean down and kiss her. Then I rest my forehead against hers. “I love you, Becks.”

“I love you too.”

We stand there for another second before she takes my hand again. “Come on, Captain. Let's get you home.”

I let her lead me toward the garage.

Read the ice. Find the opening. Make the play.

Three rules I've lived by for as long as I can remember.

And somehow, when it came to Delaney Beckett, I forgot every damn one of them. But I've finally figured it out.

The best play of my life was never going to happen on the ice.

It was choosing the girl I'd spent years convincing myself I couldn't have.

And this time, I'm not passing up the shot.

CHAPTER FORTY

DELANEY

I've learned a few things about dating a professional hockey player.

One, the schedule is ridiculous.

Two, apparently hockey players consider a bag of frozen peas an acceptable substitute for medical attention.

And three, having a boyfriend who looks like Hayes Bishop means getting used to women staring at him everywhere we go.

The fourth thing? Loving him in real life is nothing like the stories I write. It's messier. Scarier. And somehow so much better.

Not that I can blame them. I've been staring at him for most of my life. The difference is that now I get to go home with him.