Page 79 of Only for Tonight

Andi’s voice drifts through my mind, quiet and sure, the way it sounded in that hospice room the last time I saw her.

Be happy. Don’t let the hard stuff eat the good stuff.

I’m trying, Andi. I’m trying so hard.

And tonight, standing on this field, wearing his name on my back and his ring on my hand, I think I’m finally getting it right.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Alexei

The apartment is quiet.

After three hours of stadium noise and press conferences and teammates spraying champagne on each other like we’re in a frat movie, the silence hits me like a wall when the elevator doors open. My ears are still ringing. My shoulder’s sore from where I took a hit in the third quarter that I haven’t told anyone about yet. I’m carrying my gym bag in one hand and a bottle of champagne someone shoved at me on the way out in the other.

Ryleigh walks in ahead of me, kicking off her boots at the door the way she always does—one lands upright, one tips sideways. She’s still in my jersey. Still has confetti in her hair. I can see a few gold flecks caught in the honey strands near her temple, and she hasn’t noticed them yet, and I’m not going to tell her.

She pads barefoot into the kitchen and fills a glass of water from the tap, drinking it in one long pull. The ring catches the light from the city through the windows—this brief flash, there and gone—and I set my bag down and just stand there.

Watching her.

My fiancée. Barefoot in my kitchen at midnight, drinking water like it’s any other night, except she’s wearing my name on her back and my ring on her finger and two hours ago fifty thousand people watched me ask her to be mine.

She catches me staring. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.” She sets the glass down and leans against the counter, arms crossed, a small smile pulling at her lips.

“Can’t help it.”

“Try.”

“Don’t want to.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling wider now, and the kitchen is dim and quiet and it’s just us, and I still can’t believe this is my life.

I cross the room and set the champagne on the counter beside her. She looks at the bottle, then at me.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on some kind of strict athlete diet?”

“I just won a championship. I think I get one night off.”

“Fair point.” She reaches for two glasses from the cabinet—she knows where everything is, doesn’t have to think about it, her hand going straight to the right shelf—and sets them on the counter. I pop the cork, pour, and hand her one.

We stand there, hip to hip, leaning against the counter in the low light. The city glows through the windows. It’s quiet enough to hear the hum of the building.

“Your mom called me eleven times during the fourth quarter,” Ryleigh says, taking a sip.

“Only eleven? She’s showing restraint.”

“The twelfth time was a FaceTime. Ella was asleep on her lap, and your mom was crying and trying to whisper-yell at me in Russian. I understood maybe three words.”

“Let me guess. Alexei, baby, and something that sounded like a curse.”

“That’s exactly right.”

I grin. “She’s going to be impossible now. She’s been asking me when I was going to propose since the second time she met you.”